A soldier stepped forward and grabbed Zalika’s arm, hauled her to her feet, and pulled her over to stand in front of the warlord. He roughly grabbed her chin in his hand and twisted her face to one side, then the other. “The doctor has returned to her own country. How much did it cost the people of Katangela to educate you in the West?” He sneered. “My men are looking forward to you. But first, you must kill your father.”

Cynthia gasped again and covered her mouth. Please, God, she silently begged. Please end this.

Zalika lifted her chin. “I will not.”

Chukuwereije barked an order, and a soldier approached Cynthia’s group again. He grabbed a woman in a blue-and-white dress and threw her on the ground in front of him, ignoring her cries as he put the muzzle of his weapon against her head.

“You will kill him, or I’ll kill her,” Chukuwereije said.

Zalika looked at the woman. Tears filled her eyes, then streamed down her face. “You can do that, and you probably will. That makes you a killer of another person, yet it won’t force me to kill my father.”

“Then I’ll go through everyone, one at a time, until they’re all dead.” He put his nose against hers. “And that will be your doing, Princess Akinjide.”

Cynthia admired the woman’s courage as she replied, “It’s Doctor Akinjide. And it will not be my doing. Their blood will be on your hands, and my father’s blood will never be on mine.”

Clearly, Chukuwereije did not usually encounter someone brave enough to contradict him. He grabbed Zalika by her hair and twisted her around. She stood at an odd angle, pain registering all over her face. Then he pushed her toward a tall man near the kitchen door. “Do what you will. Perhaps by the time you’ve finished, she’ll feel more compliant.”

“No!” The strangled cry ripped itself out of Cynthia’s throat as Zalika fought and scraped against the two men who dragged her toward the kitchen.

The warlord focused on her. “Ah, Doctor Myers,” he said in English while wagging a scolding finger. “I have been looking for you.”

Before she could process his words, two men grabbed her arms and dragged her to stand in front of him. She looked him in the eyes. They were so dark they were nearly black, cold. She could see no empathy or kindness in them at all—just an emptiness that caused a chill to go down her spine.

“I found my son’s body. He’d been dumped like a dead pig. But you know something? Under his body was a glove that could only have come from your clinic.” He grabbed her by the throat, moving as fast as a cobra striking. “Tell me, Doctor, how you let my son die. Explain it to me.”