Behind Auma, a young woman wearing a khaki vest was putting the finishing touches on Nicholas Ward’s makeup. They’d flown her in from one of his movie studios under the auspices of doing some pro bono work for an African charity. Now she found herself trapped in an unimaginable nightmare, kept going only by Ward’s promise of obscene financial rewards.

Despite being on the verge of a nervous breakdown, she’d done an amazing job. Ward’s clothes were tattered, filthy, and smeared with blood left over from last night’s zebra roulade. His greasy hair was appropriately tangled, and a couple of twigs hung in front of a forehead smeared with sweat and caked dust.

She stepped back to examine her handiwork for a moment and then glanced over at David Chism, who had been given a similar makeover. Finally, she turned to Rapp and gave a short nod.

“You’re sure?” he asked. “Every news and intelligence agency in the world is going to go over this video with a microscope.”

“They won’t find anything.”

He had no reason not to take her word for it. Everyone looked incredible. He was standing right in front of them and couldn’t find the slightest crack in the façade she’d built.

“Fantastic work, Lisa,” Coleman said, giving voice to Rapp’s thoughts. “We might have to call you to do a little consulting work now and then.”

“Please don’t,” she said and then started up the trail to the lodge.

He shrugged and returned his attention to the actors in his little drama. “Okay. Everyone’s read the script and found their marks?”

Auma, Ward, and Chism all nodded.

“Gideon. All you’ve got to do is insane anger. Not exactly a stretch, right? Mr. Ward. Your job is easy. Catatonic. Just kind of stare off into space like you don’t really know where you are. David. Remember what we practiced. It’s not like in the movies where people get shot and fly backward twenty feet. Just completely relax and crumple, okay? The dirt under you is soft and we’ve cleared out any rocks or roots. Your mind’s going to tell you to put your hands out or not land on your face or whatever. Fight it.”

“Don’t worry,” Chism said. “I’m about to be up for an Oscar.”

“Dr. One-Take. I like your confidence. Stay on the ground but don’t worry too much about having to stay completely still. Once you hit, we’ll take you out of frame.” The former SEAL craned his head around toward Maslick. “Got it, Mas?”

The big man, who had apparently figured out his phone, nodded.

“Okay. Let’s do this. And, Gideon, every time you flub a take, Mitch here is going to cut off one of your toes. Understood?”