“I don’t know. I gave him the keys, so I thought he’d taken it. But I saw it a few minutes ago. Like I said, it’s covered with the vinyl tarp. The keys were in the ignition.”
“So he moved it, covered it, and left it?”
“That’s right.”
“He must’ve taken the truck.”
“It appears so.”
Greg had to have figured out a different way to move the money. That was the only possible explanation. I was relieved—because using the mobile clinic came with many risks—but I was also irritated, because moving two pallets of money was no simple task and he’d opted to do it on his own.
Idiot.
“Like I said, take the bike. The helmet is on the handle. It’s good for getting around town, but I wouldn’t take it too far out into the country side.”
I nodded distractedly, agreeing with her. Taking the bike two hours north to trail Greg was one thing, but I wouldn’t be able to use it to reach the airfield.
The day’s end had one of three possible outcomes:
Either I would find him at the sentinel house and help him move the money.
Or I’d have to return here and wait him out; then we’d leave for the airfield together.
Or he wouldn’t return. I’d be forced to go to the US consulate and risk being arrested for treason.
Sigh.
Life would be a whole lot easier if husbands would just listen to their wives.
***
I hadn’t been on a motorcycle in over ten years; but as I suspected, it was just like riding a bike (no pun intended).
With a range of less than one hundred and forty miles, I wouldn’t be able to make a return trip unless I brought additional gas. I jimmy-rigged a saddle with bladder bags to carry the extra fuel—double what I needed, just in case—borrowing the necessary gallons by siphoning it from the mobile clinic. I stunk of gasoline and motorcycle grease, and my headache was back as a result.
I passed a shawarma delicatessen on my way out of town. Aroma of mixed grilled meats and spices made my mouth water, and my stomach growled again, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since the First Strike rations from the night before.
As soon as I made it back to Chicago, I was going to eat a giant plate of shrimp and shawarma.
And then I was going to tie up my husband, because both of us were going to make it back alive; I was determined that this would be the case. Once we were safe at home, I would insist he do all the laundry for six months. And organize Grace’s collection of Barbie doll shoes.
Perhaps then he’d be more cognizant of my contributions and time.
I headed south, knowing the greatest obstacle would be finding the turnoff Greg had taken the night before. My suspicions were confirmed when I realized I’d driven a half-hour longer than we had on the previous evening. Every sign I passed looked unfamiliar. Cursing under my breath, I turned around, driving under the speed limit, and kept my eyes peeled for the turn off.
After another forty-five minutes I knew I wasn’t going to be able to find the road Greg had taken. Resigned, I drove another ten minutes south, pulled off, and backed the Ducati between thick hedgerows. If I couldn’t find him, I’d just have to wait until he passed by.
I waited. And waited.
And waited.
And it was hot.
My Kevlar-LYCRA bodysuit made sense for flexibility and utility, but it wasn’t as breathable as, let’s say, linen.
Each minute spent in solo-limbo felt like an eternity. One hour passed. Then another. I rationalized that it would take him several hours to load that much money, by himself, into whichever vehicle he was using. I refilled the gas tank, noting that I still had five gallons of fuel left.
But when the fourth hour ticked by with no sign of him, my stomach sank to my feet.
I wasn’t going to find him.
Gone, out of my reach, and I had no means to communicate—not with him, not with Alex, not with Quinn or Marie or Dan.
I was on my own.
And the real kicker was, I hated being on my own.
I’d always hated being on my own and I didn’t want to be on my own anymore.
I wanted to share my damn burdens!
I was married, wasn’t I?
We’d pledged our troth (or something like it), hadn’t we?
So why the hell am I doing everything on my own?
Grinding my teeth and scowling at my watch, I made note of the time. It would take me approximately two hours to make it back to the hospital. If Greg wasn’t there by sundown, then we were going to miss the flight home and I would have to figure out a way to make it to the US consulate in Lagos, several hours west, by car.
But I refused to think about that or even contemplate the possibility of traveling across Nigeria without Greg.
He would return by nightfall.
We would leave Nigeria together.
And when we returned to Chicago, he was never leaving me again.
Cursing under my breath, I started the engine and rolled forward so I could see around the thicket. My mouth fell open.