Late at night, when Mercer and Habte were lying on the ground in the barbed-wire stockade that acted as their quarters, they would discuss theories behind Gianelli’s rushed schedule. Habte maintained that the Italian was afraid the location would be discovered by someone else and reported to the government in Asmara, but Mercer suspected that there was another purpose behind the killer pace.
“Habte, be reasonable,” Mercer said. “We never saw another person when we were first searching for this place, and the nomad in Badn said this region is avoided because of some superstition. And don’t forget, the landmines act as one hell of a deterrent. Shit, I haven’t even seen a plane fly over.”
“All this is true,” Habte murmured tiredly, rolling so he could pluck a sharp stone from under his back. “But why is Gianelli pushing so hard?”
“I don’t know,” Mercer admitted, too tired to think through the problem.
It had been plaguing him from the start of the mining operation, but at night it took all of his concentration just to eat the weak stew served by the wives of the refugees.
The other thought dogging him was Selome’s safety. They hadn’t been able to speak to each other. She was in a separate compound with the other women, forced to cook for the workers, a slave as surely as he. Whenever Mercer saw her as he was getting his stew, he tried to smile and put up a brave front, but knew that concern darkened his eyes. He could see that she had been hit a couple of times, for purple bruises showed on her arms and face. Each night Mercer and the others could hear guards drag a few of the women off for their own pleasure. He didn’t know if Selome had been similarly treated, and his inability to help her, or the others, ate at him like cancer.
On the morning that started his fifteenth day of captivity, the sky was dark with storm clouds. The veiled sun didn’t even cast shadows. The men waiting in line for their breakfast shivered miserably in the damp chill.
“It will rain before the sun sets again,” Habte said to Mercer, clutching a tin plate for more of the ungodly stew.
“If we’re going to make a break for it,” Mercer replied, first making sure that none of the guards were close enough to overhear, “it’ll have to be soon. I doubt they’ll give us tents, and the refugees won’t last more than a day or two in the rain.”
“Neither will we,” Habte grunted. “Do you have a plan?”
Mercer paid no attention to his friend. He looked at the women tending the cooking fires, watching for Selome to turn from her task so he could offer a smile. When she looked at him, he noticed that exhaustion had bent her once erect carriage and dulled her expression. He studied her for second and saw the old defiance flash from behind her eyes. As gently as he could, he nodded her over to him.
She looked about cautiously before hoisting a platter of injera to her head and moving to the long trestle table that served as the buffet. Mercer saw that her willowy body was so thin he could see the bony projections of her hips though the fabric of her pants. She did not meet Mercer’s eyes as she placed the platter on the table.
“We are getting out of here tonight,” Mercer whispered fiercely, his anger making his quick decision easy. “Be ready two hours after my shift ends.”
“We’ll never make it. The guards will be on us the moment we start running from the camp. Wouldn’t it be wiser if you got out alone and went for help from some village?”
“It would take me a week to reach a town, and the workers here won’t last another two days. Besides, we won’t be leaving the camp. Trust me, I have an idea. It’s nuts, incredibly dangerous, but we have to try.”
“I’ll be ready. I’ve even managed to horde a little food and water for us.”
Beaten, possibly raped, and enslaved, yet she still had managed to keep alive a spark of hope. Mercer ached to touch her. He felt his heart squeeze and a burst of adrenaline course through his system when he thought of her courage. He drew strength from her refusal to give up. “I’ll see you tonight.”
The crew was given only ten minutes to wolf down the food before heading back into the mine. While the surface activities ceased at night to conserve fuel for the generators, underground, the men worked around the clock. The outgoing shift passed Mercer’s team in the tunnel, each man watching his own feet, too exhausted to care that another day was done.
There was little that Mercer could accomplish until nightfall except have Habte alert as many workers as possible. The escape party would have to be small for any chance at success, but Mercer wanted the others forewarned, in the hope that when he went into action, they could help add to the confusion.
Yet the cursed luck that had shadowed Mercer was still with him. Joppi Hofmyer was working in the mine and, after two weeks of subtle needling by Mercer, was ready to exact his revenge. No sooner has Mercer descended the particular shaft that he’d been working only hours before, than Hofmyer approached.
“Mercer, get your fookin’ ass up here,” Hofmyer shouted from the top of the fifty-foot-deep hole in the mine’s working floor, his voice booming over the shattering sounds of the equipment.
As slowly as possible, Mercer climbed the rope ladder rigged to the side of the pit until he was standing on the original floor level. He chanced a look at the long tunnel leading to freedom, then rounded back to the South African. “What’s on your mind? Another lesson in hard rock mining?”
“Aye, it’ll be a lesson, all right.” Hofmyer stood close enough for Mercer to be staggered by his rancid breath. “Gianelli’s gone for the morning, so I’ll have hours to think of an excuse for why you died today.”
Hofmyer was a few years older than Mercer, but that was in no way a disadvantage. The Boer stood half a head taller and weighed a solid fifty pounds more. His shoulders were broad, his chest like a barrel, and his fists were larger than sledgehammers. The knuckles were crisscrossed by numerous white ridges of old scar tissue. Joppi Hofmyer was in peak physical condition — while Mercer was on the verge of collapse.
Knowing his first shot would most likely be his only, Mercer struck. His move was slowed by his condition, but it caught Hofmyer off guard. Mercer’s fist slammed into Joppi’s mouth, snapping two teeth and crushing his lip against the jagged stumps so his blood flowed. Hofmyer fell back several steps, bothered more by the suddenness of the attack than the pain of his injury.
The workers on the mine floor stopped to watch the drama. Even the Sudanese slackened their vigilance. Hofmyer grinned at Mercer, a bloody display of snapped teeth and ruined flesh. “That’s the spirit,” he said wetly, spitting to clear his mouth. “This’ll be a lot more fun if you put up a fight.”
Mercer got into a combat stance and prepared to fight for his life. As he expected, Hofmyer stood solidly, his arms open. He was so accustomed to using his size and strength to overpower opponents that he’d never learned the subtleties of unarmed combat. Mercer hoped that he knew enough to at least survive the pounding that was coming. He had no illusions of actually winning.
Hofmyer’s first punch missed Mercer by an inch as he ducked away, but the follow-up landed, blowing the air out of Mercer’s lungs and rocking him on his heels. It felt as if he’d been struck by a baseball bat and the punch had been from in close, using just a fraction of Hofmyer’s strength. The South African laughed again, feigning blows that Mercer had no option but to dodge. Even a glancing shot would land him on his backside.