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Henry dragged a folding chair into the shade beneath the aircraft hangar and set it down with a courteous smile. "Boss, we've got a decent load of supplies to haul off the plane. It'll take a bit. Why don't you rest here for a while?"
Audrey Hepburn gave him a mild glare. "I've been sitting on that plane for hours. And now you want me to sit some more?" She brushed him off with a smile. "Go on, sweetheart. I'll take a walk, stretch my legs. If I get tired, I'll sit on my own."
Henry relented with a sigh. "Alright, boss. Just… don't wander off too far. We'd like to keep eyes on you."
The rest of the team rolled up their sleeves and got to work unloading the cargo they'd brought with them.
Unlike a commercial airliner, their jet didn't have a designated cargo hold. The supplies had been packed into storage compartments or strapped directly to the floor of the cabin. There was a lot to move.
"Henry," Bryan called, pointing toward a stack of taped-up cardboard boxes, "grab those and start loading up."
Henry and Bernie tackled the boxes—relief supplies collected for the children's shelter. Mostly food, clothing, and some well-meaning but completely impractical stuffed toys.
They also had their own survival kits—bottled water, dry rations, sleeping bags, basic essentials.
Bryan and the others, meanwhile, were moving heavier crates and metal cases: the kind of supplies they didn't want Henry anywhere near. Ammunition, maintenance kits, and a few things that fell under the "don't ask unless you want plausible deniability revoked" category.
For the sake of discretion, the team kept their weapons tucked away. No assault rifles on full display. The last thing they wanted was to terrify the children they were supposedly here to help.
In a place , guns weren't just objects—they were trauma incarnate. Many of the kids in these shelters had lost their families to the barrel of a rifle. Audrey had been firm about this before they even left Europe: no long guns visible around the children.
Once everything was loaded into the two waiting vehicles, Henry turned to watch their Italian pilot taxi the jet carefully into the shade of the hangar. One of the airport staff came by, casually collected the hangar fee, and strolled off with all the urgency of someone on island time.
With everything prepped and packed, the group remained at the airfield, waiting for their local contact and guide to arrive. Wandering off into a rural region of Somalia without a liaison would be a bad idea—especially when the locals weren't expecting a convoy of white foreigners.
As they waited, Henry turned to Bryan. "So, what's the plan from here?"
Bryan nodded. "This place doesn't have night-landing capabilities. Even if we leave for the village right now and haul ass back, we'd miss the cutoff and get grounded here overnight."
"So we're stuck here?" Henry asked.
"Yep. We're spending the night one way or another. Where depends on what the local officials arrange. I've brought camping gear, just in case. Worst comes to worst, we sleep under the stars."
Henry gestured toward the plane. "And what about the pilot and the flight attendant? They sticking around?"
"They'll stay at the airfield," Bryan replied. "Clean the cabin, do a maintenance sweep. And let's be honest—this isn't exactly the kind of place where you can grab a drink at a bar after work. If they try to stay in a local inn, they'll probably end up missing the plane. Comfort-wise, the jet's better than anything they'll find here."
He gave Henry a pointed look. "Also, if they stay with the plane, they can keep an eye on it. You leave a jet out here unguarded, next thing you know, every bolt and panel's gone missing. Locals treat aircraft like a buffet of spare parts."
"Seriously?" Henry raised a brow.
Bryan chuckled, gesturing at the open surroundings. "See any fences? Barbed wire? Security guards? Hell, look at the hangars. Any plane inside? There's always someone next to it. Watchdogs with rifles or just mechanics 'coincidentally' hanging around."
He shrugged. "It's Africa, kid. Anything can happen. That's why I insisted on bringing firepower. Hopefully we don't need it. But if we do—better to have it and not need it than the other way around."
The last part was aimed at Audrey.
Back before the trip began, she'd objected to Bryan's team carrying weapons. In her eyes, this was a humanitarian mission—just visiting children. What possible use were guns?
But when even the UN showed up with armed peacekeepers, she'd reluctantly relented. Her only condition: don't wave the guns around in front of the kids.
They waited for a good while before their local contacts finally arrived—two Somali men, one heavyset and one lean and wiry.
The big guy was dressed in a loose linen T-shirt and slacks—surprisingly upscale for the region. The thin one, meanwhile, looked like he could snap a man in half with his biceps. Clad in a tight camo shirt and worn jeans, he had the energy of a guy who didn't need a gun to make you hand over your wallet.
The two started arguing in rapid Somali, their tone just shy of a full-blown shouting match. Eventually, the heavier man stepped forward and addressed them in halting English.
"You are UN visitors, yes? Miss Hepburn's group? I am your liaison. This is your guide."
Audrey stepped forward with a diplomatic smile and extended her hand. As she shook hands with the official, Henry instinctively lifted his camera and started snapping shots.
Politicians loved photos that made them look useful. But Henry noticed something odd—the man seemed uneasy with the camera. Not the usual "don't catch my bad side" kind of discomfort—more like he didn't want his face documented at all.
Still, no one pressed the issue. The man hurried them along. "Please, we go now. The drive is long."
Everyone loaded up without protest.
The two Somalis took the lead in a battered Jeep.
Henry took the wheel of one of the Range Rovers, with Bernie in the passenger seat. Audrey and Bryan sat in the back.
The second vehicle had Mark driving, Sam riding shotgun, and the rest of the cargo crammed in the backseat—stuff that didn't quite fit in the trunk.
Without any more delay, the convoy rolled out of the dusty airstrip and onto the open plains.
Mark had no trouble keeping pace with the erratic Jeep. The real question mark was Henry—Bryan kept a watchful eye from the back seat.
But after a few minutes, it was clear Henry could handle himself. He held formation perfectly, three car lengths behind the lead vehicle, wheels falling exactly into the same ruts. Not bad at all, especially for someone driving on makeshift trails.
Still, something nagged at Bryan.
He knew Henry could speak Somali—had heard it himself just days ago. Henry had even gone out of his way to befriend local soldiers, guides, and airport staff.
But today, he was oddly quiet.
No effort to chat. No showing off his language skills. He wasn't even pretending to understand.
Maybe others would write it off as embarrassment over his rusty grammar.
But Bryan trusted his gut. And his gut was almost never wrong—especially when it came to trouble.
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