“You already know, Dilly Boy. It’s that woman he’s stalking,” Jonathan chimes in. He’s the oldest among us still working extraction; almost all his hair is gray now.
“I’m not stalking her, dumbass. I’m just trying to get to know her,” I retort.
“By watching her cameras all the damn time and leaving her little gifts?” Jonathan asks with a smirk as he leans back and pretends to stretch like an old man. “That’s stalking, son.”
“You didn’t see how hurt she was when her husband cut her off. You’d be pissed, too.”
“Not stalking pissed,” Dillian replies. “Most normal guys don’t just pick a random woman and stalk her.”
“I don’t know why I’m attached to her! When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.” I lean back against my camping chair and cross my arms and ankles. “I just have this strange feeling that she isn’t safe. And for fuck’s sake, stop using the word stalk.”
“We’ve done this long enough together to trust our gut,” Jonathan says while tossing small sticks into the fire he has been trying unsuccessfully to ignite for over an hour.
I trust my gut, I know her husband is worthless, and there is so much they don’t understand about Lila that I haven’t shared with them.
“Give that here, old man. I’ll light it,” Dillian says as he snatches sticks and lighter from Jonathan’s hands and quickly starts a fire. “Losing your touch! Maybe it’s time you retire,” Dillian teases.
“And leave all the fun for you babies? No way! You’d get yourselves killed. Especially with Tony spacing out over there.” Jonathan turns the focus back to me.
“You know Tony,” Dillian says while raking his fingers through his dark blond hair, “my wife once told me about something she believes in.”
“What’s that?” I ask sarcastically but feigning interest.
“She reads those same types of books as Lila, she said you’re welcome for those book recommendations.”
Shaking my head dismissively, I roll my hand in encouragement for him to continue.
“Get to the point, Dilly Boy.” Jonathan echoes my displeasure; he has never had much patience during conversations, anyway.
“She thinks humans have soul-ties,” Dillian explains while avoiding eye contact with me. This guy is a genius with logic and science; does he actually believe this?
“What kind of fuckery is that?” Jonathan scoffs with amusement sparkling in his deep green eyes.
“It means when you see someone and feel a connection you can’t explain, and they feel it too. Like when a mother hears her child calling out while they’re apart or when a wife loses a spouse while away.”
“Good God, boy! Go to sleep before I knock your head off. That’s ridiculous. We have a long day tomorrow; things are going to be hellish. We don’t want Tony distracted while we’re getting shot at.”
“Whatever, man,” Dillian shrugs as he rises from his chair and heads toward our small hut. “I thought I’d bring it up since he doesn’t understand himself.”
“Maybe he has a point there, even if it’s crazy,” I say quietly as Dillian walks away. “I don’t understand.”
“I get it, but if you’re not focused tomorrow, this could end badly.” Jonathan points toward Dillian. “Now get your dirty ass some sleep, too.”
“Fine! Goodnight Dad!”
“Fuck off!” Jonathan replies sharply.
It isn’t even five in the morning and it’s already hot enough to make the air hum; the dawn seeping into our borrowed hut. The first thing I do is drink from the warm canteenbeside my cot, feeling the mineral tang in my mouth, before I walk out into the village and face the day’s preliminary chaos. Roosters crow across the valley, and the breeze is filled with dust, incense smoke, prayers to their gods for the girls’ safe return.
Our client, a middle-aged former politician with a voice that rattles when he speaks, is waiting for us outside, clutching a photo of his daughter and squeezing an effigy until his knuckles blanch. He bows his head and says nothing, just holds out a folded note with the latest ransom demand, which Jonathan takes with gentle hands. For twelve daughters, the terrorists want $100 for each girl. These people are used to losing things, governments, teachers, crops. But, when it comes to their children, they appeal to whatever god will answer quickest.
This time, it’s us. I’ve brought enough to get the girls without a fight. But we will fight for them if we have to. No one should be trafficked or abused.
Inside, Dillian is already hunched over a laptop, blue light washing out the lack of sleep beneath his eyes. He’s running comms with the nearest airfield and scouring foreign social channels for any sign of movement from the crew holding the girls. They run on generator power, so we’ve supplied batteries to keep things running smoothly with no flits and flickers. He glances up when I enter and gives a quick nod.
“You know how long they’ll last in there,” he says. “If they’re still inside with the windows locked up, no air conditioning, they’re not going to make it much longer.”
I check the maps again, then my gear, then Jonathan’s, then Dillian’s, and double-count our supplies. Tape, fuel, injectables, commemorative cigarettes in case the job goesto hell. Jonathan is already suited up, sorting the small bundles of local currency and folding them into separate envelopes, one for each of the girls’ ransom. He insists on doing these things himself.
