Gabby took a sip of water and eyed the lunch Sabrina had picked up for her on the way home. She’d tried to eat, but the now cold French fries and ham sandwich sitting on the edge of her computer desk turned her stomach. She flipped her cell phone over and over between her fingers. On the drive home from the airport, she’d reviewed everyone on the list she’d interviewed. But unless someone stepped forward and claimed responsibility for the threats she’d received on her phone, narrowing down whom she’d angered enough to seek revenge wasn’t going to be easy.
She quickly scanned her social networks, Twitter, Facebook, and her blog comments, but decided to forgo any updates for the moment. No need announcing to the world where she was. Not until she knew how seriously she should take the phone threat.
Instead she scrolled through her e-mails, erasing the junk mail, marking the upcoming singles’ party at church on her calendar, and setting a reminder for next week’s dentist appointment. She stopped at a message from Natalie Sinclair.
Thought you might be interested in this. I went to a village that one of my translators claimed was attacked by a group of Ghost Soldiers. I’m attaching several photos he took. Call me when you get home and we can talk
—Natalie Sinclair
Gabby clicked on the attached photos. Her empty stomach soured at the graphic images and the terror on the victims’ faces. No matter how many times she saw evidence of abuse it always struck her afresh. She clicked through the photos again. Natalie had mentioned she was aware of the dangerous working conditions of some of the mineworkers and then had brought up the Ghost Soldiers.
What if there’s more involved than just the exploitation of workers …
Gabby rubbed her temple. What had Natalie meant? Was there a connection between her research and the Ghost Soldiers? Patrick Seko’s explanation had made sense, but what if the missing villagers had nothing to do with nomadic practices and were instead victims of violent mercenaries? Like the photos suggested.
Picking up her cell phone, she punched in Natalie’s number. The phone rang a half dozen times, then switched to voice mail. She clicked open the next e-mail while waiting to leave a message.
Her heart froze.
“Drop the story. It’s not worth your life.”
Gabby clicked the phone shut and reread the message. No subject line. No sender information. Tracing the author would be impossible due to remailers who stripped e-mail messages of all electronic ties. She pressed her hands against the desk and tried to breathe, wondering what exactly it was that she’d stumbled on to.