She watched her intruder, an elderly woman, the hotel maid, slowly and cautiously creep around her room. She was frail and moved like a ghost, being careful not to touch anything while her strong beady eyes scoured over Macy’s belongings.

Macy felt only a little relieved that it wasn’t the tall, gun-toting shape from the decoy room. If it had been, she would have already popped off a kill shot from behind the shower curtain. Now Macy only watched through a small hole she’d ripped through it. Her porthole.

An elderly maid seemed innocent enough, but Macy knew better than to loosen her grip on the Beretta. She knew better than to trust appearances. So far, through her travels in Africa, expecting the unexpected had saved her life more than once. The laundromat worker in Calabar who tried to lure her to the back room where her clothes had somehow disappeared to. The bus driver in Cameron who took too long talking to the traffic cop. And while she wasn’t worried about the maid being strapped, she watched with suspicion as the maid’s spindly fingers carefully probed through the contents of her purse. The woman moved with the sureness of a seasoned criminal. But this was more than a simple theft. It was someone ordering her to find Macy Chandler’s passport.

The maid still got the money, though. That, along with a driver’s license, the woman pulling it out and reading it in the lamplight. Macy knew better than to leave her passport anywhere but her front pocket. She’d already felt stranded as it was.

The countdown started as soon as the maid left the room. There would be a small window of opportunity, not too soon after she’d left, but not too late, either. Macy tried to imagine the maid walking back downstairs to the office, how long it would take for the hallway and the flight of stairs with the foul-smelling carpet. By the time she imagined her tip-off girl returning to her desk, Macy had packed up her small collection of things and bolted out the door. She needed to get the fuck out of Luanda.

Macy had almost forgotten how hot and humid the nights were at the sweltering seaside city. She’d almost forgotten the narrow and dark streets surrounding the hotel. They were more like alleys, but with a constant flow of two-way traffic. Cars, scooters, pedestrians walking in the middle. There were no lanes. No sense of order, just everyone drifting somewhere at their own pace and by their own set of rules.

A rule Macy had set for herself was to never be on the streets after dark unless it was absolutely necessary. It turned out, fleeing a deathtrap hotel met that criteria. Another necessity was to pay the old man to keep an eye on his phone, and to haul ass to her location if she’d contacted him. Kick out whatever fare he’d had at the time. She’d paid him decently. But it went beyond money.

They met in Soyo, an oil town several hours north along the coast. He had a head of white curls that dipped around his chin. It helped with the impression of a kindly grandfather. He’d acted that way, too, taking what seemed to be a genuine liking for the lost American. He wasn’t fooled by Macy’s tanned skin and her attempts to dress local: ripped jeans and a Nike shirt. He knew from the jump that she was an American, and that she was in trouble.

“Jy is nie Angolese,” he’d said right away in a heavy Afrikaans dialect. “En jy is nie toeriste.”

Translation: She was neither a local nor a tourist.

“Jy kort hulp,” he’d said.

Translation: She needed help.

And then the old man proceeded to laugh his ass off.

She didn’t completely trust the man. She didn’t completely trust anyone. But he seemed nice, and potentially useful. They’d talked a bit in choppy Afrikaans on the drive south to Luanda. He passed a few tests that way. And when they’d stop, she would get out and watch him from the windows of service stations. He’d pass a few more tests, and then Macy could know that he could at least be a paid getaway driver—at least for two nights. Any longer than that, someone might “get to him” . . .

She found his beat-up Honda parked behind the hotel. It was next to a row of shipping containers, sitting in deep shadows. She couldn’t make up her mind if the lack of any light was good or bad.

Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat. There was no light to glisten against his white curls. No way of knowing who was waiting for her.

Macy’s hand was at her holster as she approached from behind. She gave four small knocks on the trunk lid, and then waited behind, safe in cover of the car’s rear end.

Nothing happened.

She drew her gun and knocked again, her arm reaching up and over and then slipping back down into safety. She waited again for the signal. The old man was supposed to lean across and open the passenger-side door. But he did nothing.

Macy, still squatting, waddled around to the passenger side and reached up to the rear side door handle. It lifted, the door swung out, and she stood and pointed the gun at the back of the driver’s head.

Nothing.

The interior light had flicked on when she opened the door, the white curls now visible. She lowered the gun and said his name. His head stayed resting against the frame of the car. She said his name again and then waited for him to wake. He didn’t. Behind her, there was the noise of a scooter, a small-engine whine coming closer. Macy slipped into the back seat and patted the old man’s shoulder. Then she shook him, and his head slumped down.

She pulled her hand away, her fingers wet.

Behind her, a set of headlights popped on and everything was bright. Macy hadn’t heard any car pull up. A sick feeling bloomed in her belly. For a moment she froze in the lights, her eyes stuck to the back of the old man’s head. It was lit up, and smeared in red.