A sound, like that of boots swishing through sand. Damn. The intel had been right. He caught a glimpse of red to his left. Another blast of grit kicked up and blinded him. Instinctively he pointed his rifle in the direction where he’d seen the red and squeezed the trigger. Bullets spewed from the barrel, the recoil hammering his shoulder.
A sharp cry filled the night, followed by silence. He waited, moving his rifle back and forth, ready for the second wave of soldiers. Nothing happened. Strange. The rebels always traveled in groups. He lowered his rifle and stepped toward the flash of red. Still nothing. Where the hell was Brown? Hadn’t he heard the shots? Slowly moving forward, he raised his rifle. Another step, and the red fabric stopped him cold.
Kinshasa lay spread-eagled on his back, decked out in a red Coke T-shirt with what looked to be a twelve-pack of soda beside him in a threadbare canvas sack.
His heart jammed. Kinshasa moaned. A bullet had ripped through his tiny body. Oh, God. What the hell was he doing here in the middle of the sandstorm? He knew not to be out past curfew. Rif wiped at his cheeks. The little boy had probably snuck out, hoping to make a buck from the thirsty men.
Slinging the rifle over his left shoulder, he scooped up the weightless body in his arms. Kinshasa’s eyelids fluttered, then closed. The boy’s stillness was Rif’s unraveling. He used his jacket to slow the blood loss.
What could he do? The nearby refugee camp—they had doctors. He cradled the boy in his arms and raced through the sandstorm, desperate for help.
Kinshasa had lived, thankfully, but the trauma of being shot had transformed the lighthearted boy into a quiet, serious young man. Rif still sent him and his family money every month, anonymously.
His team, his superiors, and later even Thea had told him his actions had been by the book, but . . . he’d shot an eight-year-old boy, a friend. He looked at his work differently now. More cautious about getting close yet more aggressive during maneuvers. He’d do whatever it took to make sure the people he cared about were safe.
Chapter Forty
Thea couldn’t have been less excited to be flying so soon after the crash. But at least the Bell helicopter hovering over the mile-wide Victoria Falls gave her a spectacular view of the world’s largest curtain of falling water. Mist surrounded the Zambezi River in the early morning, casting a haze over the lush greenery and red earth. The cataract, called Mosi-oa-Tunya—Smoke That Thunders—deserved its place on the list of the seven natural wonders of the world. As David Livingstone eloquently recorded in his diary in 1855, there were “scenes so lovely, they must have been gazed upon by angels in flight.” But the giant sitting next to her was certainly no angel.
“My men are looking into the possibility of your father being held in Kanzi. If he’s in my country, we’ll find him,” the general said.
Hardly comforting. The Kanzi dignitary was a proven kidnapper in his own right. And his doppelg?nger office had given her shivers. For all she knew, he could be the one holding Papa captive. Still, no sense antagonizing him. “Thanks for your help and the ride.” She was sitting behind Rif, so she couldn’t read his expression. Brianna and Peter were in the second helicopter, following them.
Fatigue shrouded her shoulders. She’d had a sleepless night in her tent, tossing and turning, uncertain whether General Jemwa would come through on his promise to transport them the short distance to Victoria Falls. But the temptation of keeping his unexpected guests in limbo obviously paled next to being on hand for the negotiations about the billions of dollars in oil rights.
The Bell descended toward the Elephant Hills Hotel’s helipad. Less than a minute later, they landed on the painted white circle. Four Hummers waited to transport them to the Victoria Falls Hotel, a few kilometers away.
She exited the helicopter and hurried to the Hummers, her mind already planning ahead. First she needed to speak to Hakan; then she had to ditch Rif so she could find a pharmacy. Being out of touch had been a frustrating purgatory—not knowing if the kidnapper had called, not knowing if Hakan had had a break in the case, not knowing if Papa had been hurt, or worse.
Thea, Rif, and General Jemwa slid into the first Hummer, and they set off for the hotel. The town was in reasonably good shape, given the devastation Mugabe had wrought amassing his own wealth. Still, the guarded, fatigued faces along the street reflected the wear and tear of a long-time dictatorship.
Her phone started vibrating in her pocket. They had cellular service again. Leaning forward in her seat, she scanned the messages.