Blood Ransom

  Blood Ransom

  And they sang a new song with these words:

  “You are worthy to take the scroll and break its seals and open it.

  For you were slaughtered, and your blood has ransomed people for

  God from every tribe and language and people and nation.”

  Revelation 5:9 NLT

  Map

  PROLOGUE

  A narrow shaft of sunlight broke through the thick canopy of leaves above Joseph Komboli’s short frame and pierced through to the layers of vines that crawled along the forest floor. He trudged past a spiny tree trunk—one of hundreds whose flat crowns reached toward the heavens before disappearing into the cloudless African sky—and smiled as the familiar hum of the forest welcomed him home.

  A trickle of moisture dripped down the back of his neck, and he reached up to brush it away, then flicked at a mosquito. The musty smell of rotting leaves and sweet flowers encircled him, a sharp contrast to the stale exhaust fumes of the capital’s countless taxis or the stench of hundreds of humans pressed together on the dilapidated cargo boat he’d left at the edge of the river this morning.

  Another flying insect buzzed in his ears, its insistent drone drowned out only by the birds chattering in the treetops. He slapped the insect away and dug into the pocket of his worn trousers for a handful of fire-roasted peanuts, still managing to balance the bag that rested atop his head. His mother’s sister had packed it for him, ensuring that the journey—by taxi, boat, and now foot—wouldn’t leave his belly empty. Once, not too long ago, he had believed no one living in the mountain forests surrounding his village, or perhaps even in all of Africa, could cook goza and fish sauce like his mother. But now, having ventured from the dense and sheltering rainforest, he knew she was only one of thousands of women who tirelessly pounded cassava and prepared the thick stew for their families day after day.

  Still, his mouth watered at the thought of his mother’s cooking. The capital of Bogama might offer running water and electricity for those willing to forfeit a percentage of their minimal salaries, but even the new shirt and camera his uncle had given him as parting gifts weren’t enough to lessen his longings for home.

  He wrapped the string of the camera around his wrist and felt his heart swell with pride. No other boy in his village owned such a stunning piece. Not that the camera was a frivolous gift. Not at all. His uncle called it an investment in the future. In the city lived a never-ending line of men and women willing to pay a few cents for a color photo. When he returned to Bogama for school, he planned to make enough money to send some home to his family—something that guaranteed plenty of meat and cassava for the evening meal.

  Anxious to give his little sister, Aina, one of the sweets tucked safely in his pocket and his mother the bag of sugar he carried, Joseph quickened his steps across the red soil, careful to avoid a low limb swaying under the weight of a monkey.

  A cry shattered the relative calm of the forest.

  Joseph slowed as the familiar noises of the forest faded into the shouts of human voices. More than likely the village children had finished collecting water from the river and now played a game of chase or soccer with a homemade ball.

  The wind blew across his face, sending a chill down his spine as he neared the thinning trees at the edge of the forest. Another scream split the afternoon like a sharpened machete.

  Joseph stopped. These were not the sounds of laughter.

  Dropping behind the dense covering of the large leaves, Joseph approached the outskirts of the small village, straining his eyes in an effort to decipher the commotion before him. At first glance everything appeared familiar. Two dozen mud huts with thatched roofs greeted him like an old friend. Tendrils of smoke rose from fires beneath rounded cooking pots that held sauce for evening meals. Brightly colored pieces of fabric fluttered in the breeze as freshly laundered clothes soaked up the warmth of the afternoon sun.

  His gaze flickered to a figure emerging from behind one of the grass-thatched huts. Black uniform…rifle pressed against his shoulder…Joseph felt his lungs constrict. Another soldier emerged, then another, until there were half a dozen shouting orders at the confused villagers who stumbled onto the open area in front of them. Joseph watched as his best friend Mbona tried to fight back, but his hoe was no match against the rifle butt that struck his head. Mbona fell to the ground.

  Ghost Soldiers!

  A wave of panic, strong as the mighty Congo River rushing through its narrow tributaries, ripped through Joseph’s chest. He gasped for breath, his chest heaving as air refused to fill his lungs. The green forest spun. Gripping the sturdy branch of a tree, he managed to suck in a shallow breath.

  He’d heard his uncle speak of the rumored Ghost Soldiers—mercenaries who appeared from nowhere and kidnapped human laborers to work as slaves for the mines. Inhabitants of isolated villages could disappear without a trace and no one would ever know.

  Except he’d thought such myths weren’t true.

  The sight of his little sister told him otherwise. His mind fought to grasp what was happening. Blood trickled down the seven-year-old’s forehead as she faltered in front of the soldiers with her hands tied behind her.

  No!

  Unable to restrain himself, Joseph lunged forward but tripped over a knotty vine and fell. A twig snapped, startling a bird into flight above him.

  The soldier turned from his sister and stared into the dense foliage. Joseph lay flat against the ground, his hand clasped over the groan escaping his throat. The soldier hesitated a moment longer, then grabbed his sister’s arm and pulled her to join the others.

  Choking back a sob, Joseph rose to his knees and dug his fingers into the hard earth. What could he do? Nothing. He was no match for these men. If he didn’t remain secluded behind the cover of the forest, he too would vanish along with his family.

  The haunting sounds of screams mingled with gunshots. His grandfather fell to the ground and Joseph squeezed his eyes shut, blackness enveloping him. It was then, as he pressed his hand against his pounding chest, that he felt the camera swinging against his wrist. He stared at the silver case. Slowly, he pressed the On button.

  This time, the world would know.

  With a trembling arm Joseph lifted the camera. Careful to stay within the concealing shade of the forest, he snapped a picture without bothering to aim as his uncle had taught him. He took another photo, and another, and another…until the cries of his people dissipated on the north side of the clearing as the soldiers led those strong enough to work toward the mountains. The rest—those like his grandfather, too old or too weak to work in the mines—lay motionless against the now bloodstained African soil.

  In the remaining silence, the voices of two men drifted across the breeze. English words were foreign to his own people’s uneducated ears but had become familiar to Joseph. What he heard now brought a second wave of terror…

  “Only four more days until we are in power…There is no need to worry…The president will be taken care of…I can personally guarantee the support of this district…”

  Joseph zoomed in and took a picture of the two men.

  A monkey jumped to the tree above him and started chattering. One of the beefy soldiers jerked around, his attention drawn to the edge of the clearing. Joseph froze as his gaze locked with the man’s. Someone shouted.

  If they caught him now, no one would ever know what had happened to his family.

  Joseph scrambled to his feet as the soldier ran toward him, but the man was faster. The butt of a rifle struck Joseph’s head. He faltered, but as a trickle of blood dripped into his eye, he pictured Aina being led away…his grandfather murdered in cold blood…

  Ignoring the searing pain, Joseph fought to pull loose from his att
acker’s grip, kicked at the man’s shins. The soldier faltered on the uneven terrain. Clambering to his feet, Joseph ran into the cover of the forest. A rifle fired, and the bullet whizzed past his ear, but he kept moving. With the Ghost Soldier in pursuit, Joseph sprinted as fast as he could through the tangled foliage and prayed that the thick jungle would swallow him.

  Blood Ransom

  Lisa Harris

  ZONDERVAN

  Blood Ransom

  Copyright © 2010 by Lisa Harris

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

  ePub Edition FEBRUARY 2010 ISBN: 978-0-310-39560-7

  Requests for information should be addressed to: Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Harris, Lisa, 1969-

  Blood ransom / Lisa Harris.

  p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references.

  ISBN 978-0-310-31905-4 (pbk.)

  1. Americans--Africa--Fiction. 2. Slave trade--Fiction. 3. Human trafficking--Fiction.

  4. Africa--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.A78315B57 2009

  813′.6--dc22

  2009037495

  * * *

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Author’s disclaimer: “While Blood Ransom is a work of fiction, including the setting I chose to use, modern-day slavery is very real. Drawing from my own experiences across Africa over the past twenty years, my goal in writing this book was to weave current issues facing this vast continent into a riveting story that depicts not only these adversities, but also its beauty and hope.”

  Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers printed in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  Published in association with Hartline Literary Agency, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 15235.

  To all my friends

  scattered across the beautiful African continent.

  I will forever hold a piece of you in my heart.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Half Title Page

  Epigraph

  Map

  PROLOGUE

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Acknowledgements

  About the Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  ONE

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 3:11 P.M.

  KASILI OUTDOOR MARKET

  Natalie Sinclair fingered the blue-and-yellow fabric that hung neatly folded on a wooden rod among dozens of other brightly colored pieces, barely noticing the plump Mama who stood beside her in hopeful anticipation. Instead she gazed out at the shops that lined the winding, narrow paths of the market, forming an intricate maze the size of a football field. The vendors sold everything from vegetables and live animals to piles of secondhand clothing that had been shipped across the ocean from charities in the States.

  Natalie stepped across a puddle and turned to glance beneath the wooden overhang at the stream of people passing by. Even with the weekend over, the outdoor market was crowded with shoppers. Hip-hop-style music played in the background, lending a festive feel to the sultry day. But she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Someone was following her.

  She quickened her steps and searched for anything that looked out of place. A young man weaved his bicycle through the crowded walkway, forcing those on foot to step aside. A little girl wearing a tattered dress clung to the skirt of her mother, who carried a sleeping infant, secured with a length of material, against her back. An old man with thick glasses shuffled past a shop that sold eggs and sugar, then stopped to examine a pile of spark plugs.

  Natalie’s sandal stuck in a patch of mud, and she wiggled her foot to pull it out. Perhaps the foreboding sensation was nothing more than the upcoming elections that had her on edge. All American citizens had been warned to stay on high alert due to the volatile political situation. Violence was on the rise. Already a number of joint military-police peacekeeping patrols had been deployed onto the streets, and there were rumors of a curfew.

  Not that life in the Republic of Dhambizao was ever considered safe by the embassy, but neither was downtown Portland. It was all a matter of perspective.

  And leaving wasn’t an option. Not with the hepatitis E outbreak spreading from the city into the surrounding villages. Already, three health zones north of the town of Kasili where she lived were threatened with an outbreak. She’d spent the previous two weeks sharing information about the disease’s symptoms with the staff of the local government clinics, as well as conducting awareness campaigns to inform the public on the importance of proper hygiene to prevent an epidemic.

  In search of candles for tonight’s party, Natalie turned sharply to her left and hurried up the muddy path past wooden tables piled high with leafy greens for stew, bright red tomatoes, and fresh fish. Rows of women sat on wooden stools and fanned their wares to discourage the flies that swarmed around the pungent odor of the morning’s catch.

  Someone bumped into her from behind, and she pulled her bag closer. Petty theft might be a constant concern, but she knew her escalated fears were out of line. Being the only pale foreigner in a sea of ebony-skinned Africans always caused heads to turn, if not for the novelty, then for the hope that she’d toss them one or two extra coins for their supper.

  Her cell phone jingled in her pocket, and she reached to answer it.

  “When are you coming back to the office?” Stephen’s t
o-the-point greeting was predictable.

  “I’m not. I’m throwing a birthday party for you tonight, remember? You let me off early.” A pile of taper candles caught her eye in a shop across the path, and she skirted the edge of a puddle that, thanks to the runoff, was rapidly becoming the size of a small lake.

  Stephen groaned. “Patrick’s here at the office, and he’s asking questions.”

  She pulled a handful of coins from her pocket to pay for the candles. “Then give him some answers.”

  “I can’t.”

  Natalie thrust the package the seller had wrapped in newspaper into her bag and frowned. Patrick Seko, the former head of security for the president, now led some sort of specialized task force for the government. Lately, his primary concern seemed to revolve around some demographic research for the Kasili region she’d been compiling for the minister of health, whose office she worked for. Her expertise might be the prevention and control of communicable diseases, but demographics had always interested her. Why her research interested Patrick was a question she’d yet to figure out.

  The line crackled. Maybe she’d get out of dealing with Patrick and his insistent questions after all.

  “Stephen, you’re breaking up.”

  All she heard was a garbled response. She flipped the phone shut and shoved it back into her pocket. They’d have to finish their conversation at the party.

  “Natalie?”

  She spun around at the sound of her name. “Rachel, it’s good to see you.”

  Her friend shot her a broad smile. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

  Natalie wanted to kick herself for the uncharacteristic agitation that had her looking behind every shadow. “I’m just a bit jumpy today.”

  “I understand completely.” Rachel pushed a handful of thin braids behind her shoulder and smiled. “I think everyone is a bit on edge, even though with the UN’s presence the elections are supposed to pass without any major problems. No one has forgotten President Tau’s bloody takeover.”