Ready for Danger by CV Silk Page A

BEFORE
     
    Kathleen had been the architect of this
school. It was basically a glorified carport – four pillars and a slanted roof
with one full wall to hold the blackboard – but she was proud of it
nonetheless. And today she was a schoolteacher as well.
    “ Tac, hnac, sum, le, nga ,” she
said, counting numbers while she pointed to the corresponding Burmese numeral
on the board.
    The 16 kids, sitting cross-legged on the
braided bamboo mats, quickly repeated in a singsong manner Kathleen always
found charming. Then she went on.
    “ Hkrauk, hku hnac, hrac, kui, hcay .”
    They repeated again and it made her
smile. Until recently, she had never been especially enamored by children. In
her mid-20s and with no man in her life, she certainly wasn’t in a hurry to
have any kids of her own. But being in this village and taking care of these
little guys was making her mushy.
    “That’s great!”
    She tried mixing in some English even though
her own Burmese skills were getting along pretty well. Children were usually terrific
at picking up a second language before they reached puberty. They giggled every
time she spoke English as if it was a made-up language meant to make them
laugh.
    “Okay, stop making fun of the white lady!”
    They laughed again before she launched
into a lesson on additions and subtractions. As an aid worker for an NGO, she
filled many hats in this town. She coordinated with other organizations of
course, but also she helped implement new infrastructures and she acted as a
nurse. However, what she enjoyed the most was teaching.
    She was about to leave math for geography
when she heard a commotion coming from farther into this village. There was the
distinctive sound of a truck and the townspeople congregating toward it. It was
funny how the simple appearance of a vehicle was treated like Christmas around
here.
    And she was just as intrigued as everyone
else. Coming from New York City, she had grown up around a constant stream of
cars but here it was different. In this far-flung village, a vehicle meant new
supplies, new people.
    New problems.
    She remembered a month ago when a young
man had come in from Yangon. He was a distant relative of one of the town
elders. He had brought with him some cocaine which had led to three muggings,
two fistfights, and one overdose. Following this incident, she was just as distrustful
of newcomers as anyone else.
    “Get your geography books and a look at
chapter three,” she instructed in Burmese. “I’ll be right back.”
    She left the school and joined the others
surrounding the truck. A Caucasian man in his early 30s jumped out the back. He
was dressed in a T-shirt and cargo pants, all very nondescript. There was a
purpose about him, a confidence usually not found in aid workers arriving
someplace new. This put her on her guard but what she saw next terrified her.
    A pistol was strapped to his right leg.
    Some locals shouted questions at him but
the man was unfazed. He reached into the truck and produced two suitcases in
addition to a rectangular aluminum Zero Halliburton case which could only
contain some type of weapon.
    The others weren’t as troubled by this as
she was so she made her way forward to get some answers.
    “ Ka mya !” she exclaimed, pushing
people out away. “ Ka mya !”
    She found herself standing in front of
the stranger. He was about six feet tall and well-built though not freakishly
so.
    “Excuse me,” she said again, this time in
English. “We don’t have any hotels here. I think you have the wrong village. I
suggest you get back in the truck before it drives away.”
    He looked at her and waited a few seconds
before speaking. “You’re full of opinions, aren’t you?”
    His accent was American, vaguely
Southern.
    “The people of this town are not too big
on outsiders. And we’re not too fond of guns around here either. It would be
best if you didn’t stay long.”
    “I’m looking for a woman, her name is