Page 55 of No Time Off

My heart skipped a couple of beats as I stuck my phone in my pocket without hanging up. I unplugged my laptop and shoved it in its bag. I swept the computer, cords, peripherals, and notes into the bag as well.

“How close are they?” I asked.

“Five minutes out at most. Come on. Hurry.”

There was no time to get anything else. My passport was in my laptop bag, as was some money and additional IDs. I passed our small duffel bag as I was leaving the room and grabbed that, too. It would have to do.

“I’m ready,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Rangi led me into the dark hallway where two of the prime minister’s security men were scrambling. They were coordinating using hand signals with other police officers out the front and back doors. The prime minister stood nearby, speaking softly with her husband and children. She looked composed but anxious. Out the back door, I could see one of the police officers shrugging into a bulletproof vest.

Things were getting serious.

Petra glanced over at me, and I could see the worry in her eyes. There was certainly concern for her country, but I knew the look of a worried mother when I saw one. I couldn’t imagine what she was going through right now. I gave her a quick nod of encouragement, and she smiled slightly.

“Let’s go, Prime Minister,” Rangi said grimly, and she gave him a brief nod. We quietly followed him toward the back of the house. Two armed guards fell into line behind us.

Rangi led us out the large wooden door at the back of the farmhouse toward a small shed where four off-road motorcycles, caked in mud, stood ready. The rain had blessedly softened to a light drizzle, but I had to blink to keep the water out of my eyes. I instinctively moved my backpack to my chest to protect the computer from the rain. The duffel hung on my shoulder, resting on my back. Two security personnel—men with rifles strapped across their chests—were already securing the camouflage tarps they’d used to hide the motorbikes and now rolling them into the woods behind the shed. The other pair of guards were barely visible in front of the house, wearing police uniform pants, but their upper bodies were masked by fatigue jackets. They were hidden in the foliage facing the darkened road that led to the house.

Rangi saw where I was looking. “They’re monitoring the searchers’ progress,” he said. “It is only a few men in a couple of cars and a motorcycle. They don’t know we’re here yet. We could stop them, especially with surprise, but if we attacked them, they would call for assistance and the entire area would be cordoned off, trapping us. If we can leave before they find us, then they may know we were here, but not how long ago.”

A motorbike roared to life, and I looked up to see Petra and her son sitting behind a policeman. They started off down a puddled path into the fields. I stared at Rangi. “Oh, please don’t tell me we’re escaping on motorcycles?”

“Yes,” he replied. “The road we came in on, it’s the only one passable by car. It is now blocked by the searchers coming for us. We are going to use farm paths to loop around them and get to the beach. They won’t be able to follow us.”

As he spoke, the next two bikes left with Petra’s husband and daughter as passengers, each behind a policeman. Finally, it was my turn and I carefully climbed onto the bike, behind the man who would be my driver.

“You’re staying behind?” I asked Rangi, panic creeping into my voice.

“I am. We’re out of bikes, but don’t worry about us. We’re not going to get in a shootout with them unless we must. You’ll be safe with the prime minister. But as soon as you’re able, let Slash and Manny know it’s not safe to return here, okay? Now get going.”

I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye or tell him about Slash’s possible capture before our bike jumped and I almost tumbled off the back. I grabbed onto the driver’s waist in panic.

“Hold tight,” the driver warned me in what sounded like an Aussie accent. “No matter what happens, don’t let go of me.”

We shot out of the clearing, leaving the farmhouse behind. We were moving much faster than my paved-road comfort level as we raced along a muddy, single-track path tracing the edge of a pineapple field. I struggled to adjust my packs without falling off as the bike lurched and bumped. I was sure if my mother could see me now, I’d receive a healthy scolding for not wearing a helmet, though that was the least of my concerns.

“Use your legs,” my driver yelled at me. “Try and keep your butt off the seat and use your legs to absorb the shock like you’re riding a horse. It will make the bike steadier for both of us.”

I considered mentioning to him that I had no intention of climbing on a horse or camel ever again, but that mental debate was ended when the bike hit a hole that momentarily tried to reposition my anus to my collar.

As I recovered and tried to follow the driver’s instructions, I dared a glance over my shoulder. We made a sharp turn and I saw we were being chased by the one motorcycle that had apparently been part of the search group. The rider was wearing dark clothes and a black helmet with the visor down. Since his bike was carrying only one rider, he was closing on us, about fifty yards behind.

“We’ve got company,” I shouted to the driver.

We hit another bump, and my driver took a big, skidding turn, forcing me to concentrate on staying aboard the bike instead of tracking our pursuer’s progress. On a smoother stretch, I momentarily hazarded another peek and saw our pursuer was much closer. So close that I could see he held a gun in his hand.

“Gun!” I screamed.

While I watched in horror, our pursuer raised his arm and aimed at us. My driver abruptly swerved to avoid a huge puddle just as the gun fired, missing us. The gunman, however, failed to miss the puddle, and fountains of water and mud sprayed into the air and on him as he followed.

I fervently hoped the puddle would make him crash, but he emerged from the other side still on the bike. On the upside, he had significantly slowed and was covered in mud spray. Once he got his bearings and wiped his visor, however, he began rapidly accelerating after us again.

“He’s still following,” I shouted at the driver.

“Don’t worry,” my driver yelled back. “It’s hard to hit a moving target.”

I wasn’t as confident as he was, but for the moment, I just held on for dear life. Thankfully, the foliage thickened as we left the fields, and the tropical jungle closed around us. Thick vines and massive ferns whipped at our shoulders as my driver maneuvered down narrow and overgrown paths. Rainwater pooled in hidden depressions, spraying muddy arcs high into the air as we sped through them. The trail occasionally forked and rejoined as generations of people and animals sought the easiest path.

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