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Bryan didn't ask the question on his mind—not right away.
He'd noticed it too. Audrey Hepburn's young assistant was subtly, but deliberately, keeping anything ugly or unsettling well away from the woman's line of sight.
And bringing things up now, without proof? That would only cause unnecessary worry.
Bryan trusted that this sharp young man knew the boundaries. When the time came, he'd talk. That wasn't blind faith—it came from watching him. Everything Henry did was calculated yet natural, always hitting the right note. That level of self-control didn't come from luck.
So, Bryan kept his eyes on the road, scanning the terrain, watching for any unfamiliar vehicles that might be tailing them, and checking in with the car behind them via radio to make sure all was quiet.
Henry, meanwhile, was playing the part of a chatty young man perfectly, nudging old Bernie into storytelling mode.
Some military tales were classified, of course. But a man who'd worn the green beret for decades? He had enough bizarre stories and embarrassing memories to last a lifetime.
Henry leaned in, eyes wide like a clueless civilian, hanging onto every ridiculous anecdote.
Even Audrey, riding in the backseat, was laughing out loud, completely charmed. She kept asking for more—like a curious child listening to bedtime stories.
With two eager listeners cheering him on, Bernie got bolder. He gleefully sold out Mark and Sam, who weren't even in the car to defend themselves—recounting their early rookie screw-ups with glee.
Using a toothbrush to scrub a toilet and then using it again to brush your teeth? That was nothing.
Emergency midnight drills where recruits showed up half-dressed—someone brought a folding chair in full workout gear, another arrived in full camo gripping a washbasin instead of a rifle? Now that was the real entertainment.
Even Bryan, sitting up front, couldn't help but wince a little. If Bernie had this much dirt on the others, what stories did he have about him?
Time passed quickly—rolling by with laughter and the endless expanse of the African savanna outside their windows.
Eventually, the convoy of three vehicles reached their destination.
This particular children's shelter was the largest of its kind in southwest Somalia. In fact, it was the heart of the entire settlement—the shelter came first, and the village grew around it. The scale was impressive by local standards.
Still, the term "village" was generous. You could see from one end to the other standing at the entrance. The houses were scattered, barely forming streets, and urban planning was clearly not part of the equation.
Bryan frowned. The layout made him uneasy—hard to defend, easy to ambush. The only saving grace was the wide, open terrain. Anyone approaching from outside would be spotted early.
Their three-vehicle convoy pulled through the shelter's main gate—though "gate" was a bit of a stretch. It looked more like an old-fashioned cattle fence from a pioneer ranch: wooden beams, a makeshift latch. Easy enough to crash through in a vehicle—not much of a barrier.
That, at least, gave Bryan some comfort. No real security meant no real reason to break in.
They parked the cars and stepped out. Instantly, a crowd of children greeted them in rows, clapping and singing in heavily-accented English. Some of the younger ones looked lost, unsure of why they were there, glancing around curiously.
Beside them stood several sturdy African women, clearly caretakers. Teachers, nurses, maybe both. Their smiles were genuine—nothing performative about it.
Seeing the children's bright eyes and cheerful faces, Audrey Hepburn clasped her hands over her heart. "Henry," she said, her voice brimming with emotion, "just look at them. Aren't they precious?"
The Hollywood legend stepped down from the car, graciously accepting a modest bouquet of wildflowers from a tiny girl's outstretched hands. She took the girl's hand, gently walking with her toward the others.
Henry followed behind, raising his camera and snapping photos—click, click, click—capturing every angle.
Bryan's eyes followed the guide's vehicle, which had stopped some distance away. The overweight official came over to help translate for Audrey, but the muscular guide stayed back, huddled with a group of local men. They didn't approach the visitors, just stood there talking.
Nothing overtly threatening in their behavior, but Bryan took mental notes. Something didn't sit right.
He assigned himself and Sam to unload the supplies bound for the shelter. Bernie and Mark stayed with the vehicles, guarding them.
As the crates came out, the women—more matronly teachers than security—brightened at the sight. They pointed under a large shade tree, indicating where the supplies should be stacked for inventory.
Bryan didn't need to understand the language; their gestures made everything clear. The supplies weren't going into the warehouse until they were officially logged. A solid rule, especially at a UN-backed facility.
He was mildly disappointed he wouldn't get a look inside the actual shelter, but with the sun blazing and the air thick with heat, fewer steps sounded like a win.
Still, something kept gnawing at him.
The guide—the soldierly one—was still lingering near the outdoor stage on the shelter's tiny playground. He and his group of men had positioned themselves with a clear view of the guests.
In every other site they'd visited, the local muscle usually disappeared the moment their job was done. Sometimes you had to go hunting for them before you could leave.
And sure, sometimes they stuck around—but only if they'd been paid to do so, to make a show of presence and ward off any curious or dangerous elements from messing with the rich white visitors.
But this… this felt different.
Henry was still wandering around with his camera. While most of his shots focused on Audrey and the children, he'd also begun capturing wider angles of the shelter itself—his lens scanning the perimeter, the buildings, the people.
Then he called out suddenly, voice bright but purposeful. "Mr. Mills!" He jogged over, camera in hand. "Have you seen the bag where I put the extra rolls of film?"
He popped open the back of the camera, rewinding the finished roll with the click of practiced fingers.
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