As her nurse emerged from the clinic, the two men leveled their weapons in his direction. Rounding on the apparent leader, Cynthia said, “You want my help? I need my nurse.”

Speaking in French, he granted Tadeas passage. Tadeas handed her two pairs of gloves and her stethoscope. His eyes screamed at her to use caution with these men. She didn’t know how to reassure him or if she even should, so she thanked him.

Without warning, the driver kicked Tadeas in the back of his knees, bringing him to the ground. Before she could even gasp, he put the muzzle of his rifle against the back of Tadeas’s head. Knowing that the man would not hesitate to kill him, she decided not to react as she slipped one pair of gloves into her pocket and put the other pair on.

When she approached the rear of the truck, she saw a young man lying atop a pallet on the open tailgate. Spent shell casings littered the truck bed. The smell of gunpowder mixed with blood filled her mouth with a metallic taste and almost overwhelmed her. Inspecting the patient, she saw his olive-green shirt soaked with blood. When she pulled the knife out of her pocket, the warlord put a hand on her wrist.

Cynthia looked into his wild brown eyes. “You can hinder me or stay out of my way. The choice is yours.”

“Be very careful, Doctor. I have the power to kill everyone here. Their lives are in your hands.” He released her.

She stripped the gloves off and dropped them to the dirt. She retrieved the second pair and carefully put them on. “Please don’t touch me again. I have no intention of hurting your man here. But by interfering, you have just delayed my examination and put his life in further danger.”

The man snorted but took a step back. She turned to the patient and ignored the fact that the man watched with bald suspicion as she cut the bloody shirt away. When she set the knife down, he picked it up and closed the blade, setting it far enough away that she couldn’t easily grab it, and of course contaminating it. Cynthia shook her head in frustration at the man’s stubborn stupidity.

Trying to put him out of her mind, she examined her patient. Two bullets had penetrated his right lower abdomen. She suspected the rounds were 5.56 caliber based on the size of the entry wounds and the trauma. Even in a stocked hospital with trained emergency staff, she couldn’t see saving this man. He bore a brand on his inner wrist—the bull’s-eye mark of Chukuwereije, a warlord who had grown in strength over the last five years. If she did not give the appearance of trying to save him, Tadeas would die. And likely Ayo. Maybe even her.