The Oracle (Fargo Adventures 11)

Sam’s attention was on a boy, about twelve or so, standing near the endcap, peering at them through the shelves of liquid detergent. He’d been one of the children who’d crowded around Hank just before he’d walked into the restaurant across the street. “Buckets of what?”

“Of what?” Remi looked up, her green eyes filled with exasperation. “Seriously, Fargo. You’re beginning to worry me. Buckets for the school.”

“Sorry.” He glanced at the list on her phone, glad that the bulk of supplies were preordered, and waiting to be loaded on the truck out back. “Ten buckets,” he said.

Remi eyed him, then the boy at the end of the aisle. “You can’t think he’s any sort of problem. The first gust of wind would blow him away.”

Sam looked over at his wife, almost surprised. They were usually on the same page when it came to potential threats. “It’s not him I’m worried about. It’s his gang of pickpockets and thieves waiting outside for us. You saw them surround Hank.”

“You’re worried about Hank? Living in Tunisia, I imagine he’s got plenty of experience avoiding—”

“Not him. Us. We’ve been marked as a target.”

“Noted,” she said, going back to the list. “Except I’d amend that to you being marked as a target. I seriously doubt that I have anything they want.”

In that respect, Remi was correct. Prepared for their trip into the bush, she was dressed in khaki slacks and an olive green button-down shirt. They both knew this area of Jalingo was rife with gangs, which was why Remi wasn’t carrying a purse or wearing any jewelry. Amal, Sam noticed, had taken the same precautions. Remi, like Sam, was carrying a concealed gun, hers in a slim holster beneath her shirt, his holstered behind a secret panel in his safari vest. Other than that, the only thing Sam carried that might fall prey to a pickpocket was his wallet—not that he was worried. He’d moved his billfold up to his top vest pocket, zipping it tight, before he ever left the supply truck.

With the last item checked off, they reached the front of the store, where Amal still waited. Sam paid for the supplies, arranging to have everything boxed and stacked on pallets for delivery. The clerk read the name on the purchase order. “F

argo …” he said. “That sounds familiar. We just filled this earlier in the week. The girls’ school near Gashaka Gumti, yes?”

“It never made it,” Sam said. “This time, we’re delivering it personally.”

The man turned a dubious glance toward Remi and Amal, then back to Sam. “These days, the roads can be dangerous. It might be better to pay someone to deliver it for you.”

“We appreciate your concern, but we’ll be fine. What time will it be ready?”

The man looked over the paperwork, picked up the phone, talked to someone in a melodic language Sam didn’t recognize. “They just started to load the truck. Maybe an hour?”

“We’ll see you then.”

The clerk nodded, caught sight of the boy, who was pretending interest, reading the label on a jug of bleach near the front door. “Out of here, you.” The boy left, and the clerk turned to Sam, handing over his copies of the purchase order and receipt. “Terrible thing, what is happening here. It used to be only in the big cities like Lagos. Now, it’s everywhere. I’ve heard that the boys are forced to steal.”

“Who’s forcing them?” Remi asked. She had a particular soft spot for children and championed any cause that might help.

“Street gangs. And now we have Boko Haram.”

Sam perked up. “You think they’re responsible for the robbery of our supply truck?”

“Boko Haram? No. Around these parts, that’d be the Kalu brothers. Those kids work for them. Be careful, whatever you do.”

“We will,” Sam said, tucking the invoices into his pocket. “Thank you.”

He, Remi, and Amal left. Amal nodded toward the restaurant. “Hank’s still in there.”

Sam glanced over, seeing several of the children, including the boy who’d been watching them inside the store, mingling around the door of the restaurant. “Time to collect him,” Sam replied. Hank walked out the door almost as soon as Sam stepped off the curb. One of the children shouted, and Sam heard a corresponding shout farther down the block. “That can’t be good,” he said to Remi.

A group of kids raced up to them, clearly a distraction, as they tried to cross the street toward Hank. Remi elbowed Sam. “Don’t let them steal the truck keys. If anything happens to that—”

“We’ll never hear the end of it from Selma,” he finished. He dug the keys from his pocket, gripping them tight, as several boys ran straight for him, holding their hands out, begging for money and candy in heavily accented English.

No sooner were the three of them surrounded than Sam spied their Land Rover driving by, a boy, barely tall enough to see out the windshield, at the wheel.

Remi stopped short. “That’s ours!”

“Call the police,” he said, breaking into a run as the vehicle continued down the street, its progress hampered by pedestrians and traffic.

The distraction had never been about taking anything from them. It was about delaying them long enough to find the car after they’d stolen the keys from Hank’s pocket.