Page 18 of Bastard
“How fast can you run?”
Donovan looks up from tying the last shoelace. “With my boots on? Damn fast. Life-preserving fast.”
“Two things. First, hunch over as you run so they don’t see us moving north,” I murmur, before racing off, rounding my shoulders and bending forward as I run in a full sprint.
“What’s the second thing?” Donovan asks when he catches up to me.
“Pray they think we’reestupidoand are hiding in the evergreens.”
“Oh my God. That’s why we headed north? Yes. That’s exactly what they’ll think.”
I grin when I should be clenching my teeth. Calm when I should be panic-stricken, because this isn’t a poker game to win.
Donovan gets it, evident in the tears running down his face.
“Faster,” I say, focusing my thoughts on escaping.
We’ve run about a mile uphill, before our pursuers reach the cluster of evergreens. It sounds like every automatic weapon, semiautomatic shotgun, and handheld pistols go off simultaneously. From our position high up on the hill, we stop to witness the destruction they’re creating.
Anyone hiding within the cluster of trees would be dead.
Gracias a Dios,I made the right choice.
I exhale sharply. There’s a wildlife preserve I’ve wanted to visit a few miles north of here. Help will be available there. Even if the militants realize their mistake and continue to track us, we’ll be out of sight for a while as we descend this hilltop.
We need to reach the crest before that happens.
“Let’s keep moving.” I look over my shoulder as I say it, one departing glance at the chaos below us.
That’s when I see him racing toward us. A dangerous shadow of a man, face obscured by the fickle moonlight.
“Dios mío. Run.”
I don’t look back again.
Not when we’re over the hill.
Not when we sprint across the grassland.
Not when we hit the forest and are hidden deep within the sheltering arbor of trees.
It’s only when Donovan trips and falls do I stop running. And instantly regret it.
A hand covers my mouth, silencing my scream as I’m swept up off my feet and hauled back into a man’s chest.
Donovan looks up from bended knee, his widening eyes shifting past me and onto my captor. “You came to help us?” he asks.
The man holding me stiffens.
“Her,” replies Tight-Lipped’s familiar voice. “I’m here for her.”
5
Acaravan of camels crosses the Mombasa beach. I watch their progress and the tourists bouncing about between their humps as our driver weaves the taxi through thick traffic, hugging the shoreline as we head away from the bustling Kenyan port.
We’ve been traveling for twenty-one hours straight. Crossing Malawi Lake into Tanzania. Renting a Jeep and taking the A19 eastward to the Indian Ocean, hiring a fisherman to transport us northward to Kenya.
Tight-Lipped has made two calls. Brief, to-the-point conversations, from what I could tell. “I want to speak to him,” I’d interrupted him both times.
