The Amulet of Power - Mike Resnick [50]
After waiting two hours for a bus, Lara turned to Omar.
“You’re sure the bus drives on this road?” she said. “So far all we’ve seen are two cars and a mule-cart.”
“This is its regular route,” he assured her.
“Then where is it?”
Omar shrugged. “It breaks down a lot.”
They waited another twenty minutes, and finally a rusted, dilapidated minivan pulled up.
“That’s the bus?” asked Lara.
“That’s the bus.”
“The four of us will fill it up.”
“I have seen it carry as many as fifteen grown men,” said Gaafar.
“On the inside?”
Gaafar laughed. “Remember to hide your face,” he said, and the four of them climbed into the minivan. Sure enough, it stopped twice more to pick up three more men, and Lara decided she was in more danger of being crushed to death than identified.
When the minivan was about ten miles out of Khartoum it hit a pothole and blew its left front tire. The driver had everyone climb out while he went around to the back and removed the spare, only to find that it was flat as well.
Lara was about to ask Omar what they should do next, then remembered not to speak aloud, and simply looked at him questioningly. He gestured her to follow him, Gaafar and Hassam fell into step, and the four of them began walking toward Khartoum.
“There will be another bus along soon, perhaps a real one,” said Omar when they were out of earshot.
“That was some bus,” said Lara. “I felt safer when people were shooting at us back in the desert.”
“We are still in the desert,” said Hassam. “Khartoum is in the desert.”
“Quiet!” whispered Omar sharply before Lara could reply. She turned and saw that the other three passengers were approaching them. Omar began walking again, and soon all seven of them—the six men and the false boy—were trudging along the pothole-filled tarmac toward Khartoum.
Finally a large bus, every bit as filthy and rusty as the minivan, honked once and pulled up to a stop, and all seven got on. Omar paid for his party, and they walked past a few seated passengers to the back.
The leather had been ripped off the seats, and Lara elected to stand, holding onto a strap that hung down from the ceiling. One of the passengers from the van walked back and was soon standing next to her.
They lurched over the terrible road for a mile, then another, and suddenly the passenger had a knife in his hand and was plunging it into Lara’s robe. The only thing that saved her was the bulkiness of the robe, which concealed the precise location of her body. The knife missed her ribs by inches, and she wasn’t about to give her attacker a second chance. She grabbed his wrist and twisted sharply. There was an audible crack and the man’s mouth opened in a moan, giving Lara a glimpse of the stub of a mutilated tongue. He dropped to one knee, just in time for his face to come into contact with Lara’s swiftly rising knee. As his head shot back, she caught him on the throat with the edge of her hand, and he collapsed.
“Turn away!” whispered Omar so softly that only Lara could hear him. “You’re humiliated and can’t meet anyone’s eyes!”
All the passengers turned to stare at her. She was fully prepared to pull her guns and hold them at bay until the bus reached Khartoum, but then Omar stepped forward.
“This scum actually had the nerve to try to kiss my baby brother!” he announced in outraged tones.
Then, as one, the passengers applauded.
“Serves you right, you son of a pig!” said Omar, landing a heavy kick to the unconscious assassin’s rib cage.
Fifteen minutes later the bus came to a stop, the driver announced that they had reached the end of his route, and Lara, after many days and narrow escapes, climbed down the shaky stairs and finally set foot in Khartoum.
She looked around, trying to get her bearings based on her one previous trip to the city.
At least we should be all through