David grinned. “Good. We have much to discuss, but I should dress first.”
By the time David returned, breakfast was on the table—fried yams scrambled with eggs and tomatoes, fried plantains, beans, and bread. The food tasted as good as it smelled, but every bite reminded Malik that Kristi might well be going hungry.
He thanked his host for the meal, but David saw through him.
“You worry about her.” He drew out his smartphone, tapped in his password, and slid it across the table to Malik. “There is some good news. One of the aid workers got good photographs of the abduction, including the faces of some of the kidnappers. Here is the vehicle that took her away.”
Malik looked through the images, his body tensing at the photo of some bastard with his hand fisted in Kristi’s hair. He couldn’t see her face, but he could see the faces of three of the assailants. The vehicle—an older Toyota Highlander—had no license plate. It did, however, have some features they could use to identify it, including dents and a triangle of three bullet holes near the left taillight.
“The NPF—the Nigeria Police Force—is running their faces through their database. In the meantime, you will be searching for that vehicle.”
Malik slid the phone back over to David. “We should get these photos to Shields, too. She has a way of noticing things that everyone else misses.”
David drank his juice. “Let’s go upstairs to my office.”
His office was on the top floor. Ceremonial Yoruba masks adorned the walls, a putting green with artificial turf on the balcony outside.
David walked to his desk, picked up several documents, handed them to Malik. “These are your firearms permits and a letter from the government giving you permission to operate in the country. They are forgeries, of course, but they are flawless. If you are pulled over by police and someone calls in to verify them, you will be exposed. There was no way to get authentic permits so quickly.”
Malik looked them over. “I understand. Thanks.”
“Now for the fun part.” David walked over to what looked like a cupboard, pressed his thumb against a biometric scanner, and opened the doors to reveal an arsenal.
Malik crossed the room, took in the sight. “That’swhat I’m talking about.”
“Take whatever you need. After all, I got most of them from Cobra.”
There were rifles, handguns, shotguns, submachine guns, machine guns, bayonets, and combat knives, most of them current US military issue. There were cases of M18 smoke grenades and fragmentation grenades, as well.
“Sweet.” Malik would need a good combat rifle with a bayonet, a sniper rifle with a night vision scope, a couple of pistols, lots of spare magazines, and a shit ton of ammo. He chose an M4 carbine, a scoped MK11 Mod 0 sniper rifle, and two SIG P320s.
While David sent the images of the attackers to Shields, Malik sat down at David’s desk to study a map of the area around Kinu Village. His stomach sank. “Shit.”
The area was a vast, rural landscape that was a mix of forest and savanna cleaved by rivers. Kristi could be anywhere out there.
For the first time, Malik’s hope waivered.
“It isn’t going to be easy, my friend.” David finished uploading the images and joined Malik. “You are searching for one precious needle in a hundred haystacks. But I know this country. If they are encamped in the forest, they are going to need one thing above all else—water.”
“Rivers.” Malik’s gaze snapped to the map. “We’ll search stretches of forest along the rivers.”
“Yousearch along the rivers. I’m not getting paid, so I won’t risk my neck. I’ll take you to Kaduna to rent a car, and then you’re on your own.”
It was about damned time.
Malik folded the map, stood. “When do we leave?”
* * *
Kristi watchedas Jidda walked through the encampment, supported by Peter and Obi. She had persuaded him to go for a small walk, afraid that lying on his mat for days would lead to blood clots. He grimaced with each step but kept going.
What he’d said this morning about her being too valuable to let go had stayed with her all day, fear gnawing at her until she felt almost sick. She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t stay with Jidda. She sure as hell couldn’t sleep with him.
She glanced up at the sky—or what she could see of it through the canopy. The air was alive with the songs of birds. Sunlight gleamed on the muddy water of the river maybe a hundred yards away. And yet she felt as cold as ice.
How long had she been here? Three days? Four? Now she understood why prisoners scratched marks into walls to keep track of time. It was easy to grow confused when you were surviving moment to moment.
She did her best to remember.