“Hey!”
I whip toward the voice. Another militia guy is to my right. I hadn’t seen him from inside the tent. I bolt, making for the forest and hoping I can outrun him. I hear him yell to one of his buddies and charge after me. I have Ketchup’s gun, but there’s no way to get a clear shot through the trees. As I dodge and weave through the growth I let all of my adrenaline and fear take hold and my feet fly, and to my relief, I can soon tell I’m breaking away, getting farther and farther from my pursuers. They sound like elephants crashing along behind me. Finally, something is going my way.
And then I realize I’m not headed toward Michael at all.
I curse and change tack, angling back toward where I think the road is.
I run. I run until my lungs are ready to explode. Then I run some more. I careen off trees. My feet are torn to shreds. I scream at myself to keep moving. When I’m sure I’ve shaken the militia guys I stop, listening for the sound of the helicopter. There’s nothing but silence.
I keep going. The road has to be up here. It has to be. I scramble down a gully, go up and over fallen trees, and just when I’m starting to panic, the ground falls away and there it is, the muddy track of a road. I stop for only a second to make sure it’s clear before I leap onto it, my lungs on fire, going for a full-out sprint now.
I’m going to be too late. They’ll be gone before I get there. And once the helicopter is airborne . . .
I come up over a hill and see the sudden light of a clearing. That must be where the helicopter has landed, and the sight gives me a burst of speed, just as a dark figure steps out on the path in front of me.
I nearly scream, but the person grabs my arms and says my name in a frantic whisper.
“Boyboy!” I gasp.
“Shh!” he says, and drags me off the path.
“I thought they’d caught you,” I choke out.
Boyboy pulls me toward a gap in the trees where we can see the clearing. “What happened? I just saw Mr. Omoko come by with Michael! Couldn’t you get him out?”
“No,” I moan. “I didn’t have time.” Boyboy and I crouch behind a tree. The helicopter sits in windswept grass and wildflowers like a giant black wasp. “And his hand is broken, so he couldn’t drive the motorcycle.” I can just see two figures inside the chopper. I look past the brightness of the field, and my blood goes cold. The militia truck is there in the shade of the trees, surrounded by men bristling with AK-47s. A Goonda has Michael by the arm and they’re standing just at the edge of the forest next to Mr. Omoko. “Did you talk to Mr. Greyhill?”
“I think I was too late,” Boyboy says, his face twisted. “I came this far to try to make the call, but then I heard them coming after me. I had to run maybe a couple of kilometers down the road before I got a signal at Catherine’s home.”
“Catherine’s?” I ask, looking at him sharply.
“I recognized it when I came out of the forest.”
She wasn’t kidding when she said the militias were just up the road.
“And I called Mr. Greyhill, but he didn’t answer,” Boyboy goes on. “I had to leave a message. I called three times, but then I heard the helicopter, so I gave up and followed it back here. I don’t know if he heard any of them. I’m so sorry, Tina.”
Trying to swallow my panic, I shake my head. “It’s not your fault.”
Nothing is going right. My last hope was that Boyboy could talk to Mr. Greyhill and he would somehow salvage things.
There’s movement at the helicopter and then I see Mr. G step out, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. I look from him back to Michael. If Mr. Greyhill knows what Omoko’s true intentions are, he doesn’t show it. He buttons his jacket, like he’s headed to a business meeting. Mr. Omoko steps out of the shade and walks toward him.
“Did you talk to Catherine?” I whisper.
“She went to try and get help.”
Boyboy doesn’t sound hopeful, and there’s no reason he should be. What sort of help can she find? The local police are probably on the militia payroll. An army unit might respond, but that’s only if she can find and convince them.
When Omoko and Greyhill are face-to-face, Omoko smiles and reaches out to shake his old boss’s hand. Mr. Greyhill doesn’t take it. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Mr. Omoko’s smile tightens. He claps Greyhill on the arm instead, and starts to lead him back toward Michael. I can see now that the militia guys have set up a small table and chairs at the edge of the forest. I count. Four militia guys and two Goondas are visible, but it wouldn’t surprise me if there were more, armed and hidden in the forest.