Page 73

CHAPTER 72

IT HAD BEEN three hours since Gurney and his goons left the tent. Kira hadn’t told them anything. She just stared them down. “We’ll wait for dawn,” Gurney had told his men before stalking out.

Kira’s mind had been spinning ever since. What happened at dawn? Torture? Drowning? Beating? Gang rape? Gurney didn’t seem like the Geneva Accords type. Neither did his giants.

She could see the sunlight starting to filter through the tent sides.

“Hey!” she called out. “Hey!” She was hoping there might be a woman in the unit. Somebody who would bring her a sip of water. Show a little mercy. Her throat felt like it was closing up.

The tent flap opened.

Gurney again. This time all five giants were with him.

“I need water,” Kira croaked.

“No you don’t,” said Gurney. “This won’t take long.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black hood. Kira pressed her feet against the floor and bucked in the chair, so hard it almost tipped over. Gurney reached out and grabbed her hair. This time he twisted her curls tightly in his fist. “Fight me,” he snarled, “and we’ll end this right here.”

He slid the hood over her head and yanked it down to her shoulders. Kira could hear her own breathing and feel her heart pounding in her chest. She sensed somebody huge behind her. She heard a click and felt the chains go limp. For a split second, she considered making a move. Then she felt her arms being twisted behind her. Rough hands pulled her to her feet.

“Walk, bitch.”

Kira felt the hard-packed tent floor under her feet as she shuffled forward. She felt the rough canvas of the tent flap against her cheek as she was shoved through. Now she was outside. She felt the heat of the sun and she could see the light bouncing from under her hood.

“Let’s get this over with.” Gurney’s voice from up ahead.

Kira’s training taught her that there was always a way out. But right now, she couldn’t find one. She was drained from no sleep. She hadn’t eaten in thirty-six hours. She was dehydrated. She didn’t know how many weapons were pointed at her. And as strong as she was, she knew she was no match for the guy who was holding her.

She considered letting her full weight drop, faking a faint, but she knew it might dislocate her arm. She thought about trying to bargain, but she had nothing to offer. Then she thought about Doc—imagined him swinging in on a vine to save her, like Tarzan. But she knew that she had only herself. She felt more upward pressure on her arm, like it was about to snap at the elbow. She winced in pain and kept on walking.

“Stop right here.” Gurney’s voice again.

Kira could feel soft dirt under her feet. The edge of her grave?

She heard the click and feedback squawk from a megaphone, then Gurney’s voice again, echoing in the open air. “Listen to me,” he said, “ Listen! For weeks now, we have been searching for a killer in the jungle. The mighty and mysterious Shaba. You have been afraid. Your children have been afraid. Well, you don’t need to fear any longer.” Kira felt a hand on her head. “Because this … is your Shaba!”

The hood was yanked off. Kira blinked in the glare.

She was standing at the edge of the mine pit. Fifty feet down, hundreds of workers were staring up at her. Women pushed their children behind them, as if they feared she could shoot fire from her eyes. Kira recognized some of the men—the ones who had chased her through the jungle with torches.

“See for yourself!” Gurney pronounced. He turned and grabbed Kira by the neck, pulling her forward. “Shaba is no god. No devil. No monster. She is human. Just like all of you.”

Kira felt the pressure on her arms ease off. She turned around. The five giants formed a wall in front of her. The Black man held a shovel. He turned it sideways and thrust it at Kira’s midsection.

She grabbed the handle with both hands and thought about swinging it around to smash Gurney’s head in. But she knew it would be her last act—only satisfying for the split second before somebody shot her or shoved her over the edge.

Gurney lowered the megaphone. “Welcome to the pit, Shaba.”

The giants moved forward, nudging her backward toward the top of the ramp. Kira turned around and put the shovel over her shoulder. She could hear mumbling from the crowd below as she descended toward them. The heat intensified with every step. Reddish dust started to cake her shoes, her clothes, her face.

When she reached the bottom, a group of men crowded around her, grunting and gesturing. One of them reached out and grabbed her arm. Another pulled her from the other side. She felt herself behind yanked back and forth like a doll. A third man grabbed the shovel from her, then tugged up her shirt and ran his rough hand across her belly, as if he was trying to make sure she was mortal.

“Acha! Acha!” A female voice, in Swahili, telling the men to stop.

Kira watched as the young Black woman shoved her way through the crowd. She was slight, but determined. Her arms and forehead were shiny with sweat. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen. As she got closer, the men let Kira go and stepped aside.

The young woman held out a bottle of water and put her other hand over her heart.

“Vanda,” she said. Her name.

Then, “Hunitishi.” Meaning, You don’t scare me.