They obviously thought they were alone now. They spoke more loudly, in a language Millen didn’t recognize. Millen wanted to break for the SUV and get away, but what if they knew something? What if they had taken Hannah and Dr. Shaw?

He pulled on his flak jacket with the CDC logo and grabbed the rifle Kito had left him. It was semi-automatic with a banana-shaped magazine. Millen had fired exactly one gun in his life: a .22-caliber rifle during his stint in the Boy Scouts. The gun in his hand was a lot meaner-looking. And deadlier.

He gripped the weapon, ensured the safety was off, and crept toward the main tent. The flaps were down, obscuring his approach. His fear gripped tighter around him with every step. His mouth watered. He swallowed, gathering up his courage. His heart was beating out of his chest. If he didn’t charge or run at that moment, he figured he’d have a heart attack.

With the gun held out, he ducked and burst through the tent flaps.

Three figures sat around the long table… gorging themselves. Opened MRE cartons lay strewn across the floor and table. Millen recognized them: the three Kenyan villagers they had found hiding when the team had arrived here. The villagers stared at him, eyes wide with fear, then jumped up and stumbled over the folding chairs, falling as they scrambled to escape.

Millen quickly set the gun on the ground and held his hands up. “Wait. Stop. I’m CDC.” He pointed to the white letters on his jacket. “I was here before. American. Help.” He spread his arms, blocking the entrance. A girl, maybe thirteen years old, stopped.

“Yes, I’m an American,” Millen said again. “Here to help.”

Millen finally got the three villagers settled down, and after a few minutes, he convinced them to resume their meal. The teenage girl, Halima, was the only one who spoke English. As they ate, she recounted the raid on the village. Hearing it firsthand was hard for Millen.

When the shooting began, the three villagers had hidden under their cots in the isolation tent. They fled after Peyton told them to. From the bushes at the village’s outskirts, they watched the raid unfold.

“They ran, the dark-haired woman with smooth white skin, a man, and the girl with red hair. They shot her—”

“Who?”

“The red-haired woman.”

Millen leaned back in the chair, unable to speak.

“I’m sorry,” Halima said quietly.

Millen stared at the white canvas swaying in the morning breeze. “What happened after that?” His voice was hollow.

“The dark-haired woman picked her up. They ran to a truck and drove away. There was an explosion. The truck crashed. More shooting. I couldn’t see what happened. I’m sorry.”

Millen nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

When they were done eating, he asked them where they would go. The teenager simply shrugged.