They reached the counter, and Malik showed the woman their tickets and passports. The woman thanked him. Then she lifted her gaze, looked at Kristi and Malik—and her eyes went wide. She tried to cover up her reaction with an uncertain smile, but Malik had seen it, too.
He leaned over the counter, looked down at something, then took Kristi by the arm. “Grab your bags. We’re leaving.”
“What?” Pulse pounding, Kristi grabbed her luggage and hurried after Malik, aware now that people were staring at her.
“She’s got photos of the two of us. I bet everyone in the airport does. The bastards are here, and they’re looking for us. Hurry.” Malik opened the door. “Keep walking. Don’t ask questions.”
They left the terminal and crossed the street, where Malik flagged down a taxi. They climbed inside, and Malik asked the man to drive them to the Abuja Market, the dark monolith of Aso Rock visible on their right. While Kristi did her best not to let people see her face, Malik got back on his phone again. The taxi moved erratically through the traffic, dodging motorcycles, okadas, trucks, and tuk-tuks. When they arrived at the market, Malik hailed another cab and had the driver take them downtown.
“You can let us off here,” Malik told the driver. “My cousin’s business is just over there.”
Malik paid, and Kristi found herself standing on the street with her bags and no idea what was happening. He pointed. “Over there.”
Kristi looked and saw Praise the Lord Car Rental. “We’re renting a car?”
“We need to disappear.” He set off.
Kristi hurried just to keep up with his long strides. “But the roads aren’t safe either. There are bandit gangs, terrorists, militant groups…”
He slowed his pace, letting her catch up. “Nothing is safe, Kristi. Public transportation isn’t safe, and it’s unreliable at best. We have to go with what gives us the best chance of evasion and escape. That’s how we survive.”
Dread settled in the pit of her stomach. “I thought it was over.”
He stopped once more, took her face between his palms, his brown eyes looking deep into hers. “I know, angel, and I’m sorry. You’ve been incredibly strong through all of this. I need you to be strong just a while longer. Can you trust me?”
“Of course.” There was no one on earth she trusted more than Malik, especially in these circumstances. “I’m … I’m just not used to this.”
“I know.”
While Kristi waited out of sight on the side of the building, Malik went inside. Careful to keep her face averted from the busy road, she drew deep breaths, fighting to quell a rising sense of panic.
Don’t lose it.
She couldn’t lose it. She couldn’t make Malik’s job harder than it already was. The man had quit his job and broken the law to save her life. The least she could do was keep it together.
Cars drove by, hip hop and gospel music blaring from their speakers. A young man in jeans and a black T-shirt passed, earbuds in his ears, phone in hand. A Muslim woman in a white hijab walked by, three small children hurrying after her. It was an ordinary urban scene, something a person might see in any big city on earth. New York. London. Amsterdam. And yet Kristi couldn’t shake her fear.
It’s post-traumatic stress.
That’s what she would have told a patient who’d gone through what she’d endured. And yet, her diagnosis as an RN didn’t bring her any relief or comfort.
A black Toyota Rav4 with tinted windows drove around the corner and stopped right in front of her.
Kristi’s pulse spiked, and she took a step backward, some thought about running half-formed in her mind.
The driver’s side door opened.
Malik.
He climbed out, grabbed her bags. “Let’s go.”
She hurried around to the passenger side, hopped into the seat, and buckled up, relieved to be off the street. “Where are we going? Do you know?”
Malik turned onto the main road. “It’s roughly a twelve-hour drive from Abuja to any of the borders or to the coast.”
That was true. The capital city had been built in the center of the country to give people from all regions equal access.
“Cameroon to the east is a mess right now—war, terrorism, refugees. The population in Nigeria gets denser toward the south, and the coast and Gulf are plagued by pirates. Heading north leads us into Niger and the Sahara Desert—a bad plan unless you’re a camel. That leaves Benin. There’s an international airport in Parakou. That’s a thirteen-hour drive west.”