52

“The Black Mamba poisoned! How apt,” remarked Major General Tabu Baratuza with a deep rumbling laugh, his French translated a second later in Connor’s new earpiece. “Let it not be said that justice isn’t served in Africa.”

There was a ripple of appreciative laughter among the guests assembled in the Burundian presidential palace’s ornate ballroom. The expansive hall was brimming with politicians, foreign dignitaries, well-to-do businessmen and their accompanying wives, all gathered to celebrate the inauguration of Adrien Rawasa, the former minister for energy and mines, as the new president of Burundi.

“So what’s Michel Feruzi’s punishment going to be?” asked Gaspard Sibomana, the newly appointed minister for trade and tourism. “Death by eating?”

The guests laughed heartily.

Ambassador Laurent Barbier and his family did not. Less than a week since their escape, the ambush and its fallout was still too raw for them.

“How can they joke about such things?” said Cerise bitterly. Whereas her husband appeared relatively unscathed as a result of the car crash, Cerise now bore a slight limp and still wore dressings on her arms where she’d been badly burned in the vehicle fire.

“Death is all too familiar in Africa,” explained Colonel Black. “If they don’t laugh about it, the only other option is to cry. And that’s not in the nature of these people.”

“But who’d have believed Feruzi was a traitor?” said Laurent with a sorrowful shake of his head. “After the wonderful work we’d accomplished together on the park, I considered him one of my friends. All I can say is that I’m very glad I hired your services, Colonel. If it weren’t for Connor here, we’d be mourning today, not celebrating.”

“I expected nothing less of him,” declared Colonel Black, glancing at Connor. “He’s his father’s son to the core.”

For Connor that was high commendation indeed, and he felt a swell of pride at being compared to his father. Colonel Black didn’t need to say any more to express his deep regard for Connor’s accomplishments. The colonel was a man of action, not words. He’d been the first to board the plane when they’d landed in Bujumbura to check on Connor, before organizing the group’s swift transfer to a private health clinic for immediate medical treatment. And while Connor was being treated for his wounds and recuperating in the days that followed, the colonel had been a constant presence on the ward.

Cerise leaned forward and kissed Connor lightly on both cheeks. “Merci, merci,” she said. “You kept our children safe. You’ll always be welcome at our home in Paris, Connor.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Barbier, that’s very kind of you,” he replied. “After all we’ve been through together, Henri, Amber and I have certainly become close friends.”

Henri stood by his mother’s side, the red welts across his arms and body mostly faded; although Connor suspected the memory of his beating would leave a mental scar. Henri smiled shyly up at Connor, then hugged him hard around the waist. “Can’t you protect us forever?”

Connor ruffled his hair. “You’re going home, Henri. No one’s going to hurt you there.”

“But I’m still scared,” he admitted quietly. Then he rummaged in his pocket. “I almost forgot. Your watch.”

He passed Connor the Rangeman, still barely a scratch on its face.

“No, it’s yours,” said Connor, pushing it back into his hand, realizing the boy needed his birthday gift more than he did. “Any time you feel scared, just put it on.”

Henri gratefully clasped his gift. “I will,” he said.

Amber stepped forward and took Connor’s hand. She stared at him a moment, her green eyes as striking as ever but now more wary and world-wise since her ordeal with the rebels. Her lustrous red hair brushed against his face as she kissed him warmly on both cheeks, lingering a little longer than necessary. She clearly wanted to express her true feelings for him but felt restricted by the presence of her parents. “You’ll always have a place in my heart,” she whispered, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go.

As Laurent and his family were called away to meet with a contingent of reporters, Connor and Colonel Black hung back, keeping a low profile. Then a wheelchair rolled unexpectedly into the ballroom and Connor stared in astonishment.

“Gunner!” he exclaimed, hurrying over. “I didn’t think we’d see you out of the hospital so soon.”

“In Africa only the strong survive,” replied the ranger, his chest heavily bandaged and his voice even more gravelly than before. “And you are definitely a lion.”

Connor was honored by such a comparison. “What does that make you, then?”

“At the moment, a sloth!” He winked at the young nurse pushing his wheelchair. “But I’ll soon be back on my feet.”

“Joseph Gunner, I assume?” said Colonel Black, striding over to introduce himself. “Colonel Douglas Black, Connor’s . . . guardian. You were unconscious when we first met, but I want to thank you for helping rescue him and the Barbier family.”

Gunner laughed, then winced in pain. “It was Connor who saved me in the end! You have a remarkable boy there.”

“Yes, I know,” replied the colonel. “In fact I want to talk to you about that. Connor’s spoken well of you, and I have a proposition you may be interested in.”

“Well, I’m all ears, Colonel,” replied Gunner. “In my current state I’m not exactly inundated with work.”

“If you’ll excuse us, Connor,” said the colonel, inviting the ranger to join him in a side chamber off the ballroom. “Gunner, I’m looking for a man I can trust to teach survival skills to some other young guardians of mine.”

“Sounds interesting. Tell me more . . .”

As Colonel Black pushed the ranger’s wheelchair toward the room to discuss his proposal in private, Gunner looked back over his shoulder and called to Connor. “Just remember: it doesn’t matter whether you are a lion or a gazelle; when the sun comes up, you’d better be running.”

Connor laughed. He’d had quite enough of running for a while and was looking forward to the relatively quiet life of overseeing an operation from the safety of Guardian HQ. He helped himself to a fancy chicken skewer from a passing waiter and was wondering where Amber was when a finger gently tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to find himself face-to-face with the new Burundian president.

“I just wished to personally express my appreciation for ensuring the safe return of the Barbier children,” said President Rawasa, his tone surprisingly soft and delicate for a man now in charge of a whole country. “It would have been a tragic outcome with serious international repercussions for our nation if they had not survived. In fact, I don’t know how you made it out of that valley alive.”

“We were very fortunate,” replied Connor, “and were helped by Zuzu, the girl from a local Batwa tribe.”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I must not forget her either.”

As President Rawasa lightly shook his hand, Connor caught a strong scent of fine French musk cologne emanating from the president. The distinctive smell instantly transported Connor back to the hidden valley and the mysterious stranger who’d stood just beyond the light of the kerosene lamps. Connor had assumed it had been the white man from the burning tanker. But he’d smelled the exact same aroma the first time he’d been introduced to Adrien Rawasa at the safari lodge. And how many other men in this country wore such an expensive and particular cologne?

“Anything wrong?” asked President Rawasa with an inquiring smile.

Connor shook his head. “No, not at all. I just remembered I have to tell the colonel something.”