Do-Gooder Page 19

  “His body was discovered at the border two hours ago.”

  “But… but how? What about Henry?”

  Mom tried to wrap her arm across my shoulders, but I shrugged her away. “What does this mean?” I demanded.

  “The operation is still in place to strike the mercenaries and their camp.”

  “But?” I prompted. There was more. There had to be more, or Dad wouldn’t look so sick.

  “Without Dr. Braun in place, there’s no way to guarantee Henry’s safety. They’ll do what they can, but there’s no way to get someone in place to get him out when things go live. Any rescue attempt will be secondary to the primary mission.”

  “No.” I shook my head emphatically. “I refuse to accept that. There has to be something that can be done. It’s not right.” I raced to the black case and fumbled with the latches. I snatched the sat phone and shoved it at Dad. “You need to do something. Call someone. There’s got to be another choice.”

  The same impotent rage that erupted inside of me the day I broke the water jug in the hut built up inside of me. My fists clenched, my jaw set. Every muscle prepared for some kind of confrontation. But there wasn’t anyone to rail against. Just Mom and Dad and they were as helpless as I was. Before I could do or say anything that I would likely regret, a knock sounded at the door.

  Wide-eyed, we looked at each other. “The Slav?” I mouthed.

  Dad shrugged and stepped toward the door. I grabbed his arm. “He’ll recognize you,” I said under my breath.

  Mom pointed at herself and then at the door. Dad and I slashed our hands out in objection. It would have been funny to see us using the same gesture, as if we’d been around each other a lot, if the situation wasn’t so serious.

  “A minute!” Mom called out in Belgian-accented French. She shooed us toward the small alcove that served as a closet. Seriously? She wanted us to hide in the closet?

  “I’m the only one they won’t recognize,” she said softly.

  Dad nodded and, though I hated to do it, I followed him to the area where we would be out of sight. Dad carried the hard-backed phone case. Which reminded me I still held the sat phone in my hand.

  As soon as we were hidden, Mom cracked open the door. “Yes?”

  I held my breath, my stomach lodged firmly in my throat as we waited for the response. I couldn’t stand it. First the news about Rat Man, and now my mother might be coming face-to-face with The Slav? Dad’s free hand gripped my shoulder, his knuckles showing white even in the dark. Clearly he was as terrified as I was.

  A deep African-accented voice—not The Slav’s, thank God—mentioned something about the dining hall having reduced hours the next day. Mom thanked him for letting us know before shutting the door.

  I went to step out of the alcove, but Dad stopped me. “Not yet,” he whispered.

  So we stood there while Mom pretended nothing was wrong and sat at the little table and read a magazine. After a few minutes, Mom put the magazine down. “I think it’s safe to come out.”

  “What was that all about?” I asked when we were all seated at the table again.

  “I think,” Dad said slowly, “that was your friend The Slav checking on us. He probably sent the lodge employee over so he could get a look inside.”

  “Like to see if I was who he thought I was?” Even to myself that question sounded convoluted. Luckily, Dad seemed to get it.

  “Exactly.”

  “So what do we do now?” I asked.

  “There’s not much we can do.” Dad massaged his neck. “We go home.”

  My hands curled into fists on the table. “What about Henry?”

  Dad’s face was haggard when he looked at me. “We have to trust the operatives who are sent into the camp will do their best to bring him out.”

  “You expect me to trust his life to a group of suits who were willing to sacrifice him for the greater good? No way.”

  “We have no choice.”

  “I don’t accept that. I can’t accept that.” I wanted to stomp my foot like a toddler or rant at the injustice of it. The desolation in Dad’s face and the sympathy in Mom’s held me back. For the first time I could see, really see, that Dad was devastated by the thought of losing Henry.

  “Be honest with me,” I said, my voice cracking. “Do you think they’ll be able to get him out?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed. “I just don’t know.”

  Chapter 28

  I DIDN’T sleep that night. Neither did Dad. Mom was the only one of us to lie down, but I don’t think she slept either. I was afraid to close my eyes, afraid of the dreams that would stalk me in sleep. When dawn crept over the horizon, we were packed up and ready to go. We loaded our possessions into the car we’d hired in Bayanga. Even as we started the drive out of the lodge’s main road, I couldn’t keep my mind from wandering east through the preserve and into the camp. We were so close, and we were leaving. Leaving Henry. And, for Mom and me at least, leaving Africa.

  I checked the clock on the rented vehicle’s dash. Just after eight. The strike team had originally intended to engage the mercenaries midafternoon when the heat of the day had the people at the camp bunkered down in the slightly cooler buildings. Dr. Braun’s death, though, had shifted that timeline up a bit. One of Dad’s Nameless Agency friends contacted him last night and warned him that we needed to get out first thing in the morning, to keep us out of the line of fire. The strike had been rescheduled for 0900.

  To be this close, both in timing and proximity, and to do nothing threatened to overwhelm me.

  About halfway between the lodge and Bayanga, a small traffic jam held things up. A big truck with a trailer holding half a dozen four-wheelers blocked the way, while three other vehicles were stopped behind it.

  There were already four other men poking and prodding the apparently stalled engine, but my do-gooder dad got out to see if he could help. I assumed that meant he knew something about engines and the like. After a few minutes, Mom got out and went over to talk with a couple of women who, like us, were watching the men inspect the truck’s innards.

  Deciding that I’d be stuck sitting down for long enough later—twenty hours in the air would ensure it—I got up to stretch my legs. I wandered by the men at the truck but chose not to take a look. I wouldn’t know a spark plug from an alternator. I turned around the back end of the trailer to get a look at the four-wheelers. They seemed to be in pretty good shape, despite being covered in a thick layer of dust and dirt.

  A flash of pink caught my eye. I glanced over my shoulder and froze. A stack of man-sized wooden cutouts showed a handful of colorful characters with signs pointing to the Dzanga-Sangha Preservation. Including a six-foot-tall hippopotamus in a fluffy pink tutu.

  No fricking way.

  I walked over to it, partly, I thought, to make sure it wasn’t a figment of my imagination. The paint was faded in places, and the left foot on the display was missing, but it was unquestionably a hippo in a tutu. And, best of all, I wasn’t currently suffering from a concussion or delirium caused by DKA. It was real and it was here. Which meant that we were only a couple of miles from the mercenaries’ camp. Next to the stack of signs was a narrow road. Not quite a road, actually, more like a wide path that met up with the main road we were on. This, then, must have been the road the mercenaries took to bring me to my father.

  I looked at the four-wheelers. I looked at Dad. I looked at Mom. Neither one of them was paying any attention to me, and everyone else’s attention seemed focused on getting the big truck out of the middle of the road so they could get to wherever it was they were going.

  The craziest idea bloomed in my brain. It was reckless and foolish. Dangerous for sure. Could I do it? Would it work?

  I made another lap around the truck and trailer, this time looking more closely at the ATVs. According to the fading sign on the truck, the four-wheelers were part of a jungle tour company. Tourists could pay to be led through the preserve. How hard would it be
to push one of the small vehicles off the trailer when no one was watching?

  Was I out of my fricking mind?

  Probably.

  Was I going to try it anyway?

  Absolutely.

  I jumped when the truck let out a loud rumble and cough. If the wannabe-mechanics kept that up, I might be able to sneak a four-wheeler off without worrying about the noise.

  I made another trek around the trailer. This time I looked for any sign that the four-wheelers needed keys. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but luck was clearly with me. Each four-wheeler had an ignition switch. No keys required. One problem out of the way.

  On my fourth circuit around the truck and trailer, I examined the trailer itself. It was made up of thin bands of metal, and the back gate was held up by two pins, one on each side. All it would take to lower the gate and create a ramp off the trailer for the four-wheelers was to remove the two pins.

  “Try again!” one of the men shouted from under the hood.

  This was my chance. Someone tried to start the truck and it again made an obnoxious thundering noise. When it did, I quickly pulled the pins and lowered the gate to the ground. Then, so I didn’t draw too much attention to myself, I took another lap around the vehicles. I probably looked like those old people who walked circles around the mall for their morning exercise.

  Mom was cozied up with a woman holding a small baby. It would probably take a zombie apocalypse to pull her notice. Dad was elbow deep in the truck’s engine compartment, sharing theories with one of the other men. Everyone was focused on someone or something.

  I snuck onto the trailer and squatted next to the nearest four-wheeler. I’d ridden an ATV once before, but it was a while ago, and this one looked a little different. It took me a minute to find the gearshift and figure out how to put the machine into Neutral. Once I worked that out, I waited, hoping they would try starting the truck again. A moment later, I heard someone say, “Try again.” It was my day, I thought.

  When I heard that, I stood and put my hands on the handlebars of the four-wheeler. At the first sound of the grumbling engine, I pushed the ATV down the ramp and headed straight for the narrow access road. I was convinced I’d hear someone shout about the stolen ATV, or to at least ask what I thought I was doing. I didn’t hear anything over the repeated attempts to start the big truck.

  As soon as I was relatively hidden in the shadows of the forest, I chanced a glance back. It didn’t look like anyone had noticed. Another lucky break.

  I didn’t trust luck. I was sure the minute I took it for granted, the luck would turn bad. Knowing how my luck worked, I’d probably run out of gas within two minutes, or the battery would die and I wouldn’t be able to start the stupid machine. Or I’d make it to the camp to find all the big, bald, and built mercenaries waiting for me with their evil assault rifles. Or Henry would be dead.

  I couldn’t think like that. I had a job to do, and I wasn’t going to let myself talk me out of it. I paused in the shadows, waiting for another attempt to start the truck. This time, when the big engine rumbled and sputtered, I turned the ignition switch and said a quick prayer. The ATV’s smaller motor came purring to life. I jumped into the seat and checked the gas gauge. Half a tank. Hopefully that would be enough.

  To the best of my recollection, there were only a couple of miles between the camp and the hippo sign. Which meant I needed to figure out the rest of my plan very quickly. Of course, that assumed I had a plan in the first place.

  When the plan to rescue Henry was put together, presuming Dr. Braun would be the one to get Henry out of the camp, the strike team was going to engage from the west. Part of the team was going to start some kind of commotion that would, hopefully, bring the mercenaries to them, abandoning the westernmost part of their territory. What I didn’t know for sure was how the plan had changed now that Dr. Braun was out of the picture. Would they still provide a distraction now that it wasn’t needed? Or would they do a stealthy attack, swarm the camp, and eliminate the mercenaries where they found them?

  I really hoped they still planned some kind of distraction, that they hadn’t had time to modify the plan too much. Otherwise, I was driving straight into the arms of the mercenaries.

  EITHER TERROR or the vibrations of the four-wheeler caused my hands to go numb as I drove. How close would I have to be before a guard either heard or saw me? Should I stop, stash the ATV, and walk the rest of the way? Could I even trust my distance calculations from my trip through the forest? I’d been blindfolded and fuzzy headed. What if it was a lot farther than I’d thought? Or, maybe worse, a lot closer?

  I was going to drive myself crazy with the questions and doubts. I’d come this far, and I was determined not to quit. Somehow determined felt a whole lot like stupidly, recklessly stubborn.

  Suddenly, from the west an explosion sounded. Not like a car crash or anything, but like someone had blown a huge crater in the ground with dynamite.

  The distraction.

  I stopped the ATV and waited.

  This was it. My moment.

  Before I could lose my nerve, I counted to ten, then revved the four-wheeler. I accelerated, pushing the small engine as far as it could go. I watched the trees and bushes of the rain forest zip by, praying I’d see someone or something before they or it saw me. I almost missed the pale edge of a building peeking out through the branches of a tall tree. My hands clenched around the hand brake, making the four-wheeler skid to a stop in a cloud of dust.

  I gave my heart a minute to slow—I swore after all this was over and done, I was going to do something tame and stress-free for the rest of my life—before I maneuvered the ATV off the road. I pulled as many leaves and branches over it as I could, ignoring the fact that I was standing in thick foliage that hid my feet. This wasn’t the time to worry about snakes or any other creepy-crawlies that might bite me.

  I stayed as far into the shadows of the tree line as possible as I made my way toward the abandoned lumberyard. I jumped at a strange screeching noise. It could have been a bird or the static of a walkie-talkie being engaged. Once I could hear over my pounding pulse, I caught the sound again. Definitely a bird.

  I really, really tried not to think about how stupid this was.

  Finally, after an agonizingly long time, I saw the back of the row of huts that lined up next to the main building. I hid myself behind a leafy tree, thankful for my black pants and T-shirt. Though everything inside of me cried out to run to the hut I’d shared with Henry, I stayed where I was. I needed to make sure the area was clear, to see who, if anyone, was left behind.

  The whole facility seemed deserted. I didn’t see any guards on the paths between buildings. No men circled the perimeter. After a couple of minutes, I saw the slightest motion from the main building. One man stood near one of the big, eighteen-wheeler-sized doorways with an assault rifle at the ready. I didn’t recognize him. He was just one of the many big, built, and bald guys in Shorty’s crew. The man occasionally touched something at his ear. I assumed it was some sort of communication device. His gaze swept the area, but his attention seemed to be focused to the west.

  When his head was turned to the westernmost part of his sweep, I darted to the first hut. From there I couldn’t see the guard, so I had to trust his attention would remain on his colleagues to the west. Having to rely on trust and luck made this whole rescue attempt thing a ridiculously nerve-wracking experience.

  I slinked from the back of one hut to the next until I reached the one I’m pretty sure I’d shared with Henry. The next step in the process required me to go around to the front of the building and risk being seen by the guard on duty. And, since I wasn’t 100 percent positive this was the right hut, I hesitated. I tried to remember everything I could about where Henry and I had been held. I counted the huts I’d passed and was as sure as I could be, without seeing Henry, I was in the right place.

  What would I do if Henry wasn’t there anymore?

  I pushed that thoug
ht aside.

  Then I remembered the slit in the wall that let in light. The whole building was barely seven feet tall. I should be able to sneak around the side of the hut and peek through the slit. The wall with the opening faced away from the main building, so the lone guard shouldn’t be able to see me.

  I took a step back to get a good view of the back wall. There it was. The four-inch high cutout was maybe eight inches above my head. I slid my hands into the slit and did a sort of pull-up to get my face at the same level. I’d never been a particularly athletic person, but even I should have been able to do a couple of pull-ups. I strained against the pull of gravity and tried to angle my face enough to peer inside. It took a couple of tries before I was actually able to see anything. At first, the room appeared empty, and my heart dropped to my knees. The third time, though, I caught movement and a swing of long hair before my arms gave out.

  Thank God. Henry was there.

  Chapter 29

  I PEEKED around the edge of the building to make sure the path was clear. In the shadows of the forest, my dark clothes had been an asset. Here, next to the beige stucco-style building, they made me stand out. The guard’s attention was still focused west of here, so I darted around the corner and burst through the door to the hut.

  And ran smack-dab into the wall-like form of a camo-covered mercenary.

  Fuck.

  I fell back onto my ass and stared up into cold, olive-green eyes. Snake Eyes. Double fuck.

  “Isaiah?” Henry stepped forward from his usual place in the corner. “What are you doing here?”

  “Ah… rescue attempt?” I scooted backward, edging away from Snake Eyes and his gun, which was now pointing directly at me.

  Snake Eyes arched a dark brow at me. “Did you think the hostage would be left unguarded? When the commotion started, I volunteered to watch over him on the chance that someone would come for him.”