Page 11 of Bastard

I freeze, heart pounding.

“I’ll bevaitingby our truck overzer.” Everyone turns in the direction the tall blond man’s pointing to, directly beyond the brush.

Mierda. He’ll walk by us and then know Mustafa was lying.

The blond steps forward.

But then, so does Tight-Lipped, and directly in his path. “Follow me,” he grinds out in an accent I can’t quite place. He pivots on his heels and strides off in the opposite direction, leaving me wondering about his connection to these men.

The men exchange looks, not knowing what to make of him, and then follow him anyway.

I release a long sigh of relief.

“That was close,” Donovan whispers.

“Come on.” I scramble to my feet then lead Donovan deeper into the savannah, until the village ends and the great wilderness unfolds. Steering north, I take a wildlife trail running parallel to the road that leads out of the village. A mile or so later, I turn left and draw Donovan into the brush closer to the road.

“Why search the village for foreigners when all they needed were tires? And why carry assault rifles? Who do you think those men are?” Donovan falls silent and is out of breath.

My heart is racing but for a different reason. “Let’s find out.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, alarmed.

I adjust my daypack over my shoulder. “You’ll see.”

We find the perfect place beside the roadway beneath thick shrubbery to hide. I take out two pencils and a notebook from my daypack, tear out a page and hand him both. “To record their plate numbers,” I say.

His eyebrows arch. “What a smart idea. Dangerous but smart.” He pauses, then, in a nervous voice, continues, “I can’t believe we’re doing this. We should be running the other way.”

I roll my eyes. “You can’t always run away from your problems.”

I feel Donovan’s stare. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Enjoying isn’t the right word.”

“You get off on dangerous situations, don’t you?”

I bite my lip, thinking about his question. When I was younger, I found comfort in things that were predictable. Situations like this were to be avoided. Out of sight and out of trouble.

Trouble.

I close my eyes, rememberinghimmurmuring my nickname. The most dangerous man in Loreto believed I was trouble. These tire thieves are amateurs compared to him.

“I should have realized this about you after that lion wandered into the village circle. The way you charged forward at it, waving a stick and shooing the hungry animal away from Mustafa and her pot of foufou.”

“Anyone would have done so.”

“No one did anything. We were too frozen with fear. Not you. You confronted the animal and scared it away.”

“It was nothing,” I repeat, my thoughts drifting back to the event that happened four weeks ago, when I exited my hut to discover a lion standing a few feet behind Mustafa, who was crouched over her pot and unaware of the danger creeping up on her. I’d grabbed a broom and stepped between her and the animal, waving my weapon and shouting, “Shoo! Shoo!”

I’d seen lions out in the savannah. Part of our training included wildlife safety, and how to never show aggression toward certain animals. That lion was licking his lips with foufou on its mind, with Mustafa and me standing between him and an easy meal. Playing meek wasn’t exactly an option. No way was I going to allow that beautiful beast to draw in any closer.

“Were you even afraid?”

I pause to consider his question, and quickly decide on the best way to answer what I’ve been reluctant to acknowledge about myself. “Animals ... even people ... can smell fear. Besides, I have a habit of jumping into situations headfirst and before fear can settle in.” Says the woman whose every emotion, love, hate, anger, frustration, boredom—every emotion except for fear—used to be the gasoline that fueled her actions. “Ahogado el niño, tapando el pozo,” I softly add.

“What does it mean?” he asks.