Kristi saw that his hand was red and covered with blisters. “What happened?”
“My fool of a nephew fell into the fire. Can you help him?”
Obi whimpered in pain. “I didn’t fall. Someone pushed me.”
“Are you going to keep your word to let me go?” Kristi didn’t wait for Jidda’s answer. She grabbed the trauma kit and lidocaine ointment out of the duffel bag and motioned for Obi to sit down. “I’m going to clean the burn first and then treat it.”
Obi nodded.
“You understand English?”
“Yes.”
“This will hurt.” She poured sterile saline over Obi’s blistered palm and fingers then took one of the surgical scrub brushes and used the soft foam side to wash the skin before rinsing it again. The burns didn’t go below the dermis, which was lucky. “You’re going to be okay, Obi.”
After patting Obi’s hand dry with a piece of sterile gauze, she spread lidocaine ointment over his burns. “This will stop the pain for a while. It takes time to start working. You’ll need to re-apply it every hour.”
The relief on Obi’s face told Kristi the medication was already taking effect.
“You need to keep this clean, okay?” She carefully bandaged his hand. “Who pushed you?”
How could anyone mistreat this child?
Now that the crisis was over, the men began to tease Obi. Kristi couldn’t understand what they said, but she recognized their body language and the embarrassment and humiliation on Obi’s face.
He turned to her, looked at her through eyes that held far too much grief and fear for a boy his age. “You do well.”
That was Naija—Nigerian pidgin—forthank you.
She answeredno trouble, Naija foryou’re welcome. “No wahala.”
That made him smile.
Peter slapped Obi on the back of the head. “Do not thank a captive.”
Admonished, Obi stood, glancing at Kristi as he followed the men out of the hut.
She found Jidda watching her.
“I think you are too valuable for me to let you go.”
* * *
Malik woke and showered,washing away the grime of travel. He skipped shaving, impatient to get to work. Kristi was out there somewhere, in the hands of killers.
He’d dreamed about her again. In the dream, he’d kissed her, undressed her, and she had vanished from his arms, disappearing like a ghost. He’d run through Amundsen-Scott Station in a panic, searching for her, calling her name. But he hadn’t found her.
To hell with these bullshit nightmares. It was time to gear up and go after her.
He dressed in tactical pants and a black T-shirt, then made his way downstairs, the scent of food making his mouth water. He found an older woman at work in the kitchen, a white apron over a bright blue dress, a blue and gold head wrap covering her hair.
When she saw him, she curtsied. “Mr. Jones, please sit. Mr. Olatunji will join you for breakfast shortly. Would you like coffee, tea, or cocoa?”
Malik wasn’t used to having staff wait on him and would have been fine making his own breakfast, but he didn’t say that. “Coffee, please. Thank you.”
The rear sliding glass door opened, and David stepped inside wearing swim trunks and drying his hair with a towel. “Good morning! Did you sleep well?”
Malik wanted to get to work, but he forced a smile onto his face. “Yes. Thank you. My room is very comfortable.”