AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You! Start tracking them!” His gaze swept the group. “And stay alert! I want the woman! You kill the man.” Teka, the young lieutenant, gave a sharp nod, snarling orders at the others.
Instantly, the group raced up the slope toward the ruins. Walking quickly behind them, his AK-47 in his hand, Tefere glowered at the surrounding landscape. In some ways, it would be easy enough to track them, but in other ways, not so much. He couldn’t believe his soldiers were such poor shots. They’d had plenty of time to hone their skills for years in Darfur, in southern Sudan, before coming back to Ethiopia. All his men were in their late teens or early twenties. He’d picked them all up around the ages of ten or less, saving them from the slow death of starvation. He had become a foster father to them of sorts. He’s given them food for their bellies, something they’d never expected. He’d taught them how to fire pistols at first, and then later, as their arms grew longer and stronger, to shoot AK-47s. They were utterly devoted to him, worshipped him, in fact, and he could see the disappointment in their eyes that they hadn’t killed the man. They strived to make up for their failure, inspired by his words and anger, combing the top of the hill, looking intently for tracks.
His mind turned with options. What would those two Americans do? He considered all white people stupid and greedy. The U.N. Peacekeepers at Darfur? They were supposedly well-trained but were a complete joke! The only U.N. soldiers he avoided were from Germany. Those guys damned well knew how to shoot to kill. Beneath their facade of legitimacy, they were brutal hunters just like he and his men. Oh, and not to forget the South Koreans; those bastards were ruthless assassins. The rest? Useless as teats on a boar, in his opinion. He’d been trained from the age of nine by an Islamic Somali group led by Cumar Hanad, who had links with Al-Qaeda, across the border from Ethiopia. He’d loved learning how to handle weapons. Even more? Tefere coveted power. He’d had none since birth, but at nine years old, captured in a border raid and taken in by the Somali warlord, he’d found meaning to his life.
As his men spread out and searched like hunting dogs across the top of the knoll the ruins sat upon, David waited. He had changed his name to David because that biblical figure had slain Goliath the giant with just a slingshot and rock. Hungry to impress his new father, who doted on all the little Ethiopian boys he’d kidnapped, Tefere quickly became the favored youngster of the bunch.
At first, the best, grizzled soldiers would take him out to the henhouse where they’d give him a small hand ax. He was to catch the chickens, lay them out, chop off their heads, and then hand them over to the cooks. The soldiers wanted the boys to be sprayed and wet by the blood spurting out of the chicken’s neck as it flailed and jerked around. He learned to like the coppery smell of blood. It was like a badge of honor, and he let the blood sit on his clothing for at least a week, drying, so that by the time it was washed by the Somali women at the local river, the blood stains would always be there. And that was to remind everyone who saw him that he had been blooded. He had killed and he would kill again when ordered to do so. Without hesitation.
Tefere wanted that red-haired American woman. She would be a real prize. He could take her across the Ethiopian border, into Somalia, and parade her in front of his father and warlord, Cumar Hanad. Indeed, he would be richly rewarded. Every terrorist organization wanted white, American women to put on video as they decapitated them. Cumar would glow with pleasure over such a gift. Pride flowed powerfully within Tefere at the mere thought. He lived to receive praise from the warlord. Plus, he was sure, there would be gold coins to back up the pat on his head for a job well done.
Willow watched as Shep pulled out his long-sleeved denim coat. It was heavy fabric. To her surprise, he used his Buck knife, cutting off each arm. And before she could ask what he was doing, he pulled one of the sleeves up over her foot, covering its sole.
“This denim is going to last you well on the hike we’ve gotta make,” he told her, his hands moving quickly. “It will give the soles of your feet the protection they need.” He knotted the end of it in front of her toes, then used some white cotton cord he always carried to bind it around her ankle, making sure the cuffed material would not slip off her foot. “There. How does that feel?” he asked, lifting his head to meet her gaze.
“Amazing,” she admitted, moving her foot a little, the thick material remaining in place.
“Good, lift your other foot?” and he held out his hand, cupping her heel.
“How did you think of this?” she asked, stunned by how good the idea was.
Shrugging, he said, “I guess it’s that engineer’s brain of mine,” and he fashioned her second denim shoe, straightening and critically studying his handiwork.
“But, what about you? You have to have something to protect your feet too, Shep.”
He smiled and quickly cut up the rest of the jacket, placing two thick layers that would protect the soles of his own feet. “Engineers are always having to make do with little to nothing out in third world countries, Willow. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve jury-rigged things together to keep a project moving. My mind just sees things differently, I guess.” He sat down and swiftly wrapped each of his feet, enclosing them entirely, utilizing the rest of the soft cotton rope. “There.” He stood, walking around a little to make sure the material wasn’t going to slip or fall off.
Willow started to stand but he held his hand out to her.
“Let me help you? Let’s see how much of an aggravation that leg slice is going to be for you?”
She gripped his hand, feeling the strength in it. Choking up, she forced back so much of what she wanted to say; how grateful she was he was here with her. What if she’d come out here alone and been shot? She sometimes paddled the lake alone. What then? No one would be likely to find her. Of course, Willow always told Dev where she was going to be hiking or paddling, along with her objective and the time she could expect her home. Still, that would be too little too late, and the idea of being killed up on that knoll, lying dead in the ruins, chilled her, the goosebumps standing up on her flesh. Standing up, she released his hand and tested out her new ‘shoes’.
“This is wonderful, Shep,” she said, giving him a grateful look. Her heart ached with love for this man. There was so much she wanted to say but couldn’t. Not with the threat of death hanging over their heads. She walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his damp, sweaty neck, pressing herself against him and kissing him. All she wanted was to let him know that she loved him, even though they’d never mouthed a word of such to one another since their reunion. His response was hungry, eager, and she moaned as he wrapped her in a tight embrace, confirming what she already knew: that Shep still loved her just as much as she loved him.
As she regretfully eased away from him, staring up into his turbulent gaze, she whispered, “I want to survive this to be with you, Shep…” She saw the surprise in his eyes fleetingly, and then a tenderness that nearly drove her to tears as he cupped her jaw, kissing her with incredible gentleness, worshiping her mouth, worshipping her. It was as if they were in the first year of their marriage where everything had been heavenly; no fights, no disagreements, or misunderstandings. Just pure, beautiful love expressed for one another.
“You’re mine. You were always mine,” he grated, sliding his fingers across the damp but drying hair at her temple. “We’ll get out of this together, Willow. Come on…”
Giving a jerky nod, she held his hand, and they started down off the low knoll, weaving in and around the thick stands of trees and clusters of bamboo. Her nerves had settled down. The last adrenaline charge through her bloodstream had left her knees a bit shaky and Willow was indebted to Shep’s hand clasping hers for the time being. He led her onto the flat and increased the pace of their walk once she’d found her footing with her soft new shoes. The thick carpet of dried leaves crunched constantly beneath their feet as they strode at a good hiker’s pace, making twenty-minute miles.
Sometimes, Shep would stop, turn, and listen, his face intense, glistening with sweat, focused. She too, looked and listened.
“Nothing… yet,” he grumbled, turning, tugging on her hand.
“You think they’re tailing us?
“I do. Back at Artemis Security, Wyatt Lockwood gave us the mission briefing on Tefere David. He’s a hyena with no heart or soul. He was kidnapped at age nine by a Somali warlord. David was taught to kill at that tender age. Wyatt said he lives only to impress his warlord, Cumar Hanad. Once David gives his word about something, he’ll do it or die trying. He needs Hanad’s approval that badly. No, he’s not going to stop dogging our tracks, Willow,” and he shot her a grave look.
Mouth tightening, she whispered, “Okay… got it.”
***
Shep could feel Willow tiring. They’d been slogging along for two and a half hours. They stopped to hydrate and rest ten minutes out of each hour but, other than that, she pushed on hard and consistently. Her face was pale. He suspected that was due to the heat, as it was past noon and the sun’s rays bore down at their strongest this time of year. They were both sweating profusely. The freeway was a lot further than he’d anticipated. He noticed that Willow was limping more and more as the hours wore on. There were airliners flying in low toward the airport, so they knew which direction they were going, like they had a compass of sorts in the sky to aid them. Besides, Willow was damn good at directions, and she would tell him to head further this way or another, keeping him on that invisible route that would get them out of this forest and to a major highway all the faster.
He hadn’t stopped worrying about Tefere David. The hairs on the back of his neck were always up, warning him that danger was stalking them. He’d been in too many Afghan villages over his years in that country, to not trust his instincts. They had no weapons. All he had was a miserable Buck knife, which was a great pocketknife, but you didn’t take one into a gunfight where AK-47s ruled. And he knew, by the sounds of the weapons, that they’d been AK-47s for sure, another sign it was David and his terrorist soldiers.
Slowing, he caught Willow’s damp hand. “Hey? How are you holding up?”
