22

Connor and Amber trudged through the brush in silence, heading south once more. Flies buzzed incessantly around them and the sun beat down, its punishing heat unrelenting. They heard gunshots somewhere in the distance, impelling them onward. As they dragged their feet through the long grass, hunger sapping at their strength with every step, their thirst intensified. But without the LifeStraw they didn’t dare drink untreated water from the river, afraid not just of crocodiles but of getting sick.

The only items Connor now possessed were his Rangeman watch—still unblemished; his night-vision sunglasses—a little bent and scratched but serviceable; and his father’s knife. He’d cut away the excess fabric of the go-bag, leaving the body-armor panel with its straps as a wearable shield in case they encountered the gunmen again.

Everything else had been lost—even hope.

But, spurred on by his father’s words, Connor had eventually willed his battered body to rise and begin the long trek across the burning-hot savannah. As he put one weary foot in front of the other, his father’s advice became a mantra in his head—never give in, never give up, never give in, never give up . . .

If they could only reach the lodge, their ordeal would be over. For me, at least, thought Connor as he glanced back at Amber.

Her head bowed and her hair hanging like a veil across her tearstained face, Amber’s spirit was all but broken. Only Connor’s dogged insistence that they keep going, that they not let the gunmen catch them or become carrion for the vultures, impelled her to move. But she was like a zombie, her eyes unfocused, back stooped and arms hanging loose, just shuffling along near the point of collapse.

Connor knew he looked equally battered. Their fraught escape through jungle, bush and river had taken its toll. With his tattered muddy clothes, innumerable cuts and scrapes, and half-loping gait caused by the painful gash in his side, he would be barely recognizable to his friends in Alpha team. However, the promise of water, food and medical assistance at the lodge kept his spirits up.

Emerging from the brush into a clearing, Connor checked the bearing on his compass watch to ensure they were still on track. As he looked up to gauge their next landmark, he found himself face-to-face with a buffalo.

The solitary bull glared at them from the other side of the clearing. The size of a small car and built like a tank, the buffalo was terrifying in its sheer barrel-shaped bulk, the massive curved horns almost three feet across. Flies scattered in a buzzing black cloud as the bull snorted angrily and shook its colossal head.

Drawing Amber closer to him, Connor took a cautious step back. Confronted by one of the most unpredictable and dangerous animals in Africa, they couldn’t afford to provoke it in any way.

The old bull stamped a hoof, kicking up dust. Then, before they could retreat any farther, it released another explosive snort, lowered its head and charged.

Connor stood his ground, shielding Amber behind him. He simply didn’t have the energy to run. And there were no trees close enough for them to climb out of danger anyway. His only defense was to show no fear in the face of the oncoming bull and pray it was a mock charge.

But the buffalo continued to thunder toward them like a runaway truck, its nostrils flaring, its battering ram of hardened bone targeted on Connor. They’d done nothing to antagonize the animal. But the beast seemed incensed.

Amber clung to him, too afraid to flee and too traumatized to cry out.

Connor squeezed his eyes shut as the bull bore down on them. He could hear the pounding hooves churning up the dirt and tensed in expectation of the bone-crushing impact. He tried not to imagine the crippling pain of being tossed high in the air, a bag of broken bones, or being gored by one of its horns and trampled to death.

His last act as bodyguard was to shove Amber aside.

Then a gunshot rang out, followed by two more in quick succession.

The buffalo was stopped in its tracks and Connor heard a heavy whomp as its mighty body hit the earth. On opening his eyes he was enveloped in a cloud of red dust. As the dust settled, the bull’s head appeared inches from Connor’s feet, blood streaming from several bullet holes on its neck, shoulder and flank. Its tongue lolled out and its eyes glazed over as the beast let out one final snort and succumbed to death.

Connor barely had time to register this when a voice with a slight Germanic accent barked, “What the heck are you two kids doing out here alone?”

From a dense thicket strode a white man in an olive-green shirt and knee-length shorts. Stocky, with a severe crew cut and gray-tinged beard, he was reloading a high-caliber bolt-action rifle fitted with a telescopic sight. In his wake trailed a thin black man wearing an earth-brown T-shirt and army surplus pants, shouldering a canvas pack.

Connor helped Amber to her feet. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Amber nodded.

“You could have been killed!” snapped the white man, inspecting the floored buffalo. Satisfied it was dead, he looked them up and down in wonder and horror. “My God, what happened to you?”

Judging by the man’s attitude and appearance, he wasn’t one of the rebels, and Connor felt safe enough to lower his guard and explain: “Our safari convoy”—he coughed, his throat dry and hoarse with dust—“was ambushed by gunmen yesterday.”

“What gunmen are these?” asked the white man, offering Connor a hip flask of water.

Connor gulped down several mouthfuls before passing the flask to Amber to have the lion’s share. The water revived him and he felt some of his strength return. “Rebel soldiers. Boys too. Possibly they’re the ANL, led by a man known as the Black Mamba.”

Both men’s faces darkened at the mention of the rebel leader’s name.

“We’ve been on the run ever since,” Connor continued. “My friend here is the daughter of the French diplomat on an official goodwill visit to the park. We believe her parents, along with President Bagaza, have been murdered. So too has her little brother. We need to contact the authorities immediately.”

With a pitying look at Amber, the white man nodded gravely. “This is serious.”

He said some words to his companion in a language Connor didn’t understand but presumed was the local dialect of Kirundi. The black man nodded and hurried off into the bush.

“You’re lucky you ran into us,” said the white man, turning back to them. “Listen, our camp isn’t far from here. Come with me. We’ll get you fed, watered and patched up. Then we’ll sort this out.”

Both Connor and Amber almost collapsed with relief.

Against all the odds, they’d been saved.