On the morning that started his fifteenth day of captivity, the sky was dark with storm clouds. The veiled sun didn’t even cast shadows. The men waiting in line for their breakfast shivered miserably in the damp chill.
“It will rain before the sun sets again,” Habte said to Mercer, clutching a tin plate for more of the ungodly stew.
“If we’re going to make a break for it,” Mercer replied, first making sure that none of the guards were close enough to overhear, “it’ll have to be soon. I doubt they’ll give us tents, and the refugees won’t last more than a day or two in the rain.”
“Neither will we,” Habte grunted. “Do you have a plan?”
Mercer paid no attention to his friend. He looked at the women tending the cooking fires, watching for Selome to turn from her task so he could offer a smile. When she looked at him, he noticed that exhaustion had bent her once erect carriage and dulled her expression. He studied her for second and saw the old defiance flash from behind her eyes. As gently as he could, he nodded her over to him.
She looked about cautiously before hoisting a platter of
“We are getting out of here tonight,” Mercer whispered fiercely, his anger making his quick decision easy. “Be ready two hours after my shift ends.”
“We’ll never make it. The guards will be on us the moment we start running from the camp. Wouldn’t it be wiser if you got out alone and went for help from some village?”
“It would take me a week to reach a town, and the workers here won’t last another two days. Besides, we won’t be leaving the camp. Trust me, I have an idea. It’s nuts, incredibly dangerous, but we have to try.”
“I’ll be ready. I’ve even managed to horde a little food and water for us.”
Beaten, possibly raped, and enslaved, yet she still had managed to keep alive a spark of hope. Mercer ached to touch her. He felt his heart squeeze and a burst of adrenaline course through his system when he thought of her courage. He drew strength from her refusal to give up. “I’ll see you tonight.”
The crew was given only ten minutes to wolf down the food before heading back into the mine. While the surface activities ceased at night to conserve fuel for the generators, underground, the men worked around the clock. The outgoing shift passed Mercer’s team in the tunnel, each man watching his own feet, too exhausted to care that another day was done.
There was little that Mercer could accomplish until nightfall except have Habte alert as many workers as possible. The escape party would have to be small for any chance at success, but Mercer wanted the others forewarned, in the hope that when he went into action, they could help add to the confusion.
Yet the cursed luck that had shadowed Mercer was still with him. Joppi Hofmyer was working in the mine and, after two weeks of subtle needling by Mercer, was ready to exact his revenge. No sooner has Mercer descended the particular shaft that he’d been working only hours before, than Hofmyer approached.
“Mercer, get your fookin’ ass up here,” Hofmyer shouted from the top of the fifty-foot-deep hole in the mine’s working floor, his voice booming over the shattering sounds of the equipment.
As slowly as possible, Mercer climbed the rope ladder rigged to the side of the pit until he was standing on the original floor level. He chanced a look at the long tunnel leading to freedom, then rounded back to the South African. “What’s on your mind? Another lesson in hard rock mining?”
“Aye, it’ll be a lesson, all right.” Hofmyer stood close enough for Mercer to be staggered by his rancid breath. “Gianelli’s gone for the morning, so I’ll have hours to think of an excuse for why you died today.”
Hofmyer was a few years older than Mercer, but that was in no way a disadvantage. The Boer stood half a head taller and weighed a solid fifty pounds more. His shoulders were broad, his chest like a barrel, and his fists were larger than sledgehammers. The knuckles were crisscrossed by numerous white ridges of old scar tissue. Joppi Hofmyer was in peak physical condition — while Mercer was on the verge of collapse.
Knowing his first shot would most likely be his only, Mercer struck. His move was slowed by his condition, but it caught Hofmyer off guard. Mercer’s fist slammed into Joppi’s mouth, snapping two teeth and crushing his lip against the jagged stumps so his blood flowed. Hofmyer fell back several steps, bothered more by the suddenness of the attack than the pain of his injury.
The workers on the mine floor stopped to watch the drama. Even the Sudanese slackened their vigilance. Hofmyer grinned at Mercer, a bloody display of snapped teeth and ruined flesh. “That’s the spirit,” he said wetly, spitting to clear his mouth. “This’ll be a lot more fun if you put up a fight.”
Mercer got into a combat stance and prepared to fight for his life. As he expected, Hofmyer stood solidly, his arms open. He was so accustomed to using his size and strength to overpower opponents that he’d never learned the subtleties of unarmed combat. Mercer hoped that he knew enough to at least survive the pounding that was coming. He had no illusions of actually winning.
Hofmyer’s first punch missed Mercer by an inch as he ducked away, but the follow-up landed, blowing the air out of Mercer’s lungs and rocking him on his heels. It felt as if he’d been struck by a baseball bat and the punch had been from in close, using just a fraction of Hofmyer’s strength. The South African laughed again, feigning blows that Mercer had no option but to dodge. Even a glancing shot would land him on his backside.
For ten minutes Hofmyer threw punches, some landing, some brushing by, and some missing completely. Mercer managed only a single counterpunch, a weak swing that hurt his hand more than Hofmyer’s temple where it struck. The Eritrean laborers had been cheering at the start of the fight, but upon seeing Mercer’s ineptitude at defending himself, they quieted. As each punch slammed into him, they cringed, for no man could withstand the brutal punishment Mercer was enduring.
But Mercer had a reason behind his apparent lack of defense. Every time Joppi came at him, he allowed himself, through retreat or landed blows, to move closer and closer to the idling skip loader. Its replacement driver had not yet shown for work, and the squat excavating machine rested near the middle of the domed chamber, its wide bucket elevated off the ground. If Mercer had any chance of surviving the fight, he would need the Bobcat’s power to augment his own flagging strength.
Hofmyer never became aware of Mercer’s intentions, but he also never moved to the exact spot that Mercer wanted him. Three times Mercer was beaten to within a foot of the skip loader, and every time Joppi moved out of the fray to catch his breath and enjoy the cheers of the Sudanese rebels. Three times, with an undeterred patience, Mercer was pushed and beaten and kicked until they abutted the Bobcat again. His face was bloodied and swollen so he could barely see and he kept one arm low to protect what might be broken ribs, but still he took the punishment. It was during the fourth time that Mercer judged everything was right.
There was a small spark left in him, that last bit that gave him a burst of speed and strength. Joppi came in for a devastating series of body blows, twisting his horny fists into Mercer’s flank in order to increase the pain of the battered ribs. Hofmyer expected Mercer to fall back, gasping as he had for the past three such attacks, but Mercer didn’t. Straightening as best he could, Mercer lashed out with his fist, a ranging shot that forced Joppi off balance and then, so quickly no one even saw it happen, Mercer threw himself to the ground, extending his leg in a sweep that brought Hofmyer crashing to the stone floor. Before Joppi could recover, Mercer was on his feet again, reaching across to the controls of the Bobcat. With a skillful flick of his wrist, he pivoted the vehicle in place so the hydraulic bucket centered over Joppi’s head and lowered the blade until it exerted just enough pressure to pin the South African. Had Mercer wanted, he could have crushed Joppi’s skull like an overripe melon.
The Sudanese guards finally realized what had happened, and their weapons came up.
“Back off,” Mercer shouted in English, his tone carrying his meaning. From under the bucket of the skip loader, Joppi Hofmyer shrieked. Mercer glanced down at his prisoner. “That’s right, you bastard, tell them how much it hurts. Tell them you don’t want to die.”
Joppi screamed again, a horrid sound that pierced every corner of the cavern. His body wriggled as the blade kept his head mashed against the floor.
“Habte?” Mercer shouted, and a second later the Eritrean was at his side. “Can you speak to these Sudanese?” The Eritrean nodded. “Good. Joppi, I want you to tell them to back out of the tunnel. If they’re still here in thirty seconds, your brains are going to decorate this cavern.”
The South African repeated the order, his voice shrill with fear yet muffled by the weight of the machine. Habte translated, and the Sudanese did as ordered, forming up in a ragged line and retreating from the cavern.
“You’d better hope,” Mercer spoke to Hofmyer, “that Gianelli returns soon, because you aren’t getting up until
