He was a thirty-something man wearing a camouflage uniform, a green beret, and black ankle-high boots. He had tired, bloodshot eyes and a slight swelling on his right temple. Jake's eye wandered again to those black boots. He had seen boots like that before. Keep your eyes lowered, their father had told them. Lowered eyes meant ample opportunity to study boots. "It can't be," whispered Jake. "Same boots, for sure, but that doesn't necessarily mean—" "Look at that lump above his eye," said Kas. "Don't you remember, Jake, he got hit by a stone when those boys rescued us. I'm telling you, it's him." Yakuuba wagged his index finger in front of her face. "Stop talking tuubaaku language," he hissed. "You are a Tuareg princess, remember?" "But Yakuuba, this is important," whispered Kas. "That's one of the men who kidnapped us." The gendarme was now only two rows from the back of the bus and heading inexorably their way. Jake clenched his teeth hard to stop them from chattering. His sister was right; it was definitely their kidnapper.
