Page 17 of Bastard
I’m up and out of bed, for a second believing I’m seventeen and back in Loreto.
Deprisa, Luciana. Run.
I scoop up my hiking boots and daypack and race for the door, immediately hugging the corner of my hut as I hurry toward the brush behind Mustafa’s hut.
While waiting for Donovan, I tug on my boots and try to make sense of what’s happening. Why would the militants sweep into Nmimpi less than a week after the South African’s arrival? Coincidence, or did those pendejos snitch?
But what does it matter? Dios, if they hurt Mustafa ...Get far away from here if you want to protect her.
My fingers dig into the dirt, forming a fist around the dry soil. I pause, feeling something hard against my palm. I allow the dirt to sift free, half-focused on the action and half on wondering what’s taking Donovan so long. Several seconds pass before I glance down at the object in my hand, then almost drop it in surprise.
My ring.
It’s on the same gold chain with the fickle clasp now stuck open. Instinctively, I shake off the dirt then fix the chain around my neck, squeezing the clasp fully closed. In an odd, twisted way, finding it grounds me as much as the feeling of the earth within my palm. I know it’s ridiculous, that what I should be doing is burying it then being done with everything it symbolized. Except, in this very moment, it reminds me that I’m a survivor. I survived my parents’ murders. Cartel warfare.Him.
I survived thatchulo, Ignacio, the second most dangerous cartel boss in Loreto. Ended his miserable life too.
Tamale Girl, the name Ignacio used to call me—because the young girls he objectified didn’t deserve real names—died when I killed him. No regrets. The world’s better without him in it.
I’m not helpless or naïve to danger. And I’m prepared for the worst. Bottles of water in daypack. Money. Glock with extra ammunition.
I scowl at Donovan who has finally appeared, boots and pack in hand, just as a second round of gunfire echoes across the village. Closer, as is the rumble of approaching trucks.
“Get down,” Donovan whispers, the word halfway between a question and a desperate plea.
“No. We run. Follow me.”
I sprint off across the flat scrubland, heading east and away from Nmimpi. Donovan follows, barefoot, but there’s no time for him to pull on his boots. He understands what’s happening just as I do—this time, the militants are terrorizing our village.
I bite my lip, worrying about Mustafa and the others. But they’re not the targets ... we are.
The machine gun fire spurs us on. A half-mile out, we pause to catch our breath. “Did you leave anything lying about that shows you’re a foreigner?” I manage between pants.
He blanches, pasty-white face even paler in the moonlight, and my heart sinks.
“Damn it. My watch.” He forks his fingers through his hair. “And the book I was reading when I fell asleep.Dante’s Inferno, the English translation.” He inhales deeply. “It’s been three days. I didn’t expect any more strangers.”
“Militants. Hunting for Westerners.”
“You think it’s them?”
“Hear those guns? In the information UWC sent us about the attack made on the Westerners, it mentioned machine guns. It’s them.”
“Now they’re searching for us.”
“Well, they’re not kicking back and reading a used copy ofDante’s Inferno.”
Donovan flinches. Too late now to wish that he’d listened to me. “What now?” he croaks.
“We get far away from Nmimpi. Go to an embassy and report what happened. Send men to check on the villagers. I have those plate numbers inside my pack and we’ll report the South African’s activity, as well. But first, if we can locate an internet café, I’ll contact someone whose help will come a lot quicker. If they hurt Mustafa, or anyone else ...”
Gunfire echoes across the savannah, silencing me. It’s close. Far too close for us to be running at a comfortable pace.
I glance over at Donovan, who’s wincing and stumbling along. As much as I hate to, I stop. “Put on your boots.” I remove a water bottle from my pack and take a long sip, adrenaline running and mind racing. Think, Luciana. We won’t outrun the gunfire. But they don’t know where we are right now. These hunters, what do they expect you to do? Where do they expect you to go?
Beneath the bright moonlight, I search the horizon ahead of us. To the right is a familiar cluster of evergreen trees. A small patch in an otherwise open plateau. An obvious place to hide.
To the left, the brown shrub grass is higher than the ankle tall grass we’re standing in.
