“Stop being a child,” he scolded himself. He let the barrel of his AK-47 fall to the ground, as if lowering his weapon were a statement to the night that he would not be cowed. “Two more hours and then you can sleep.” At least he had not drawn middle watch, so he would have six uninterrupted hours of rest. He was ready. The stress of the day had sapped him of his energy.
He closed his eyes and, for a moment, let the fatigue wash over him. It would be so easy to fall asleep standing here.
The underbrush nearby rustled and his eyes snapped open. What was that? He turned and took a few steps in the direction from which the sound had some, straining to see.
Another flash of movement, this time off to his left, lightning fast. He raised his rifle but saw nothing at which he could take aim. Nor did he hear anything. What in the name of Allah?
As he stood there, heart drumming, the stories came back. Campfire tales, meant to frighten young children, echoed in his mind. The spirits of the dead gathered in valleys like this one, waiting for a moonless night. Waiting to rise.
Movement to his right. There and gone.
“Who’s there?” He hated the plaintive tone that saturated his words with fear. He cleared his throat, steeled himself, and tried again, this time stronger. “Show yourself.”
Nothing.
“You can’t wake the others and tell them spirits have invaded our camp,” he whispered. “Move your feet.”
Step by laborious step, he moved out beyond the ring of tents. His finger brushed the trigger of his rifle. How he longed to fire, to pierce the darkness, shred the silence. But not until he had a target.
Beyond the tents, he began a slow circle around the perimeter, all the while keeping the center tent in the corner of his vision. The prisoners were bound tightly and weren’t going anywhere, but they were his responsibility until his watch ended.
As he walked, he cursed his superstition and his fear. He was a soldier of Allah, a warrior for the cause. What had he to fear when God was on his side?
By the time he completed his circuit around the camp, seeing nothing, his nerves had settled and he returned to his guard position with a renewed sense of confidence. He was not afraid of shadows in the night.
He drew back the tent flap and peered inside. Three pairs of eyes stared back at him, and the fear he saw there added fuel to the nascent fire of his renewed courage. He was not a pathetic creature such as these. He was a soldier. He bared his teeth, enjoying the way the girl flinched and the man thrashed against his bonds. Weak. All of them.
He turned back to face the night and his smile melted. There, in the dim light that filtered through the clouds, stood a distinctive silhouette.
A lioness.
She sat there on her haunches, head slightly tilted, and gazed at him like a house cat waiting for a bowl of cream. A sudden warmth ran down the inside of his thigh and he took a step back. “Go!” he hissed. Yet the lioness remained still. “Get out of here,” he gasped, struggling to hold his rifle steady. “Go away.”
The longer he stood there, soaking in his own urine and his shame, the angrier he grew. This creature had made no move. Clearly, she posed no threat to him, but she deserved to die all the same.
He looked down the shaking barrel of his rifle, struggling to take aim.
He didn’t see the second lion until its jaws closed around his throat.
The only thing Douglas Schrader could do now was pray. From the moment the terrorists had surrounded them he’d been helpless to do anything else to stop them. He’d watched in impotent rage as the devils had taunted his family, tormented them. They’d poked and prodded the women with their knives, threatened in heavily accented English to cut off various body parts and make Schrader eat them. And when they weren’t making threats, they were casting lascivious grins at his daughter. Every time they did so, they turned to him and raised their eyebrows, as if to ask, “What are you going to do about it?”
Why was this happening to them? They were doing God’s work, yet God had forsaken them. A dark pool of despair welled up inside him as he assessed the situation for what seemed like the thousandth time. He was bound, unarmed, and hopelessly lost. He could only hope for a miracle.
The tent flap opened and one of the guards peered in. Schrader twisted, fighting at his bonds, but failed to break free. Beside him, Melanie let out a fearful whimper. The guard smiled, turned, and closed the tent.
Moments dragged past, and over the roaring in his ears, Schrader heard a voice. He heard it again. Then a surprised cry. And then nothing.
He waited.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the tent opened again. This time, a different man peered inside.
“Where is Hassan?”
Schrader had no idea which one Hassan was, much less what had happened to him. He just sat there, glaring at his captor, held fast by his bonds and his utter helplessness.
“Never mind. We are almost ready for you.” The man held up a machete, the dim light glinting on its curved blade. His eyes locked with Schrader’s and then he drew a finger across his own throat. “Such is the fate of infidels,” he growled.
Schrader’s insides turned to water and his head began to spin. He wondered if the devils would record it for posterity, release it to the world, perhaps. At least he’d die a martyr — that would be something. Kill me but spare my family, he prayed. It’s my fault they’re here. Let them go.
Melanie had not missed the man’s threat. She began to sob loudly. Schrader tried to meet her eye, to give her a reassuring look, but he hadn’t the strength. It was all he could do to remain upright. He kept his focus on the open tent flap and the back of the machete-wielding man.
And then a tawny blur flashed across his field of vision and the man was gone.
Surprised cries rose outside and figures began running to and fro. He saw more flashes of lightning-fast movement and then heard a burst of gunfire. Somewhere close by, but out of his field of vision, he heard a cry of fear suddenly squelched in a gurgled gasp, and then, to his utter amazement, he watched as a lioness backed past the tent flap, dragging a limp man. Her jaws were clamped tightly just beneath the base of her victim’s skull.
He felt a moment of exultation at the grisly sight. Perhaps this was the miracle he had been praying for. And then a new thought struck him. If lions were attacking the camp, how long before they found their way into the tent?
As if in response to his thought, he heard a tearing sound. He turned to see a knife blade slicing through the back wall of the tent. What in the name of all that was holy? That was certainly no lion, and any of their captors would come in through the front door.
Alice had awakened, and she and Melanie scooted over to huddle against Schrader. As they watched, two hands parted the tent wall and a familiar head poked inside. It was the blond man from the lodge! What was his name?
“Shipman?” he rasped.
“Actually, it’s Maddock,” the blond man said, “but that’s not important right now.” He stepped inside the tent, deftly sliced their bonds, and then motioned for them to follow him. Holding hands with Alice and Melanie, Schrader stepped out into the cool night air. He couldn’t believe his good fortune, but he knew it wasn’t over yet. They still had to get away from the kidnappers…and the lions.
“Do you know about the lions?” Schrader whispered. “They’re attacking the camp.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ve got it under control. Just stay with me.”
Behind them, more gunfire split the night. Schrader stole a glance over his shoulder but could see little. He prayed no one was following them. The way before them began to rise, and he turned and focused his attention on what lay in front of him. Snatches of moonlight filtered through low-hanging storm clouds, shining down on the slope that lay before them.