Do-Gooder (23 page)

“I know,” Dad said, resting a hand over mine.

“I was so mad!” I burst out. “I know I had no right, and I know he probably saved my life, but I was so awful to him after. I ignored him, refused to talk to him.”

“Jealous?” Dad suggested, sounding uncertain.

I thought about it. “No. That wasn’t it. I think, I think I was mad
for
him. I mean, here he was, the perfect do-gooder, making something of himself, doing his good deeds, and because of me, he had to go back to that place, that reminder of his past. I told him not to do it when Snake Eyes first suggested an
exchange
.” I spit out the word. “But he just had to do it, just had to save my ass again. I swear, he spent the whole time rescuing me. He got bit by a poisonous snake so I wouldn’t. He even pulled a soccer-mom move so I wouldn’t hit the dash of the Range Rover when he had to stop suddenly. It was little things too. He made sure I got more to eat and drink than he did. Nothing I could do would change his mind. Stupid, self-sacrificing son of a bitch.”

I pressed at my eyes, hoping to ease the pressure building behind them. I wasn’t going to cry again, damn it. “He’s so busy taking care of everyone else, but no one is taking care of him. He needs someone to put him first for once. Despite what he thinks, he’s as valuable as anyone else.”

Dad pulled me into a hug. I almost fell out of my chair, but I didn’t protest. “You’re a good man,” he said, his voice cracking. “Such a good man. I’m so proud of you.”

I cleared my suddenly tight throat and stood up. “I need a walk.”

“In the dark?” Disapproval shaded his voice.

“I’ll stay to the paths. Maybe I’ll see if the main lodge has any books or pamphlets on the animals in the area. I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to move.” My shoulders twitched with restlessness.

He wanted to say no. I could tell by the expression on his face, highlighted by the glow of lights from the bungalow behind us. I could also tell that he wasn’t sure if he had the right to tell me what to do. And I was going to take advantage of that.

“I’ll stick to the paths,” I assured him even as I left him on the deck.

EVEN THOUGH
the handful of buildings at the lodge were lit, the surrounding darkness made it feel like late night rather than early evening. The shadows pressed in on me, and goose bumps prickled on my skin despite the heat and humidity. I quickened my pace. Stupid to feel so anxious. Still, next time I took this little walk, I’d bring a flashlight.

I jammed my hands in the pockets of the nylon track pants. The
whisk
-
whisk
of the material matched my strides and joined in the creak and rustle of tropical creepy-crawlies as I hurried to the main building. My heart seized in my chest at the sound of footsteps behind me. I whirled and almost crashed into one of the lodge employees carrying a box. I stepped to the side of the path and let him go past. He nodded and smiled, white teeth flashing in the dark. My fists clenched in my pockets as I tried to slow my rapidly beating heart.

This was ridiculous. Going back to the bungalow would have been the smart thing to do.

The main building of the lodge had a glossy wooden reception desk, a small gift shop full of safari-themed gear and guides, and a small sitting area. A man in a khaki button-down shirt greeted me when I entered.

“I’m just going to look around,” I said when he asked if I needed anything. He tipped his head to me and focused on the newspaper in front of him.

Two people lounged in the sitting area. A woman, golden-haired and beautiful, faced me. Her clothes looked expensive and way too fancy for a place like this. I’d have expected to see someone like her in New York or Paris, somewhere urban and trendy. Bayanga could only be described as rustic and primitive. She leaned forward to speak intently to the man across from her. He had his back to me, so the only thing I noticed was the massively broad shoulders stretching the seams of a green polo shirt.

I found the books I was looking for in a small rack against the wall. Some weren’t more than coloring books for kids, but I found a couple of glossy magazine-like guides with photographs of the local wildlife. I flipped through one until I found a picture of the auburn-and-white-striped animal I’d seen in the river. “A bongo? Like the drum? Cool.”

I located the price sticker on the back cover and almost freaked at the price. 7500? Then I remembered the currency here was the Central African franc, and I had no idea what the exchange rate was. For all I knew, the book could cost anywhere from three dollars to fifty. I set the book back in the rack.

Raised voices from the sitting area drew my attention. Whatever the couple was discussing, it wasn’t a happy topic. The woman jabbed her finger into the man’s chest. He grabbed her wrist and pushed her hand away from him. The movement revealed the man’s face, and for the second time that evening my heart stalled. I knew that face.

The Slav.

Instinctively I jumped back and crashed into a display of straw hats. The stand fell to the ground with a clang. I tripped and landed on top of it.

The argument in the sitting area ceased.

Shit. What the hell was he doing here?

The clerk at the reception desk rushed over, questions tumbling out in heavily accented French. My mind was too scrambled to bother trying to translate. I held up my hands to indicate I was okay and stood up, careful to keep my back to the sitting area. The clerk lifted the hat rack, and the two of us started hanging hats. “Je suis desolé,” I said, careful to keep my voice low. I tried to infuse the words with a tinge of the Belgium accent my nurses in Brussels had. Maybe if The Slav heard, he wouldn’t recognize the voice.

I glanced over my shoulder. He was still watching.

I had to get out of there.

If I had any cash with me, I’d have bought a hat and hoped it was enough of a disguise. But I didn’t have any money on me. Not US dollars or African francs.

I peeked through the hats. The fancy lady tried to get The Slav’s attention, shifting closer, invading his personal space. He turned back to her, but his posture stayed stiff, like he was ready for action.

I counted to thirty. He didn’t look back. I took a step. The rubber sole of my shoe squeaked on the glossy wooden floor. The Slav shifted. I whipped a magazine from the book rack, opening it wide to hide my face.

The Slav was probably wondering what kind of freak scanned a magazine like that—hands held high, glossy pages practically pressed to my nose. I had to keep the magazine high enough to hide my hair, though. He might overlook some random white kid in the middle of nowhere Africa (maybe if I was lucky), but he’d recognize my hair for sure. Damned red hair.

I raised the magazine a couple of inches so I could sneak another look. The fancy lady was quite emphatic in her bid to get—and keep—The Slav’s attention. She leaned even closer so they were practically eye to eye and placed her hand on his shoulder.

I counted to sixty this time. When it looked like he was well and truly involved, I tossed the magazine aside and walked—a very, very fast walk—out of the building. I held my breath the whole time. As soon as I was out of sight of the entrance, I ducked into the shadows behind a tree.

I was going to wait in the trees for a couple of minutes, only long enough to see if The Slav did anything. I counted to 120 in my head. Nothing. Okay, I would go back to the bungalow and tell Dad…. Even as I thought this, the front door opened up and The Slav stepped out onto the wooden deck. He stood at the edge of the platform and searched along the path. From his belt, he unhooked something that looked like a cross between a heavy-duty cell phone and a walkie-talkie. A satellite phone? He spoke into the device for a moment, but I was too far away to hear what he said.

My knees shook and dread coiled in my belly when he turned back into the main building. I counted to a hundred—long enough I could will my knees to stop shaking—and hauled ass back to the bungalow.

MOM AND
Dad were sitting at the little table in our room when I burst in and slammed the door closed. Mom took one look at my face and jumped up. “What’s the matter?”

Dad was only a second behind her. “What happened?”

“One of them is here. The Slav. I don’t remember his real name, but he’s here.” I panted and leaned against the door trying to catch my breath. “He saw me. I mean, yes, he saw me, but I don’t know if he knew it was me, but then he called someone and—” I had to stop so I could breathe.

Mom grabbed my elbow and guided me to a chair. “Calm down. Take a drink of water, and then tell us what’s happening.”

Dad set a bottle of water in front of me. My hands shook too much to twist the cap off. He took it from me and opened the bottle. Between gasping breaths, I downed half the water, then told them the whole story. It didn’t take me as long to explain as I’d thought it would. My trip to the main building and the scare with The Slav had only lasted a few minutes, though it had felt like hours.

“What are we going to do?” I asked Dad.

Dad rubbed his hands over his face. “You don’t think he recognized you?”

I almost said no but stopped myself. “I don’t know. I don’t think he got a good look, but why would he have come out looking for me if he hadn’t?”

“I think,” Mom said slowly, covering my hands with hers, “you should get in touch with your agency contacts. Even if they only suspect they saw Isaiah, it could compromise the mission.”

We sat in tense silence as Dad pulled a heavy-duty black case from beneath one of the beds. It was made of that tough, indestructible plastic material and had metal hinges and a combination lock on the front. Dad spun the little dials, flipped the lid, then pulled out a satellite phone from the insulated interior. It was a lot like the phone I’d seen Mrs. Okono use when Henry and I stayed at her house, but this one was shinier and looked a little more high-tech.

I jumped at the chirp of an insect outside the window. Mom squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. I swallowed back my nerves as best I could. Turned out it was a waste of time. A bird squawked and landed on the railing of our deck, sending another surge of adrenaline through me. It also reminded me that the patio blinds were open and anyone—including The Slav—could have watched us. As soon as I was sure my shaky legs wouldn’t buckle underneath me, I jumped up to draw the curtains closed.

Once the gauzy fabric covered the opening, I hovered at the farthest edge, careful to avoid creating a silhouette. Yeah, too many spy movies. I pushed aside the curtain a smidge—just enough to peek out. The moon glinting off the river provided the only light. I searched the dark shadows for movement. While I didn’t catch sight of anything, I wasn’t convinced no one was out there watching. After all, The Slav was a mercenary, likely trained in all kinds of covert skills. And I was a seventeen-year-old who watched too much television.

A sharp curse had me turning to Dad. He’d jumped to his feet, turning his back on Mom and me. He was quick, but not quite quick enough to hide the stark look that crossed his face.

“What is it?” I darted across the room.

He waved me back, hunching over a bit as though to protect the phone from prying ears.

I grabbed Mom’s hand and held on tight. It probably hurt her, but she didn’t say a word. She gripped mine just as hard.

“How does that change the plan?”

A changed plan was not good. A changed plan meant something bad happened. I held my breath, waiting for Dad’s next comment.

“You can’t be serious!” I caught traces of anger, frustration, and… was that grief in Dad’s voice? “There’s got to be something else we can—” Dad sighed. “Fine.” He pressed a button on the phone and set it aside.

“What?” I surged forward. “What happened?”

Dad set the phone back into its padded case. He stared at it for a moment before looking up at us. “Dr. Braun is dead.”

I went bloodless and staggered back. I shook my head, either to clear away the white splotches that flooded my vision or in denial. I wasn’t sure. “No. No way.”

“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.