Chapter Twenty-Seven
The boat skimmed across the water for several miles in silence, the landscape flashing by in a tangle of dark trees and the occasional tiny village perched precariously on the river’s edge. Comfortable in Jean-Luc’s arms and safe for the moment, Claire started to doze until the boat’s speed changed. She sat up. Marcus turned off the main river at one of the creeks and pulled into another hidden lagoon. He shut down the engine and tied them to another mangrove.
They had to be close to a refinery. The air smelled faintly of oil and in the distance, flares lit the inky sky with columns of orange flames.
At least it had finally stopped raining.
“We’ll rest here for the night,” Marcus said. “It’s getting late, and I don’t want to draw attention to the boat.”
Jean-Luc nodded. “Get some shuteye, mon ami. I’ll take first watch.”
“I’m good with that.” Marcus sat down with his back to the dashboard and dragged one of the rucksacks over to him. He unrolled the second sleeping bag and tucked it around his shoulders. “See you in an hour.”
Claire snuggled in beside Jean-Luc again. His shirt had ridden up, and her hand touched bare skin, fingertips brushing over a puckered scar on his stomach. She’d noticed it before, but it hadn’t been her priority while he was sick. But now, in the dark and quiet, she wondered. She lightly traced her fingers over the pink star-shaped mark and he squirmed like it tickled.
“Did this happen in Martinique?” she asked softly. “When you tried to help Tiffany?”
He stopped her hand and lifted it to his lips. “It’s why I wasn’t able to come find you sooner.”
Emotion swamped her, so overwhelming it made her a little dizzy. To cover it, she managed a little smile. “Correction: I found you.”
His grin was as slow and lazy as his Cajun drawl. “Mais, yeah, cher. You did. You did.”
“I never thanked you for trying to help her.”
“Shh.” He soothed a hand over the top of her hair, which was a damp, knotted mess from the rain. “No, please don’t. She saved me, you know?”
“How? I thought she was shot when the hostage situation began. I saw her body in the lobby.” She looked up at him, waited for him to answer. He didn’t say anything for several long minutes.
“Tiffany was shot in the lobby, but she was alive.” He stared out across the water at the flares. “I got her out of there, but we were both badly injured and holed up in one of the hotel rooms. I was unconscious and would’ve died with a bullet between the eyes without ever realizing what had happened. I’m told by the people who were there that she realized she wasn’t going to survive her injuries, and sacrificed herself to draw attention away from me. She screamed at her killer before he shot her. The sound woke me up, and I was able to get out. I sometimes still hear her scream in my sleep.”
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the edge of the boat. “It wasn’t words, but it was so full of rage it might as well have been a ‘fuck you.’” He gave a faint smile. “I think we’d have been great friends.”
Claire sniffled and pressed her hot face into his shoulder. “Oh, yes. Tiffany would have liked you very much.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to save her. Or Sunday. I know they meant a lot to you.”
“They did. Sunday was my oldest friend.” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “And Tiffany and I were sisters in every way but genetics.” Her arms tightened around him. “At least by saving you, she gave me a gift before she died.”
“A gift, huh?” Again, she heard his smile in his voice as he nuzzled her ear. “Am I more a box of chocolates or a bouquet of roses?”
“You’re a Chia Pet,” Marcus said, his eyes still closed. “The gift nobody asks for, but always gets.”
Without missing a beat, Jean-Luc shot back, “No, that’s you, Curly-Q. I’m as sleek as a pampered house cat.”
Claire looked back and forth between the two of them and burst out laughing. “Oh, God. You two are like an old married couple.”
“Alas, I asked him once,” Jean-Luc said wistfully, “but he turned me down.”
“You didn’t have a ring,” Marcus said. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, but his lips curved with amusement. “You can’t propose without a ring, dumbass.”
She laughed until her sides hurt and tears streamed down her cheeks. The guys were probably trying to take her mind off all the horror of the last few hours. She needed a release from the pressure of all the emotion building up inside her, and the laughter helped. Only it didn’t last. The giggles grew hysterical and then morphed into sobs.
“Oh, cher.” Jean-Luc scooped her up and cradled her on his lap until she finally sobbed herself into oblivion.
…
For a long time after Claire drifted to sleep, the only sounds were the lapping of water against their boat and the occasional whoosh of a gas flare somewhere nearby on land.
“Hell of a night,” Marcus said softly, breaking the silence.
Jean-Luc combed his fingers through her hair. She still had dried tears streaking her pale face, but she didn’t look as haunted now. That was good. She needed a bit of quiet. “They were after her.”
“Yeah. Think Defion was behind the militant attack?”
“I have no doubt. They weren’t going to risk infection by going in after her and needed to flush her out. What better way than paying off the friendly neighborhood militant group?”
“Well, we can’t hide here forever. The way I see it,” Marcus said and held up two fingers, “we have two options. One, we can go thirty-some miles upriver to Port Harcourt.”
“And risk running into more militants or Defion.”
“True, but it’s the closest population center. From there we could catch a flight to Lagos where Tuc owns a hotel.”
Martinique had been one of Quentin’s hotels. Fat lot of good it’d done there. “I don’t like it. Too much risk.”
A pause. “Since when have you been averse to risk, Cajun?”
Since he started caring for someone more than himself. He held Claire closer and glared across the boat at Marcus. “We gotta get her out of Nigeria.”
“Uh-huh.” Marcus dragged out the word, and said nothing else for several long minutes. Then he sighed. “The other option is riskier if you ask me. Bioko Island is, give or take, one hundred and eighty kilometers southwest of here. A three-to-four-hour boat ride. We have enough fuel to make it.”
“Hold up, mon ami. Bioko Island? Isn’t that part of Equatorial Guinea?”
“Yup. Malabo is the next largest population center in the area with an airport.”
“Merde. No, that’s not an option. We have no intel, no money, no local assets. We step foot in that country and we’ll definitely be detained. Don’t know about you, but I don’t want to see the inside of their prison system when they’re consistently one of the worst human rights violators on the planet.”
Marcus held up his hands. “Hey, dude, you wanted another option. I gave you the two I see.”
Jean-Luc rubbed a hand over his jaw. The beard he had yet to shave scratched at his abraded palm. “We’ll have to risk the river to Port Harcourt. There’s no other choice.”