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The entire scene naturally drew the attention of the children, the teachers, and even the overweight local official at the compound.

Still, none of them seemed alarmed. They simply smirked among themselves, amused at the pale, queasy foreigner clearly suffering from "African stomach." The more miserable Henry looked, the more their spirits lifted.

Henry didn't actually vomit again. The way Bryan and Audrey were holding him made it impossible—any further retching would end up on himself or, worse, on them. Too disgusting.

So now he was just dry-heaving, pale-faced and doubled over. With the mess he'd already left in the ditch, no one questioned whether his sickness was real. Even Bryan began to wonder if the kid had genuinely eaten something bad.

Henry's act was convincing enough that even the hostile-looking "guide" and his group of armed locals stayed relaxed. They laughed openly, pointing and joking about the weak foreigner rather than staying on guard.

Audrey Hepburn didn't care about the mockery. Her attention was entirely on her young assistant.

At last they reached the SUV. Henry leaned heavily against the hood while Audrey opened the rear door, half-climbing inside as she searched her handbag.

"I know I packed antacids," she said over her shoulder. "Just hold on a bit longer, darling."

Then she felt a sudden shove at her back. At the same instant, strong arms grabbed her legs and lifted, shoving her bodily into the vehicle.

It was Bryan.

He swung himself in right after her with practiced speed. Too practiced. This wasn't the kind of move you pulled off by accident—it was the kind of move you'd used before, and often.

The rest of Bryan's team was already in motion. Bernie and Mark were at the second SUV, engines roaring to life.

Bryan had expected Henry to be the slowest; after all, he was outside on the passenger side.

Instead, Henry didn't even bother running around to the driver's door. He grabbed the roof rail, vaulted up, and dove headfirst through the open passenger window. In one fluid motion, he slid over the seatback and dropped perfectly into the driver's seat.

It was so clean, so precise, it made a Hollywood stunt reel look clumsy by comparison.

By the time the second SUV revved, the lead vehicle's engine was already growling. The ambushers—still laughing moments earlier—were caught flat-footed.

For Audrey Hepburn, however, there was nothing cinematic about being manhandled. Sixty years old and thrown into a car like a sack—her body protested with a few hard knocks, leaving her dizzy and disoriented.

When she blinked herself back to focus, the SUV was already speeding forward.

Her voice rose sharply. "Will someone explain what on earth is happening?!" She tried to sit up.

She didn't get the chance. A burst of gunfire shredded the air. Bullets punched through the rear windows, forcing Bryan to slam her flat against the seats.

"Ma'am," Bryan said grimly, "do you really need an explanation right now?"

From the driver's seat Henry shouted, "Bryan! Is this thing armored? And do we have spare vests—cover her with something!"

Ahead of them, a man stepped into the dirt road, raising a rifle. The muzzle flashed.

If the shots had come from the side, Henry might have worried. He didn't believe for a second that the CIA had magically supplied fully bulletproof SUVs.

But straight on? That he could handle. Between the attacker and Audrey sat the heaviest piece of steel in the vehicle: the engine block. A basic assault rifle wasn't blowing through that.

Better to drive right through the threat than to waste time swerving.

Henry pressed the accelerator. The SUV barreled forward, engine roaring, as Bryan barked from the back, "Careful! This truck is not armored!"

"Noted!" Henry shot back. "Then get her covered!"

Bryan yanked open the supply crate, dragging out ballistic vests. He threw the first over Audrey's chest and shoulders, then grabbed another for her lap and legs.

Audrey stayed pressed flat, her mind reeling. For decades she'd filmed dangerous action scenes—but nothing compared to the surreal terror of live gunfire.

Henry thought grimly: That's because you've never actually been hit. Real bullets don't leave room for witty one-liners.

But he kept that to himself.

Instead, he pushed his senses to their absolute limit. Heat signatures, sound, motion—everything within ten kilometers lit up in his mind.

Three kilometers out: a convoy.

Not just any convoy—open-bed Toyota pickups with heavy machine guns mounted in the back. Africa's infamous "technical" trucks. And they were coming fast.

Good thing we moved when we did, Henry thought. Another five minutes and we'd have been boxed in.

Behind him, Audrey whispered, "Can anyone please tell me what's going on?"

She didn't dare lift her head—she wasn't stupid enough to make herself an easy target.

The SUV jolted as Henry smashed through the compound's flimsy wooden gate. The pursuing gunmen fell back, firing wildly but losing their line of sight.

Far behind, the would-be kidnappers scrambled to pile into their own vehicles. They'd already lost time; their "guide" had waited too long, insisting on gathering extra men before giving chase.

In the rearview mirror, Henry saw Mark's SUV burst out behind them, intact and keeping pace. For the moment, they had a lead.

"Ma'am," Henry said quickly, eyes locked on the road, "I overheard our 'guide' speaking in Somali. He said they were going to kidnap you—the famous white actress—and kill the rest of us.

"That fat 'official'? Probably not an official at all. They almost attacked us back at the airport, but he told the guide to wait until they had more men at the destination. We must have arrived early; their backup wasn't ready yet. That's the only reason we're not already surrounded."

Audrey's immediate response wasn't about herself. "What about the children back there? They'll be safe, won't they?"

Bryan was busy taping ballistic vests to the inside of the doors as makeshift armor. He didn't look up.

"Best thing we can do for them," he said bluntly, "is get the hell out without a fight. These guys want us, not the kids. If we stay and shoot it out, those children will get caught in the crossfire—and we don't have enough people or the right terrain to protect them."

He finished strapping a vest across Audrey's chest and shoulders, then yanked a steel helmet from the gear pile and shoved it onto her head.

Just in time. Gunfire cracked again behind them.

Mark's SUV was already engaging their pursuers—trading fire with the guide's pickup truck, which had finally roared to life with a fresh batch of armed men.

Bryan shoved Audrey flat again, layering more vests over her exposed limbs. It wasn't perfect, but it was something.

"Ma'am," he said, voice firm, "stay as low as you can."

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