Authors: Jeff Buick
Someone was trying to kill her.
The realization sunk in slowly, like an iceberg melting as it drifted south. Nothing about it seemed real. How could it be?
She was an average person, living a normal life in Washington DC. People like her didn’t make it into a killer’s Rolodex.
They went about their business and 99. 99 percent of the world ignored them. Now the question was, what to do? Go home? What
if he, or she, was waiting for her? What if her car ignition had been tampered with? What if there was a bomb wired to the
starter?
Leona fingered her car keys with one hand and ran the other through her hair. She had been away from her car for an hour,
having a bite of lunch with a friend. That would be plenty of time for someone to tamper with her vehicle. Her heart was beating
fast, adrenaline surging through her body. All in anticipation of starting her car. Something she had done tens of thousands
of times in the past without a second thought. Now everything had changed. Danger, death, could be a fraction of an inch away.
Where was Mike Anderson? She needed him right now more than ever in her life. He was tough and resourceful. Fearless even.
Mike would know what to do. But Kubala hadn’t called since last night. Eighteen hours. A lot could happen in eighteen hours.
Or nothing. She had no idea whether Mike was still alive or if he had been murdered and thrown in a shallow grave somewhere
outside Nairobi. Leona leaned against the car and choked back the tears. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried.
She tried, more to take her mind off things than anything else, and it finally came to her. Years ago, at her cousin’s funeral.
She had died of brain cancer at twenty-seven. What a waste. Leona remembered sitting next to her father in the funeral service,
looking over at him and seeing the wetness in his eyes. He had cried that day, too. It had never registered with her before,
but now she could envision him sitting on the hard wooden pew, struggling to hold back the tears. It was a side of her father
she had seen, but had never recognized.
Her phone rang and she snapped back to the present. She checked the caller ID. It was George Harvey of the DC police. “Detective
Harvey,” she said. “Calling to check up on me?”
“Actually, yes. Everything okay?”
“So far. But I’m a little spooked. I’ve been envisioning a bomb planted under my car, and that it’s going to explode when
I turn the ignition key.”
“That’s probably a little extreme,” the DC Homicide cop said.
“Someone blew up my restaurant.”
“Point noted.”
“What should I be watching for?”
“People who are watching you. The same face in the background more than once. It’s not that difficult to pick someone out
if you stay alert.”
“Do you have anything new? Any sort of lead or clue as to who’s doing this? When I was in your office on Friday you were checking
the passenger manifest from the cruise ship. Anything come from that?”
“No. If Swanson’s person did buy a ticket close to the sailing date, he did it without leaving a trail. But we did get a sample
of Derek Swanson’s DNA today. It’s at the lab now.”
“And if you get a match to the blood at the crash scene?”
“Ms. Hewitt, I never said there was blood at the scene other than the victim’s. You assumed that.”
“Yes, I did. But I think it’s a pretty good assumption.” She paused. “Will you tell me if it matches?”
Harvey didn’t answer for a few seconds, then he said, “I’ll give you every bit of information I can without jeopardizing the
integrity of the investigation.”
“Thank you.”
“You have my card. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
Leona killed the call and slipped the cell phone back in her pocket. She thumbed her key fob and clicked the button to open
the doors. There was a thunking sound as the locking mechanisms released. She swung open the driver’s door and dropped into
the seat, then inserted the key into the ignition and turned. No hesitation.
God hates a coward
. The engine caught and settled into a low idle. Before she could shift into gear, her phone rang. The screen read
private
caller
. She took the call.
“Leona.” It was her father.
“Hi, Dad.” Her hand gripped the stick shift a little tighter.
“I thought I’d call and see how things were going at the bank. With the new vice president.”
“May not be doing that much longer,” she said, not willing to play games. Her father suffering with the truth would be easier
than her forcing a lie.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Things went badly with the first file I was handed. I’m not sure the position will be mine much longer.”
“Isn’t there some way to fix it?” he asked, concern creeping into his voice.
“This one is out of my hands, Dad,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do but wait and see how things play out.”
“Maybe if you talk to the CEO.”
Leona didn’t respond right away. When she did it was off topic. “Dad, do you remember cousin Sheri? She died of cancer about
four years ago.”
“Yes, of course I remember her. Why?”
“Did you know her well?”
“Not all that well. She was your mother’s sister’s daughter. You probably saw her as often as I did.”
“I only saw her about twice a year. Christmas and the yearly family barbeque.”
“Yes. What’s this all about?”
“Nothing. Listen, Dad, I’ve got to run. I’ll tell you about what’s happening at the office when I have a few more minutes.”
“You’re sure everything’s okay?”
“Everything’s fine. Talk to you soon.”
“Okay.”
Leona let the phone fall on her lap. She stared out the window at the Sunday DC traffic, but it wasn’t registering. Who was
this man that was supposed to be her father? Her dad was a man’s man—one who would never look for the easy way, and would
certainly never offer it. His demands were great, as were his expectations. Perhaps that’s what had driven her to overachieve.
In fact, she was sure it had. But the other side, the man who cried at funerals, not because he knew the person intimately,
but because he perceived an injustice in life. This man she didn’t understand. Had he always been there? Had she missed it?
Had she lived her life in an emotional bubble because that was where she had put herself? Too many questions, no answers.
She slipped the car into gear and pulled out from the curb, pushing the thoughts from her mind. Right now she had one, and
only one, thing to worry about. Staying alive.
Bawata Rackisha moved down the aisle slowly, enjoying the fearful glances from the passengers. None of them wanted to be the
one picked. None of them wanted to be the one to accompany the police from the plane to a small room with no windows or cameras.
Sometimes the ones who disappeared never came back. Rackisha looked into every pair of eyes, sensing the fear like a predator
stalking trapped prey. He felt powerful, invigorated, aroused even, by the control.
Most of the passengers were African, with varying shades of black skin. Picking out Mike Anderson would be easy. The lone
white guy. Rackisha was about halfway down the aisle and he glanced ahead. Many black faces stared back at him, lowering their
gaze when their eyes met. He caught a glimpse of white skin near the back of the plane.
You can
hide, but you can’t escape
. He touched his shirt lightly, the feel of his gun under the cotton reassuring. Not long now. He increased his pace slightly,
anxious to have the American back in his grasp.
Would Anderson try anything—to run, to push past him and bolt from the plane? Or would he go quietly? Rackisha didn’t know
the answer but suspected there may be trouble. Certainly Anderson would understand that this was it. That there was no way
he could ever be released. That he would die in a most horrific way under the harshest of conditions. Mike Anderson could
never possibly foresee the torture that lay ahead, but if he suspected he was going to die, he may try for the gun. Desperation
breeds panic.
The inspector was almost to the rear of the plane. He slipped his hand under his shirt and wrapped his hand around the pistol
grip. Two more rows. He could see the brown hair and snippets of white skin. He felt an incredible surge of power as he drew
abreast the seat. The executioner had arrived. He steeled himself for a reaction and peered into the row. A white man between
two Africans. The man turned and looked upward.
It was not Mike Anderson.
Rackisha stared for two or three seconds, then jerked his eyes back to the last three rows of the plane. He could see every
person and not one of them was white. There was no chance he had missed him. Anderson was not on the plane. Rackisha turned
and strode up the aisle, moving quickly and with purpose. He cornered the purser in front of the door to the cockpit and stood
within a foot of her.
“Michael Anderson. He was supposed to be on this flight. Where is he?”
She opened the passenger manifest with shaking hands, running her finger down the list of names. She stopped, then said, “He
was in row nine, seat C, but I can tell you for sure that he’s not on the plane.”
“How can you do that?” Rackisha asked rudely.
“Our headcount was one short, and we noticed it was him. We called back to the personnel at the gate and they told us he had
informed them he wouldn’t be taking the flight.”
“Where is he?” Rackisha’s face was inches from the woman’s.
“I have no idea, sir,” she said. “He’s not our responsibility if he’s not on the airplane.”
Rackisha considered grabbing her and dragging her down to police headquarters, but came back to his senses. The chief of police
and his lieutenants had no idea what he had done, and it was best kept that way. If he were to show up at the precinct with
the flight attendant, there would be questions. Tough questions to answer. There was no upside to taking her off the plane.
“Thank you,” he said through gritted teeth.
Rackisha returned to the terminal and walked about, searching the crowds for the American. The only group of whites was a
safari tour preparing to leave the country on another outbound flight. The inspector looked at all of them closely. Anderson
was definitely not among them. He posted a guard on the front doors and searched the bathrooms. Nothing. Anderson had escaped.
He walked out into the late afternoon sun and stared at the chaos. Anderson was gone. Somehow, the American had managed to
elude him.
Rackisha allowed himself a small smile. Who cared? He had the money. Killing Anderson would have been a bonus. An unnecessary
bit of fun. He slid into the backseat of his car and shook his head. Son of a bitch. Tricky little bastard, Michael Anderson.
Mike Anderson accepted a rum and Coke from the flight attendant and downed it in two gulps. God, that felt good. He asked
her politely for another one. A wave of exhilaration and relief swept over him as he looked out the window at the scattering
of clouds and the vast African tract thirty thousand feet below. He had escaped, only with Kubala’s help and ingenuity.
I tried to get you a window seat, but was unable. I had to settle
on the airline’s second choice. I think you’ll be pleased with it.
For a few minutes he hadn’t understood the message. Then, as he leaned against the wall, waiting to board the Air France flight
to Paris, he realized what Kubala was saying. He hated window seats, much preferred the aisle, and Kubala knew that. That
was to get his attention. Then the mention of a
second choice
. Why those words? He opened the folder from the airline and pulled out the boarding pass. Underneath, folded in half and
almost invisible, was a second boarding pass, this one on the Lufthansa flight departing for Frankfurt at eight forty-nine.
Do not be on the flight to Paris
.
The message was very clear. He checked with the Air France airline personnel at the gate and told them he would not be flying
due to a problem in Nairobi. Because they knew he would be a no-show, they scratched his name off the passenger manifest and
didn’t announce his name over the intercom. The boarding area was extremely crowded and it was easy to slip onto the other
plane, which left twenty minutes before the Paris flight. Kubala’s resourcefulness had probably saved his life.
The flight attendant brought his drink and he thanked her by name. Nancy. It was nice to be back with people whose names he
could pronounce. No more Bawata Rackisha. No more sadistic police officers with the power and resources to torture and kill
innocent people. No more Africa.
The thought of not returning brought on a dichotomy of emotions. He loved Kubala and his family and the village, but hated
the corruption and violence that plagued almost every level of life on the continent. Save Them had worked miracles, but its
time was done. Leona had saved some of Africa’s wildlife from the poachers, but her real gift had been the difference she
had made in so many lives. Schools, churches and hospitals now stood where before had been scrubland and dusty plains. Water
flowed from deep wells and crops and livestock were well watered and nourished. He had been a part of it, and there was a
pride associated with that.
Anderson finished the drink and closed his eyes. The softness of the seat and the steady drone of the plane’s engines were
sedatives, and he felt himself drifting off. The last thought he had before his world settled into black was that he would
call Leona from Frankfurt. Give her the good news. Soon he would be back in the United States and it would be life as normal.
That thought felt good.
Mike Anderson found an open pay phone and closed the glass door, cutting off some of the noise echoing through the Frankfort
airport. It was busy, considering it was the middle of the night. Numerous incoming flights were on the arrival board, most
originating at a reasonable hour in different time zones on the other side of the Atlantic. It was nine o’clock in DC and
Leona would still be up. Anderson entered his calling card and password from memory, then dialed her number and waited.
“Hello?” It was Leona’s voice, but she sounded unsure.
“Leona, it’s Mike.”
“Mike, are you all right? Where are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m in the Frankfurt airport.”
“I almost didn’t pick up. The caller ID shows some weird area code.”
“Pay phone.”
“Kubala never called. I didn’t know what was happening. I was worried sick about you.”
“Yeah, it was a little tense there for a while. Kubala probably didn’t call because he was trying to get out of Nairobi before
the asshole who kidnapped me got his hands on him.”
“Is Kubala okay?”
“I don’t know,” Anderson said, watching a stream of peo- ple walk by on their way to the baggage carousel. “He’s pretty resourceful.
I imagine he’s fine. He’ll probably call you when he gets back to Samburu and has his family with him.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“Later, Leona. When I’m back in the States. It’s a long and ugly story.”
“Okay. When are you flying in?”
“No idea. I just got here. I have no money, no credit card, no clothes . . .”
“Naked in the airport. That’s interesting.”
He chuckled—the first time in weeks. “Funny girl. I need you to wire some money so I can buy a ticket.”
“I have a better idea. Go to the airline and book the flight, then call me and I’ll put it on my credit card.”
“Yeah, that might work,” Anderson said, his head swiveling as an attractive woman walked past the booth.
“It has to work, Mike,” Leona said. “I need you back in DC. Fast.”
He stiffened at the words and her tone. “What’s wrong?”
There was a pause, then, “Someone’s trying to kill me.”
“What the hell? You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Leona, what’s going on?” His grip tightened on the handset and he turned away from the concourse and stared at the phone,
concentrating on every word.
“It’s all tied in to the Coal-Balt income trust conversion.
It looks like the president of the company is killing anyone who stands in his way. The company’s CEO and he weren’t seeing
eye to eye on the conversion. He’s dead. Then a senator in Utah tabled an antipollution bill that could have cratered the
deal. She’s dead. Yesterday my restaurant exploded, killing two of my staff, missing Tyler and me by inches. Things are not
good over here right now.”
“What about the police? Are they protecting you?”
“From whom? We have no idea who’s doing this. We suspect that Coal-Balt’s president, Derek Swanson, has hired someone, but
there’s no proof. The forensics crew is still piecing together what caused the explosion at the restaurant. Could have been
an accident.”
“Are they saying that?”
“No. They’re pretty sure it was intentional.”
“What are you doing to protect yourself?”
“Nothing, really. I’m not sure what to do. The police call every now and then. They told me to watch for suspicious people.
Try to notice faces, and if I see the same one more than once to call them.”
“I want you to get out of your house. Right now.”
“Where do I go?” she asked, panic rising.
“My place. There’s a key under the flowerpot on the stoop.”
“That’s original.”
He ignored the attempt at humor. “Wait until we get this plane ticket sorted out, then leave. Use the time to pack.”
“How long will it be before you call back?”
“It’s three A. M. over here. It may take me a few minutes to find an airline rep. There should be someone here who can sell
me a ticket. I’d guess in a half hour, maybe less.”
“Okay, I’ll get ready to leave.”
“Good. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Thanks.”
“You stay safe.”
Leona set the phone back in its cradle and stood motionless in the middle of her living room. Darkness was settling in, the
streetlights throwing a deepening yellow hue over the trees and cars parked along the curb. Branches swayed slightly in the
evening breeze and shadows danced about on her front window. Silence crawled into every corner of the town house, air entering
and escaping her lungs as she slowly breathed in and out, the only sound in the rapidly darkening room. A couple walked by
on the opposite side of the road, their dog pulling at its leash. A solitary car drove past, then nothing. Just the shadows.
Leona moved to the stairs, her bare feet soundless on the hardwood. She set one foot on the bottom riser, feeling the carpet
on her toes. Every sense was heightened, every nerve on edge. She left the light off, not wanting to illuminate herself in
case someone was watching. Step after step, she walked up toward her bedroom. She reached the top of the stairs and contemplated
turning on the hallway light. This portion of the house wasn’t visible from the street. Her hand went to the light switch,
then stopped. There was some sort of security with being in a dark space that she knew well. She had walked every inch of
her town house a thousand times with the lights off, getting water, using the bathroom, heading downstairs to the kitchen
on winter mornings. If anyone else were in the house, they would be at a disadvantage.
She left the lights off and moved ahead, closer to her bedroom door. She glanced in the second and third bedrooms as she passed.
They appeared empty, but there were many places to hide if someone were already here, waiting. Leona reached the door to her
bedroom and stopped, listening. There was a light scraping sound, but she recognized it as a branch on the tree that brushed
against the garden doors leading to the small second-floor balcony off her bedroom. How many times had she lain in bed listening
to that sound, vowing to take the pruning shears to it the next morning? She always got busy and forgot about it. She slowly
tilted her head, keeping her body behind the wall. The room came into view.
Her bed was made, the duvet smooth, the pillows puffed up and carefully arranged against the wrought-iron headboard. A half-f
glass of water sat next to her alarm clock. The clock’s red numbers were now very visible in the almost total darkness. Pale
moonlight backlit the tree tucked against the rear of her town house, casting shadows into the room, much like the scene in
her living room. She let out a slow and deliberate breath, then relaxed and moved into the room.
She froze.
The outline of a hand, then an arm, followed by the shape of a man’s body, materialized outside the garden doors leading to
the balcony. The hand reached for the handle and twisted. The door was locked. The intruder slid effortlessly into a position
directly centered on the doors and crouched in front of the handle, working on the lock.
Leona backed into the hallway, her breath coming in short gasps. If she had turned on the light, he would have known she was
there, would have stayed out of sight. Her eyes would have adjusted to the brightness, allowing him to stay invisible in the
low light. She hugged the wall, her mind spinning with a tangle of disjointed thoughts. Did he know she was in the house?
Was it the same person who destroyed her restaurant? What to do? She had to escape. Time was of the essence. She had to react,
and quickly, before he gained access to her house. She had seconds, not minutes.
She turned and raced down the stairs, her bare feet soundless on the carpet. Once on the hardwood she slowed and ran on the
balls of her feet, not wanting to send vibrations through the house. Her car was in the garage, but she bypassed the keys,
hanging on a hook on the wall. Opening the garage door was a giveaway to her location, something she was not going to do.
She was thinking clearer now, focusing on one thing. Survival. Don’t give the intruder anything to work with. No clues to
where she was. She reached the front door and silently turned the deadbolt. She felt a presence behind her, then a noise.
A loose floorboard. She grabbed the door handle and twisted as she turned to look. He was at the end of the hall, coming toward
her fast. Running. Close, very close. She pulled on the door and scrambled onto her stoop, then down the stairs to the street.
Her heart was pounding as she frantically looked up and down the road. A car turned on from Fifteenth Street and she jumped
into the headlights, waving her arms and screaming. The driver slammed on his brakes and the taillights flashed as he thrust
the transmission into park. He opened the door and stepped halfway from his vehicle.
“Are you all right?” he asked. He appeared to be around thirty and solidly built.
“Someone’s in my house. A robber. He tried to grab me.”
She ran to where he stood, fear in her eyes.
The man made a snap decision. “Get in.” He motioned to the passenger’s door.
Leona slipped into the car and looked back at her condo. The front door clicked shut as she watched. A moment later a shadowy
figure appeared in the front window, staring out onto the street. She could see his outline, but no features. Then he was
gone. Hardly any motion, a flicker, then nothing.
“Damn.” The driver had his cell phone to his ear. “I’m on nine-one-one hold.”
“Here.” Leona dug in her pocket and retrieved George Harvey’s card. “Dial the cell number. He’s a cop.”
The man took the card and flipped on the overhead light. He dialed and when it rang, handed the phone to Leona. A couple of
rings and Harvey answered.
“Detective Harvey, it’s Leona Hewitt.” She sucked in a deep breath as she motioned for the driver to pull up the street, away
from her condo. “He just tried to kill me again.”