talking about the U.S. government here?” Marc asks.
Chad shakes his head. “They’re a leading candidate but it doesn’t have to be them. It could even be a rich corporation. My point is that it took special tools—which means plenty of cash—to pick us up within a few minutes of each other, knock us out, and stash us in this cell.”
To me, it sounds like Chad’s describing the Lapras, but I keep the idea to myself. Even though none of them feels like a witch to me, I wonder if one or more of them is and doesn’t know it. Their ignorance might camouflage their powers, even from my intuitive gene.
Whatever, if none of them is aware of witches then my breathtaking tale of what happened to me in Las Vegas is unlikely to go over well. Shira, for one, would probably try to kill me the first chance she got.
There’s a lot of anger in that woman—or girl. I wonder at its source. I have to keep reminding myself she’s only nineteen. She doesn’t act like a teenager. But I suppose being in the army could do that to you.
“Why would someone go to all this trouble to grab us?” Marc says. “What’s special about us?”
“That question is key,” Chad says with energy in his voice. “Let’s give it a closer look. If we can figure out what makes each of us unique, then we might be able to figure out the motive behind our kidnapping.”
Marc shakes his head. “There’s nothing special about me. All I do is park cars for a living.”
“Is that all?” I ask. “You don’t have any hobbies?”
“No.”
“A second job perhaps?” I persist.
“No.”
I recall what Silvia Summer told him the night of the movie premiere. I feel an irresistible urge to goad him. “You don’t look like the sort of guy who should be parking cars,” I say, quoting her word for word.
Marc meets my gaze without flinching. Yet I can tell I’ve scored a hit. At the same time I wonder if I’m playing with fire. Marc is one cool customer, I have to grant him that, especially when he answers.
“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” he replies.
“Do you live alone?” Chad asks.
“Yes,” Marc says.
“I assume you work at night or on the weekends. What do you do with the rest of your time?”
“Pick up pretty girls.”
“You can’t think of a single thing that you can do better than anyone else?” Chad asks.
Marc grins at me. “Pick up pretty girls.”
“All right,” Chad says, turning to Ora. “I can tell by looking at you that you’ve had a hard life and that you’re probably stronger than the rest of us put together. Is there anything else unique about you?”
“Unique? I do not know this word,” Ora says.
“Special,” Chad explains.
Ora is thoughtful. “I am Chita. That’s the name of my tribe. There are many of us who live in my part of Sudan. But nearby are the Kirus—another tribe. One of their villages borders my village. That makes it a dangerous place to live.”
“The Chitas and the Kirus don’t get along?” Chad asks.
“They’re always fighting, always killing each other.”
“Why?” Chad asks.
“For land. For cattle, goats, and women.”
Chad considers before asking his next question. “Do you lead your village when you fight the Kirus? Are you a warrior?”
Ora stares at him. “I have killed many Kirus since I was a boy.”
“Do you have guns?” Shira asks. “Any AK-47s?”
Ora nods. “I have seen that gun you speak of. I have fired it. But now, on both sides, we have no bullets so we fight by hand, or with spears and knives.”
Shira’s question is shrewd. I know from reading that AK-47s are the most common weapon arms dealers smuggle into Africa. The machine gun is renowned for its reliability. It seldom jams even when dunked in water or coated with mud. It would be the perfect weapon to own in a dusty land like Ora’s.
Chad appears to think the same as I do. He turns to Shira.
“It sounds like you know your weapons,” he says.
“I told
Chad shakes his head. “They’re a leading candidate but it doesn’t have to be them. It could even be a rich corporation. My point is that it took special tools—which means plenty of cash—to pick us up within a few minutes of each other, knock us out, and stash us in this cell.”
To me, it sounds like Chad’s describing the Lapras, but I keep the idea to myself. Even though none of them feels like a witch to me, I wonder if one or more of them is and doesn’t know it. Their ignorance might camouflage their powers, even from my intuitive gene.
Whatever, if none of them is aware of witches then my breathtaking tale of what happened to me in Las Vegas is unlikely to go over well. Shira, for one, would probably try to kill me the first chance she got.
There’s a lot of anger in that woman—or girl. I wonder at its source. I have to keep reminding myself she’s only nineteen. She doesn’t act like a teenager. But I suppose being in the army could do that to you.
“Why would someone go to all this trouble to grab us?” Marc says. “What’s special about us?”
“That question is key,” Chad says with energy in his voice. “Let’s give it a closer look. If we can figure out what makes each of us unique, then we might be able to figure out the motive behind our kidnapping.”
Marc shakes his head. “There’s nothing special about me. All I do is park cars for a living.”
“Is that all?” I ask. “You don’t have any hobbies?”
“No.”
“A second job perhaps?” I persist.
“No.”
I recall what Silvia Summer told him the night of the movie premiere. I feel an irresistible urge to goad him. “You don’t look like the sort of guy who should be parking cars,” I say, quoting her word for word.
Marc meets my gaze without flinching. Yet I can tell I’ve scored a hit. At the same time I wonder if I’m playing with fire. Marc is one cool customer, I have to grant him that, especially when he answers.
“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” he replies.
“Do you live alone?” Chad asks.
“Yes,” Marc says.
“I assume you work at night or on the weekends. What do you do with the rest of your time?”
“Pick up pretty girls.”
“You can’t think of a single thing that you can do better than anyone else?” Chad asks.
Marc grins at me. “Pick up pretty girls.”
“All right,” Chad says, turning to Ora. “I can tell by looking at you that you’ve had a hard life and that you’re probably stronger than the rest of us put together. Is there anything else unique about you?”
“Unique? I do not know this word,” Ora says.
“Special,” Chad explains.
Ora is thoughtful. “I am Chita. That’s the name of my tribe. There are many of us who live in my part of Sudan. But nearby are the Kirus—another tribe. One of their villages borders my village. That makes it a dangerous place to live.”
“The Chitas and the Kirus don’t get along?” Chad asks.
“They’re always fighting, always killing each other.”
“Why?” Chad asks.
“For land. For cattle, goats, and women.”
Chad considers before asking his next question. “Do you lead your village when you fight the Kirus? Are you a warrior?”
Ora stares at him. “I have killed many Kirus since I was a boy.”
“Do you have guns?” Shira asks. “Any AK-47s?”
Ora nods. “I have seen that gun you speak of. I have fired it. But now, on both sides, we have no bullets so we fight by hand, or with spears and knives.”
Shira’s question is shrewd. I know from reading that AK-47s are the most common weapon arms dealers smuggle into Africa. The machine gun is renowned for its reliability. It seldom jams even when dunked in water or coated with mud. It would be the perfect weapon to own in a dusty land like Ora’s.
Chad appears to think the same as I do. He turns to Shira.
“It sounds like you know your weapons,” he says.
“I told
Similar Books
