Simon sat across from the African in the dilapidated kitchen, idly spinning his knife by its blade tip in the ancient timber of the table. Two dozen matching holes pocked the surface. “Tonight or tomorrow night. In Mazabuka,” Mbuutu said in his thick accent. “That’s a day’s drive away,” he calculated. And a day’s drive back. The thought of Clare bound and locked away for forty-eight hours was unthinkable. Especially after what had happened between them yesterday. “One of us has to stay.” “No. We’ll all go. In case there’s trouble.” Sergeant pushed away from the kitchen counter and loomed over them all. But even seated, Mbuutu was almost taller than the bald man. “We’re not taking her,” Dyson stated, tossing his head in the direction of the bathroom. “I’ll stay,” Corby was quick to offer. “You’ll go!” Simon barked. Mbuutu’s eyes narrowed suspiciously before Corby asked “Then who?” Simon plunged his knife into virgin wood on the table and recommenced his spinning.
