Chapter One
NAWAKA, AFRICA
“Move!”
The harsh command reverberated through Belle Winkworth-Jones, causing her already pounding heart to skitter with renewed fear. She tightened her hand around the arm of the old man beside her, anxious to communicate reassurance.
“Not long now, Father,” she urged the priest, silently willing him to walk faster while keeping herself between him and the soldier behind them.
Anxiously, she glanced over her shoulder and past their grim-eyed guard at the other two captives—Edda and Hendrik Morgensen—and breathed a little easier to see them keeping up.
The guerrillas marched them relentlessly through the night, not stopping until dawn tinged the inky blackness of the dense African jungle. As if aware of the danger that lurked nearby, the critters and creatures of the night fell into silence at their approach. Only the distant hoot of an owl echoed eerily above the canopied treetops.
By the time they stopped to make camp, Belle could barely place one foot in front of the other.
After five days of the same, she now knew the routine by heart. Their captors handed out small pieces of the stale, near-molded bread made from coarse corn flour. After they ate, she and the three other hostages would be tied up around the trunk of a large baobab tree or a large rock, where they would stay shaded from the harsh September sun until close to dusk. Then the punishing journey would recommence.
She’d stopped asking what their captors intended to do with them; her demands had so far fallen on deaf ears. For the most part, the guerrillas were silent, preferring to let the deadly threat of their weapons do the talking for them. Nothing urged a person to walk faster or shut up better than having the business end of a machine gun aimed at them, she’d discovered.
But she had a fair idea where they were headed. Even though she’d only heard whispers of where his camp was located, the rebel leader who controlled this part of Nawaka was well known. Some spoke of him with fear, others with reverence.
Right at that moment, the emotion that burned in Belle’s stomach stemmed from neither. The rebels’ treatment of them, especially old Father Tom, only caused anger to swell in her chest.
Recognizing the futility of her fury, she squashed it down, finished her bread, and slumped against a large boulder in the small clearing they’d been brought to. The throbbing pain in her bleeding feet and wrists echoed through her body, but she ignored it. She also ignored the cramping in her abdomen. She would worry about that particular problem later.
She glanced at Father Tom. The aging missionary had hurled himself so bravely in front of her when the rebels had invaded their mission camp and had taken her and the Dutch couple—her fellow volunteers at the mission-run relief camp—hostage. Guilt and worry replaced her anger. Because of her, he’d also been thrown into the back of the armored truck along with them.
She went to him and held out the water bottle the rebels had surprisingly let her keep. “Drink,” she said softly, knowing they only had a short amount of time before they would be tied up. Dehydration was a reality they’d learned to live with since their capture. Temperatures soared well into the hundreds during the day, the humid atmosphere made all the more unbearable by the density of the forest. Water was also a scarce commodity, so the constant fear that they’d succumb to the life-threatening condition was ever-present.
He took a drink and handed it back. She took a small gulp, careful to ration the water she’d replenished at a shallow waterhole they’d passed the night before. Wiping the back of her near-calloused hand across her mouth, she put the bottle away, her eyes on the old man.
“Are you all right?” She indicated the side of his head, which still bled, albeit lightly, from when he’d fallen earlier.
“Och, I’m fine, lass. ’Tis just a scratch. Anyway, I’ll soon be back at the mission.” His Scottish brogue hadn’t diminished, even after thirty-five years in Africa.
She suppressed the hysterical laughter that bubbled up in her throat. Father Tom Campbell had repeated this assurance for the past five days. Just how he hoped to evade the fifteen rebel soldiers who guarded them remained a mystery to her.
So far he hadn’t tried anything stupid. She’d prayed his belief they would soon be back at their missionary outpost was spiritual rather than wishful thinking. But today she caught a disturbing glint in his eyes, one that made her uneasy.
She looked over her shoulder and counted seven of the soldiers disappearing back into the jungle. Scanning the immediate vicinity to make sure the remaining rebels wouldn’t overhear them, she crouched down and leaned toward the old man.
“Father, I hope you’re not planning anything crazy, because you know these men won’t tolerate it. Besides, I need you to look after me, so please promise me you’ll do as they say,” she pleaded with him, unashamed to play the helpless damsel just this once if it meant keeping him safe.
He waved her concerns away. “Ah, lass. No harm will come to you, not while I’m around. I’m not going anywhere without you. But soon we’ll be going home.”
“I’m sorry, Father, but I think you’re wrong. We’ve been heading east since yesterday,” she whispered. “I…I think we’re near the border, approaching the leader’s camp. There are bound to be more of his men around, so please, don’t do anything rash.”
Father Tom shook his head. “I know it in my heart, and I can feel it in these old bones, we’re going home within the week. Rest easy. You’ll be back with those you love soon. I’m sure there’s someone special waiting for a bonny girl like you.”