And once again, no one outside the tiny West African nation would care.
More gunfire. A short burst.
Marion didn’t even flinch.
The action seemed to be containing itself to the east, away from where she was, and where she needed to be. She would be willing to bet most of Pokou’s troops would be moving in that direction, too. In a way, she thought, it was sort of a blessing.
As long as she didn’t think about the lives that were being lost.
She checked the street ahead of her. Dark, quiet, no movement. She took a deep breath, then pushed herself off the building she’d been leaning against and crossed to the other side of the street. She paused, making sure she was still unnoticed, then headed down the street.
Driving would have been faster, but she felt safer on foot. With the 8 p.m. curfew in effect, a car’s engine would have drawn unnecessary attention on the otherwise quiet roads. So she stuck to the shadows and moved silently from building to building.
Most of the homes and businesses she passed were dark. It was after midnight, so even without the curfew, much of the city would already be asleep.
Five minutes later, she reached a large avenue that went east and west through the city. She started to cross, then stopped abruptly and pulled back into the doorway of a darkened building.
She’d seen headlights coming from the east, and heard the unmistakable sounds of several army vehicles. She peeked around the edge of the wall to get another look. There were at least five vehicles: three jeeps and a couple of trucks with loud diesel engines and transmissions that ground in protest of their unskilled drivers.
She estimated they would pass by her position in less than a minute. Though she knew any delay could be crucial, crossing now would be suicide. They’d spot her the second she stepped onto the street. She had no choice but to wait until they passed.
But her current position was only slightly better than standing still in the middle of the road. If one of the soldiers decided to aim a light in her direction, she would be discovered. So she slipped out of the doorway and stayed tight to the building as she looked for someplace better. She found it half a block down, an alley no more than four meters wide between a store and what looked like an abandoned restaurant.
Signs on the outside walls of the store advertised sodas and cigarettes. Like all the other buildings, it was closed up tight, but as she turned down the alley, she noticed light seeping out of one of the back windows. Marion guessed the shop provided not only a means of income for the owner, but also a place to sleep.
About a dozen meters down the alley was a pile of rotting wooden crates. She slipped behind them, crouching down so she was hidden from anyone passing by on the road. She was able to move one of the boxes a couple centimeters to the right, creating a peephole through which she could keep an eye on the army caravan as it drove by.
The rumbling of the trucks got louder and louder until the street in front of the shop grew bright from the vehicles’ headlights. She watched first as two jeeps passed, then the trucks, and finally the last jeep. Each had been full of young soldiers dressed in dark fatigues and berets.
Even with Marion’s limited vision, it looked to her like all the men were armed with rifles. She had yet to be able to figure out what distinguished one type of rifle from another. To her, they all produced the same result.
As the rumble of the convoy receded, Marion stood up and started back toward the street, intent on making up for lost time.
Marion froze. The voice had come from behind her. It was male, deep and urgent.
She raised her hands. “Please,” she said. “I’m just trying to get home.” Though French was her native tongue, she answered in English. In the unlit alley, her olive-colored skin might look darker than it really was, so she wanted to emphasize the fact that she was a foreigner.
She heard the man take a step closer to her. “Are you American?” he asked, his English slow and deliberate.
“Canadian,” she said.
“Turn. Slow.”
She did what he asked.
When she saw him, she realized he was older than she’d thought. His hair was gray, his body thin and stooped. He held a pistol, and was pointing it at her, though the tremor in his hands moved the barrel a half an inch in either direction every few seconds.
He wasn’t alone, either. Behind him, peeking around his hip, was a young girl. She looked more curious than scared.
“Why do you hide behind my shop?” The man seemed to think hard before saying each word, as if he was reaching back to knowledge he hadn’t used in decades.
“The soldiers,” she said. “I didn’t want them to find me out after curfew.”
“Not safe. You should not be out here.”
The little girl smiled at Marion. It was doubtful she could understand a word that was being said.
“I told you. I’m just trying to go home,” Marion said.
“No car? Alone?”
Marion looked at him for a moment, then shook her head.
“You will be killed,” the man said, but he lowered his own gun, indicating the bullet would not come from him. “Wait until morning.” He nodded at the spot she had been hiding in when the convoy passed. “There. You will be safe. I will not… give you trouble.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I have to go.”
The man’s eyes grew distant, then he said, “Wait.” Only this time she knew he didn’t mean for her to hide out in the alley all night.
He turned and walked quickly away, disappearing behind the back of the shop. The little girl followed him, though more reluctantly, stealing glances back at Marion, until she, too, was gone.
Though Marion felt the need to continue her journey, she did as the old man asked. Less than a minute later he was back, this time alone. The pistol he’d held in his hand had been replaced by a rectangular box that tapered at one end and fit snug in his palm.
He hesitated a moment, then held it out to her. She took it, unsure what to do with it. Without taking it from her hand, the old man turned the device so that the tapered end lay across her palm. In this direction, her thumb fell naturally across the top of the box and rested on top of a square button.
“Touch someone with this end,” the man said, pointing at the wide edge of the box. “Push button. Electric.”
“You mean shock?” she asked. “Like a Taser?”
He looked at her like he hadn’t understood what she was asking.
“Electric. Electric,” he said, then he shook his body, imitating the results.
“I can’t take this from you,” she told him, holding it back out.
“Bring it back,” he said. “After the sun comes up.”
She took a breath, then nodded and said, “Thank you.”
Without another word, he walked back the way he’d come. Marion then turned and retraced her steps to the street.
For thirty minutes Marion worked her way through half-paved side streets and dirt paths, avoiding the main roads altogether. Any time there was even the slightest sound, she would stop and wait until she was sure there was no threat. In her right hand she held on tight to the Taser as if it were a talisman guaranteeing her passage through the city.
It seemed to work, too. She had seen no one else on her trip. And while she had heard a few more military vehicles, they had been distant and of no concern.
That was until she turned onto the street where the orphanage was located.
There were two vehicles double-parked in front of the three-story building that housed the orphanage — a jeep and a sedan, both with headlights on, and drivers sitting at the ready. Two other soldiers stood near the open
