35

Connor peered through the undergrowth at the rebels’ camp. In the pale light of a waning moon, he spotted several guards patrolling the perimeter, their weapons slung lazily over their shoulders. The rest of General Pascal’s soldiers were gathered around glaringly bright kerosene lamps, playing cards, joking and laughing. A row of canvas tents formed the center of the camp from which hip-hop music blared out of a portable speaker, the heavy beat pulsating through the valley. Farther downstream, fires dotted the ravaged banks of the river where clusters of enslaved workers lay exhausted beneath ragged canvas shelters.

That was where Henri would most likely be. If he was still alive.

The hours to dusk had been the longest Connor had ever experienced in his lifetime. The image of Henri being beaten and forced to work while fighting for breath had played over and over in his mind. But he knew that striding into the rebels’ camp in broad daylight would have been tantamount to signing their own death warrants. So they’d descended partway back down the hillside to bide their time, Zuzu cooking the dik-dik straight on the embers of an open fire for an early dinner while Amber sat silent, her knees clasped to her chest.

As soon as the sun had dropped below the horizon, the three of them returned to the hilltop, then worked their way down into the hidden valley. Zuzu had been careful to avoid any rebel lookouts, a task made easier as the light rapidly faded. But this also meant the jungle trails were now pitch-black, making the route treacherous underfoot, and Connor doubted they’d have reached the bottom of the valley without Zuzu to guide them.

“Can you see Henri?” whispered Amber, who crouched next to Connor in the darkness, Zuzu on his other side.

Connor shook his head. “Stay here. I’ll find him.”

“Don’t forget this,” said Amber, passing him the inhaler. As he took it from her, she gave his hand an anxious squeeze.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I’ll get him back, I promise.”

As he was rising, Zuzu tapped him on the shoulder and signed for him to wait. Scooping up some mud, she smeared his face and arms until his skin was all but blackened. “Camouflage,” she whispered.

“Good thinking,” he replied.

Connor waited for a guard to go by, then crept from the cover of the bushes and into the rebels’ camp. His heart raced as he clambered down the riverbank. With nothing to hide him but the moonlit darkness and his improvised camouflage, Connor felt very exposed and prayed he wouldn’t be spotted. The riverbed was a patchwork of puddles and pits, loose gravel and thick mud. His boots sank into the soft ground, slowing his progress, and he was still making his way across when a boy soldier suddenly appeared on the opposite bank. Connor dropped into a shallow pit, flattening himself in the dirt as the boy approached. The rebel stopped only a few feet away from where Connor was hiding.

Had the boy seen him?

Connor pressed himself farther into the earth, his heart in his mouth as he waited for the alarm to be raised or a gun to be put to his head. A still-glowing cigarette butt landed by his face, ashes spurting into his eyes. Connor tried not to cough as acrid smoke wafted up his nostrils. Blinking away the ash, he glanced up, half expecting to see the boy’s face leering down at him, but all he could hear was the splash of water as the soldier relieved himself before heading back along the bank to rejoin his companions.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Connor crawled out of the pit. Crouching low, he darted up the bank and over to a pile of earth near the workers’ encampment. It was truly hell on earth. The flickering fires illuminated the haggard faces of men and children, half dead from exhaustion and hunger, their eyes sunken and their cheeks hollow. The smell of stale sweat from days of hard labor was thick in the air, along with the stench of human waste from the nearby bushes.

Connor ducked down as another guard strolled past. For no apparent reason, the soldier kicked one of the sleeping workers in the gut. As his victim groaned in shock and pain, the soldier walked off, chuckling to himself. Connor realized more than ever that he had to get Henri out. The boy wouldn’t last another day under such treatment.

He finally spotted Henri, slightly apart from the other men at the back of one of the shelters. He was curled up in the fetal position, his body trembling like a leaf, his strained wheezing for breath cutting through the ragged snores of the other workers.

Silently Connor crept around, keeping to the shadows and away from the light of the fires. Kneeling beside Henri, he placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder and a finger to his lips. Henri flinched and his eyes widened in horror.

“It’s me, Connor,” he whispered, realizing his camouflaged face must look nightmarish to the poor traumatized boy.

“They said . . . you were dead,” he rasped.

“Well, I’m not. And neither is your sister.”

It took a moment for this to sink in, and then Henri managed a weak smile. Connor produced the inhaler and helped Henri with it. After a minute or so, his breathing hadn’t eased, so he administered two more doses until gradually the wheezing subsided. Although Henri needed more time to recover, Connor couldn’t risk delaying much longer. A guard could pass by at any second.

“Can you walk?” he whispered.

Henri nodded. As Connor pulled him into a sitting position, one of the workers opened his eyes and looked directly at them. Connor froze, waiting to see what the man’s reaction would be.

“C’est mon ami,” Henri explained.

The man winked, as if to say their secret was safe with him, and closed his eyes again.

Henri winced as Connor dragged him to his feet.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, putting on a brave face.

Connor could feel the crisscross of raised welts that the bamboo cane had inflicted upon his body and realized that Henri must be in excruciating pain. Admiring the boy’s courage, he gently placed Henri’s arm over his shoulder and helped him toward the river. As they stumbled through the dug-out pits and waterlogged ditches, Connor glanced back to make sure there were no guards in sight. Thankfully the rebels still appeared to be absorbed in their card games. Helping Henri up the opposite bank, Connor knew they were going to make it.

They were almost within reach of the cover of the bushes when there was a shout. All of a sudden flashlight beams cut through the darkness like swords. More shouts broke out, and for a moment Connor believed they’d been spotted.

But the alarm hadn’t been raised for them.

Farther upstream Amber was being frog-marched into the rebel camp at gunpoint.