Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)

Fuck.

Shit.

“Shona!”

Trembling, I keep pressure on the wound with one hand while I battle to fish my phone from my pocket with the other. I can only call one person, and I have no idea where he is or how long it will take him to get here, but he can call Shona and get someone from the clinic to help.

The line connects.

“Cas, I told you—”

“It’s Banga.” I’m surprised at how calm my voice is. “He’s been attacked. Baboon. He needs to go to a hospital.”

“Fuck. Hold on.” He barks a command at Leon to get a car. “Where are you?”

“On the path close to the bridge.”

“Alone?”

“Just me and Banga. He was walking me to your room.”

“I’m forty-five minutes away. I’m calling Shona. Do you have Banga’s gun?”

“Yes.”

“Keep it with you.”

“He’s in a bad shape, Ian.”

“Hold on, baby. I’ll get someone there as fast as I can. Keep your phone with you. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

“What are his injuries?”

“He’s losing a lot of blood. I can’t stop the bleeding.”

“Hang in there, Cas. I’m going to hang up now so I can call Shona and an ambulance. Can you keep it together for me?”

“I’m good. It’s Banga you need to worry about.” I can’t speak more past the lump in my throat.

“I’m on my way,” he says before cutting the call.

“Shona!”

I yell until more birds scatter and the monkeys go quiet. I yell until my voice is hoarse, but only the drums and the river answer. Distractedly, I’m aware of burning in my knees. The paper bag lies on the ground. I can’t remember dropping it, but the bottle of wine has broken. That’s what’s hurting. I’m kneeling in the shards of glass. The wine is the color of Banga’s blood, staining the soil beneath my knees.

Dumping my phone on the ground, I push both palms over the wound, but the blood keeps on pumping. There’s a ringing sound in my ears that mixes with a human scream. Shona. She comes running up to us. Calling to her ancestors for mercy, she falls down onto her knees on the other side of me.

“We have to get him back to the lodge,” I say.

She stares at the dead baboon.

“Shona!”

Her gaze flickers back to me. “He’s too heavy. Garai is on his way.”

“Where’s the nearest hospital?”

“The clinic.” She places her hands over mine and starts crying as the blood taints both our fingers.

“Can they do blood transfusions there?”

She shakes her head.

“Where?” I ask.

“Zambia, maybe. Maybe Harare.”

“Does Ian have a pilot?”

“He’s using someone from South Africa.”

Shit. I start to shake. Delayed shock.

Garai appears on the path, running like the devil is behind him. Two men follow on his heels. I recognize them from their uniforms without looking at their faces. They’re the guards stationed at the gate.

The three men carry Banga to the main building while Shona and I run alongside, me carrying the gun and my phone and Shona the ruined banana and apple. I don’t know why she even bothered to pick that up. Shock does strange things to people.

At the lodge, they carry him into the office and lower him onto the sofa.

“First aid kit,” I say, handing the gun to one of the guards to free my hands, not that I know what else to do for Banga.

“What’s that going to help?” Shona asks hysterically. “He needs a transfusion. An operation.”

I place a hand on her arm, smearing blood over her skin. “We have to keep calm.”

The oldest guard speaks in Tswana. “What about the clinic?”

“Do they have a doctor on site?” I ask.

“No,” Shona says. “Only the nurse.”

The noise of a helicopter sounds overhead. My phone rings. Ian.

“Where are you?” he asks when I answer.

“In the office.”

“A helicopter is on the way. They’ll fly Banga to Harare.”

“It’s here.” I drag a hand over my face. “I can hear it outside.”

“Who’s with you?”

“The guards and Garai. Shona is here too.”

“Tell them to take Banga to the helicopter.”

“Okay.”

“How are you doing?’

“Good.”

“Almost there.”

I cut the call and instruct the men to carry Banga outside. It’ll be quicker than waiting for the paramedics to run to the building and back to the helicopter.

The helicopter stands in a small clearing not far from the main entrance. The blades are turning, kicking up wind and dust. Two men in white tunics are offloading a stretcher when we get there.

They secure Banga and load him inside.

“I’m going with him,” Shona says, taking the hand one of the paramedics offers to climb up the step.

I nod. Ducking, I shade my eyes from the wind of the rotors as they take off. The noise of the helicopter is deafening as it lifts to the sky. The sound of the blades chopping the air stretches farther and farther until an eerie quietness falls over the space. The two guards are flanking me, but I feel strangely alone as I stand in the clearing surrounded by thorn trees and night.