WAR: Disruption (2 page)

Unease slithered through her. Her heart gave a few flutters, a warning that she needed to be careful or she’d end up with one of the panic attacks she now occasionally suffered from. She glanced across the aisle at Masaud, the tour company’s guard who’d been sent to fetch her from the village. He met her eyes and gave a little shrug and a head shake. Still, he didn’t seem alarmed, so some of her tension eased.

Okay. So maybe they weren’t in danger. Most of the other passengers remained asleep. The few who were awake didn’t seem concerned by their unexpected stop. Probably the teenager had simply gone to relieve himself. Or there was something blocking the road. After taking several deep breaths, Emily slowly moved her neck through a series of rolls to loosen muscles stiff from dozing with the side of her head against the window.

Yet she kept her attention on the open passenger door, unable to completely shake her unease. As far as she knew, the rebels who’d been slowly taking over West Africa hadn’t entered this country yet, but then, she’d spent the last week on a homestay in a village with no electricity and so hadn’t heard any recent news reports.

Outside, the teenager raised his voice in a sharp question. Emily leaned forward, straining to hear. A deep male voice with an American accent answered, “Yes, I can pay.”

All vestiges of sleep gone, Emily straightened in her seat. This section of the country wasn’t popular with foreign tourists. In fact, some of the children in her homestay village had never met a white person before. Of the six women in the dance tour group, Emily and two others had been placed with homestay families scattered across this upper east region. The other three had been sent to villages in the southeast region. According to the local grapevine, Emily was the only foreigner for miles.

So what was an American doing on a deserted road in the middle of the night?

The side door to the tro-tro slid open and a white guy climbed inside. She couldn’t see much of him as the people nearest the door shifted to give him room, but he appeared to be a fit man not that much older than her. Maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore a light-colored, sweat-stained t-shirt underneath an unbuttoned, untucked khaki shirt over khaki pants. The road’s thick red dust clung to his body and clothes in a fine film and dulled the long, blond ponytail that snaked out from underneath his baseball cap. Several days’ worth of stubble covered his jaw.

As he ducked inside he surveyed the passengers. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes beneath the shadow of his ball cap, but his attention sharpened when it reached Masaud. A moment later, his gaze moved on to her. She sensed that her presence startled him, and that he was assessing her. As what? A threat? A potential ally? An unimportant freak because of the ruined skin on her neck? Keeping her shoulders back and her chin up, she waited while he finished his scrutiny, fighting the urge to once again put her hand over her scars. Aware that since local custom had the other female passengers fashionably dressed in traditional blouses and skirts, her own t-shirt and cargo pants made her appear grubby in comparison. Finally, the stranger dipped his chin in a nod and turned away.

Emily let out a breath. Who was this man? Even the ballet company’s assistant director, known for intimidating dancers with his critical gaze during performance reviews, hadn’t watched her with such intensity. And how had he picked Masaud out as being dangerous? Out of courtesy to the driver, the guard’s pistol wasn’t visible.

As the door slammed shut, the stranger placed his worn backpack on the floor and settled into the one available seat without giving her a second glance. His shoulders jerked toward his ears as he sat, and he held his elbows close to his body, carefully avoiding contact with his neighbors. Quite a feat in these cramped quarters, but Emily recognized the protective action. One of her dance partners had cracked a rib in an auto accident and he’d held himself in just such a way for days afterward. Wondering how the stranger been injured, Emily’s unease returned.

Several of the passengers whispered amongst themselves. She heard the word
obruni
, which meant foreigner. A few eyes glanced her way.

Emily dropped her gaze, twisting her hands together on a sudden burst of fear. Were some of the passengers rebel sympathizers? Was she in danger? So far, she’d received only a warm welcome from the locals. She’d seen no evidence that the people here subscribed to the vicious, nationalistic rhetoric of the African Freedom Army that had resulted in many foreigners being kidnapped or killed in neighboring countries. Emily would never have joined this tour if the rebels had been active here.

The tro-tro started up again. Emily’s heart stuttered as the overhead light shut off, plunging the interior into darkness. But when the other passengers settled quietly back into sleep, she gradually relaxed. The tour company had guaranteed that no harm would come to her or the other women on the tour. In the weeks leading up to their arrival, the rebels had been busy fighting government forces next door in the Democratic Republic of the Ivory Coast. The government of the Republic of the Volta had backed up the tour company’s promise. They’d assured Emily and the other women that should the rebels approach the border, their armed forces were strong enough to fight off any attack. The government wanted the tour to go ahead, to show the rest of the world that the country was safe for tourists. Plus, both the tour company and the government had explained that the men guarding the women were highly skilled former soldiers. Emily trusted that Masaud would protect her.

Even with tonight’s hint of danger, she didn’t regret turning down her father’s offer to hire an additional, private bodyguard. She had to learn how to navigate the non-ballet world on her own. Danger and all.

Besides, she just wanted to blend into the world as much as her scars allowed. Having a private bodyguard would have set her apart from the others on the tour and prevented her from making the friendships that had already developed between her and the other women.

The homestays were the only point at which the women were on their own, allowing them to learn local dances and customs that they’d later incorporate into a dance program with the orphans. The tour company had offered strong assurances that all the villages were located in very calm, pro-foreigner regions of the country. Emily was supposed to have been picked up by the tour this morning, but instead Masaud had shown up on foot and explained that the group’s Land Cruiser had two flat tires and was holed up at a regional way station, the equivalent to an American rest stop. The way station didn’t have appropriate replacement tires, so their driver had borrowed a vehicle and headed to the regional capital. Masaud had taken the morning tro-tro and then walked to Emily’s village after being dropped off on the main road.

The tro-tro picked up speed, zigging and zagging as it avoided the worst of the potholes on this unpaved road. Emily had the distinct sensation that her life was similarly moving out of her control. Nerves coiled in her belly, different from what she used to experience before going on stage. Then, her success had depended on her own ability to perform the complicated choreography. Now, her safety rested on the skill of the tro-tro driver, the good will of her fellow passengers, and Masaud.

She stole one more glance at the stranger. She should feel sympathy for him, since he’d been walking all alone in the dark. Yet she couldn’t figure out where he’d come from. She knew from experience that navigating a dirt road in the pitch dark was hazardous. On the first night of her homestay, she’d decided to find a place to watch the thick blanket of stars without overhanging branches blocking her view. She hadn’t taken a lantern. After walking only a few yards, she’d stumbled on the uneven ground and nearly ended up facedown in a ditch.

So what had caused the stranger to walk for miles along this road in the dark? And why couldn’t she shake the sensation that something was wrong?

Biting her lip, Emily watched the night pass. Her nerves would probably settle once she reached the way station. Kofi, their tour guide, acted like a good-natured big brother to her and the other women in the group. He’d laugh off her concerns, make a joke, and she’d feel better. Tomorrow they’d head south, join up with the other three women, their tour guide and guard, then continue on to the orphanage where they’d begin dance rehearsals with a group of children and teens displaced by the rebels’ violence.

Yes, all would be well. She had no reason to be so uneasy.

Day Three

THE NEXT MORNING, after a few hours’ rest in one of the way station’s guest rooms, Max stood over the pit toilet out back and finished sawing at his ponytail with a sturdy knife he’d borrowed from the kitchen. Having long blond hair had aided his cover of being a hippie college professor gathering research for a book. Now that he had Dietrich’s men after him, he couldn’t afford to stand out as more than just another white adventurer too reckless to avoid this dangerous section of Africa. Although Volta and its neighbors to the east continued to insist that they were stable and safe for foreigners, people who’d been traveling the region, like Max, knew that the rebels had their sights set on taking over all of West Africa and had already begun laying the foundation for a full out assault.

The hair broke free. Max watched the bright strands sink into the watery sludge far below, then stuck his baseball cap over his shortened hair and headed back toward the main building. A quick glance toward the far corner of the lorry park—the dirt square where the tro-tros and buses dropped off passengers—showed that the American tour group’s Land Cruiser was still there, so he continued up the outside stairs to his room.

After escaping Ziegler’s cell through the smuggler’s tunnel, Max had retrieved his stuff from its hiding place and snuck across the border. He’d caught a few hours’ sleep before hitching a ride with a farmer early the next morning, but after the man left him at the northern crossroads, Max’s luck had run out. There’d been no other vehicles on the road and he’d been forced to walk south, aiming for his contact Sulaiman’s village. He’d been stumbling along in the dark, searching for a safe place to sleep, when the tro-tro had shocked the hell out of him by stopping when he’d waved it down. He’d figured there’d been a good chance the driver would consider a lone white man too dangerous to pick up given the region’s slide toward anti-foreigner violence. Too many people were already avoiding all contact with foreigners, afraid of being targeted as foreign sympathizers when the rebels moved in.

Yet the tro-tro had braked for Max and the driver had offered him a ride as long as he could pay.

He’d received another surprise when the mate told him they had an American lady on board. The wariness in the woman’s almond shaped brown eyes when she spotted him had hit like a punch to the gut. He’d quickly catalogued her delicate Asian features, her black hair pulled back in a tight bun, and the river of scars that started at the edge of her jaw and ran down her neck to disappear beneath her t-shirt, then dismissed her as non-threatening. An African man with the erect bearing and sharp-eyed gaze of a soldier had shared a few looks with the woman from his seat across the aisle. Probably her bodyguard. So the woman hadn’t been completely stupid and traveling alone.

Still, she had a right to be wary. Being around Max could be dangerous. But he’d been in too much pain to ignore the ride. Plus, he hadn’t seen any signs that he’d been followed.

When he’d learned that the tro-tro was dropping the American woman off at this way station to meet her tour group, Max had figured he’d be safer blending with a group of other foreigners than standing out because he was the only white person left on the tro-tro. So he’d had the driver leave him here, feeling confident he’d be able to convince the tour’s leader to give him a ride.

Yeah, so much for that. When he’d spoken to the man first thing this morning, the tour guide said he’d gladly give Max a ride. Unfortunately, their Land Cruiser had two flat tires and his driver had gone to the capital to find replacements. Now the clock was edging toward noon and the driver still hadn’t returned. Max couldn’t hang around any longer. He needed to get to Sulaiman’s village so he could rest and heal. Then he’d resume his search for details on Dietrich’s deal.

The bad news just kept coming, though. When Max had asked Madame Eunice, the woman who owned the way station, about renting a car she’d just shrugged sympathetically and told him that the tour group’s driver had taken the only available vehicle. So Max was once again going to have to hoof it.

He grabbed his backpack out of his room. After checking that no evidence of his stay remained, he headed downstairs.

As he was about to round the corner into the lorry park, he heard the roar of an engine and an authoritative shout in the local language. He put his back against the building and peered around the corner in time to see a rebel Jeep turn off the main road.

He spotted a familiar white man in the passenger seat and froze.

Dammit to hell, how had Ziegler found him so quickly? Max could have taken any one of three directions at the crossroads. How had Ziegler managed to track him here? He quickly patted himself down. Did he have a tracking device on him? Had Ziegler deliberately left him alone in that room expecting him to escape? If so, why?

Not feeling any unexpected lumps, Max decided that when he caught some real down time, he’d have to check every inch of his skin and clothing to make sure he wasn’t bugged. For the moment, he’d have to assume he wasn’t being tracked. It was more likely that Ziegler had several teams out looking for him and it was just his bad luck that Ziegler had shown up here.

Time to disappear.

He turned smoothly away, keeping to the shadows until he reached the open space to the side of the main building. The Jeep screeched to a halt back in the lorry park. Max hesitated, checking behind him for any sign he’d been spotted. At the far end, where the alley opened into the lorry park, he could just barely make out Ziegler and his rebel cohort getting out of the Jeep and being accosted by Madame Eunice. The bodyguard from the tro-tro last night stood off to one side.