Get Me Out Of Africa

By Andie Alexander

An African business trip for Kes Madrid turns out to be a lot more exciting when she and her sexy-but-engaged boss fall into the Zambezi river after their raft tips over. Landing on the Zimbabwe side has Kes terrified. She wants to go home, but her boss has other plans, putting them smack-dab in the middle of a coup. The nation's rebels and the CIA are ready to take the country away from the dictatorial leader and give it to the people. In the meantime, Kes' life will be put on the line as the most wanted in the nation, which is definitely not on her 'bucket list.'

The second book in the series is: 'Voo Do Love Me!' Check it out!

This full-length book contains about 91,000 words and is approximately 347 pages in length.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andie Alexander
• Release date: Sep 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452476193

Andie Alexander

Andie writes mysteries and adventures, and also writes as all the author names on SweetTaleBooks.com. Writing is escapism, at its finest.See more at http://www.AndieAlexander.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

Certain I was about to die; I imagined the eulogist's speech at my funeral. Kes Madrid was a wonderful employee, willing to go the extra mile to make her newspaper the best in all of Denver. A daring adventurist—who was somewhat insane if we're being honest—she met her final spirited demise while traveling on a whitewater raft down the Zambezi River in Africa. Everyone knows the Zambezi is a death trap, but it's too late to warn her now. It's so typical of a redhead to do something stupid like that, but with her green eyes, it was inevitable for her to want the thrill of a ride.

Dressed in a black suit and a black top hat, the man clears his throat while my parents both sob. Oh, Edsel, my mother says. You're so right about Kes. She was insane.

The man looks like an Edsel, kind of a dinosaur of a man.

He shakes his head, grimacing slightly as he speaks. What a loss. We all knew and loved Kes for her laughter, her loving forgiveness of all who'd wronged her, and her love of fruitcake, keeping our church bake sale going for many years. All donations will be given to send the mummified fruitcakes to charities in the future.

The man in my head was crazy. I hated fruitcake and revenge was my middle name—not forgiveness. Besides, Mom was the one who was nuts, not me.

I couldn't die now, thinking my eulogy might be wrong and doom my name to mummified fruitcake heaven.

This couldn't be the end of my life. This had to be just another chapter. Little did I know, not only was it a chapter, it was actually the beginning of my new life, one that would make me proud.

~~~~~

Popping back to the present, I faced the Zambezi River ahead, terror filling my brain at what I saw. I don't like this. I want out! The small gray raft crashed against the huge wave raging around us while I grabbed as many backpacks as I could, getting soaked in the meantime.

Why my boss insisted on all these backpacks was beyond me. I had only one, for one change of clothing and my cameras.

What's the matter? Mr. Hamilton, my blue-eyed, brown-haired boss, watched me with his back to the upcoming waves, looking like this was a normal day at the office. His slight British accent didn't change one bit, so I wasn't sure if he was as terrified as I was. This is a great adventure and you can write about it for weeks.

Maybe, but I wouldn't be the one writing it. It would be written for my funeral, from Edsel, the crazy eulogist with a sick fondness for fruitcake donations.

I had to raise my voice to be heard over the loud fierce whitewater. I don't like adventures. I also don't like death or fruitcake. Make sure they know that at my funeral.

He shot me a confused look, but I ignored him. Instead, I eyed the land to my right, seeing no nasty African animal waiting to eat me. Can't we just move over to the side and get out? I wonder if cabs come this far out to save people? I'd tip the guy extra. If he does, I'll even treat for pizza later, but no fruitcake. I hate fruitcake and don't ever forget it.

I don't think I'll forget that, but it's an odd request. Are you sure you're not on drugs or something?

No. I just want a nice funeral.

I rocked the raft to move toward the side, but Mr. Hamilton kept it solid, still shooting me a strange look. So, I hated fruitcake. Sue me, buddy.

Chicken, he said as an insult. I thought you were tougher than that. You told me, over the past two weeks, you could get any article in this place and make my newspaper shine. What did you say again? 'It would be a 'must read' for everyone in the world.'

I might have over-exaggerated a bit. I don't want to do this anymore. I really just want to live. Tears of fear teased my eyes. Can't you see this is more than we can handle?

An evil smirk covered his face. Now you're scared? It's just the Zambezi River. I promise we won't die.

Just the Zambezi? Was he nuts? It was a huge deadly torrent of water with mean, dastardly animals just waiting to eat me.

I shot him a confused look, hoping he'd understand, but knew he wouldn't. I still had to try to convince him that death wasn't on my agenda. "No, you won't die. I'm lighter and could just be thrown overboard. Then I'd be eaten by who-knows-what. I let go of the raft tether on the side and slapped a bug on my arm. I'm probably going to die of mosquito bites anyway."

We were thrown a bit to the left, making me lose my balance. I grabbed the tether, fast, so I wouldn't go into the water. Letting go was just a stupid move. Adding it to crazy Edsel's speech, I then knew I was officially becoming insane. Maybe I had malaria?

You didn't worry this much when we were touring Zambia, Mr. Hamilton said with a grin.

I wasn't this close to death then, either.

The raft tilted to go over some rocks, righting itself as I caught my breath. Once my stomach fell back into place, I could only think about hurling my breakfast over the side, or at Mr. Hamilton, just to get my point across.

He pointed to the riverbank. Take some shots for the article.

What? Let go of the raft? Are you nuts? Swatting a mosquito was one thing, but actually holding a camera? Certain death, for sure.

No. You won't die and your job is to write that article. If you can't do it, I'll just go back and have Tara—

No, I'll do it. I didn't want to deal with that woman. She was the evil pink witch, and I was glad he'd left her in the other raft with the guide.

Where were they, anyway? I turned to look, but we were approaching a bad part in the river so I stared ahead. Not only could I see the waves of death, I could hear them, which was even worse for anticipating my demise.

The raft flew up and fell on its side for a moment with a splash before it leveled off again. I held on with white knuckles so I wouldn't be thrown overboard. I wiped the dripping water from my face, removing my hand from the tether for just a split second.

To the left side of the river was a huge hill or vertical cliff made of weathered rock. Turning to the right, I saw a sandy bank with smaller rocks and a few crocodiles. We truly were stuck between a rock and a hard place with no way out.

I really don't like this! I shouted.

You'll be fine. This is just an adventure and great for newspaper sales.

Some adventure and forget the sales. Dying while whitewater rafting in Africa was, by no means, my idea of 'fun' or an 'adventure.' I kept telling myself that I'd make sure this wasn't the end of my life, but my fears kept my brain whirling into the pit of terror, where the thought of fruitcake reigned.

I held onto the raft handles for dear life, the backpacks still on my arms. Remind me to tell you how much I hate adventures.

You already have, but I'll make a note of it on your review. He pointed toward the right as he spoke over the whitewater noise. Get some pictures of those lions eating something over there. They look scary and will make the reader want more.

It looked like they were eating either a deer, or some other tourist willing to try out the white rapids for an 'adventure.' You've got to be kidding. This is the worst part of the river so far. I can't let go of this raft or I'll die.

No, you won't. He shook his head. Get pictures. Otherwise, the article won't be worth much and we'll both be out of jobs.

But I could be thrown out of the raft.

I'll remember that on your next review.

Oh, brother! Could this man think of anything other than business? Some boss he was, willing to sacrifice an employee for the almighty dollar.

While praying I'd live, I let go of the side of the raft and opened a backpack. After searching inside, I yanked out a camera and began snapping pictures. I knew the shots wouldn't come out, considering I was taking them one-handed and the raft was rocking. But I couldn't let go of the raft, or I'd be in the water. However, I had to take the pictures or I'd be out of a job.

He pointed. Get those old trees over there, too, he added in a loud voice. They look like they're upside down.

Those huge baobab trees? There was no way I'd get a good shot of them.

Use a wide-angle on them.

I know how to do my job, I muttered, snapping a blurry picture.

The rapids suddenly spun us around, making me ride backward down the huge river while my boss faced forward. I screamed again as we lurched over a small waterfall, landing with a thud and a splash, carrying us even further into nowhere land. My stomach flipped over and its contents entered my throat, making me vow never, ever, to do anything close to whitewater rafting again. That included roller coasters and the merry-go-round. Even a cab ride seemed out of the question, unless it was going to get me out of Africa somehow.

I shook the camera to get the water off, but the lens was wet, so I shoved it into a plastic bag inside the backpack. After zipping the pack, I pulled it back onto my arm, grabbing the tether again. What was he thinking, asking me to get pictures? He must've really hated me.

I watched behind us, since I was now traveling backward. "I hope this little adventure gets rewarded in my paycheck—if we ever get home."

Don't worry. He leaned closer to me. We'll get a great story and you'll be famous…again.

At the next opportunity, I planned to confront him about that snide 'famous' remark and the nasty glare he threw me.

While holding onto the raft the best I could, I watched Mr. Hamilton grab the remaining backpacks. My arms were full and I could barely hold on. Waves crashed down on us, filling the raft with at least six inches of water. My hair, shirt, and shorts were wet, my shoes were soaked, and death was imminent. I shut my eyes, held on tight, and hoped each moment wasn't my last.

Please let us live…please let us live, I prayed, opening my eyes.

The raft suddenly stopped rocking and the thunder of rushing water quieted. We'd reached a calm section of the river. It was even calm up ahead, which made me feel safer.

Whew! I'm so glad we made it. That was even kind of fun, in a sick sort of way. I let out a big breath, then turned toward the front and pointed up ahead. Look at the fighting hippos. They're scary animals but almost look like water cows to me. That was some ride, but do you think—

Without warning, our raft was thrown onto its side. Both of us were flipped into the water with the raft landing upside down on top of us. Water went up my nose even though I tried to hold my breath.

I pushed myself up from the depths to the top of the water with the backpacks I'd grabbed, full of camera gear and clothing. It wasn't easy, but I was strong and tough enough to make it happen. I just hoped whatever made our raft flip wasn't a hippopotamus. With their jaws and attitude, that would've meant instant death.

I reached the surface, gasped for air, and looked for any huge animal near me. The raft had floated toward the hippos downstream, almost out of sight.

Once I pulled the straps of the heavy backpacks onto one arm, I headed toward the bank, praying the native wildlife would ignore me.

While struggling through the water, I looked down the river again, where the eyes of a crocodile had just broken the top of the water. Ripples followed the top of its head as the croc swam toward me. At least it wasn't a hippo. They were the scariest animals and killed many people in Africa, or so I'd read, but crocs weren't any better.

With just a few feet left to get to the bank, there was a slight chance I'd make it, even carrying the backpacks. I did the crawl stroke the best I could.

Just as I pulled myself onto land, the huge crocodile jumped up and opened its mouth close to my arm.

Help! I screamed, dropping the backpacks. I fell backward and crab-walked in the mud away from the giant beast. I didn't want Edsel to make any croc jokes at my funeral. I wasn't about to die by being crunched and chewed, but actually preferred the fruitcake comment instead.

Within an instant, Mr. Hamilton was on the crocodile, kicking him back toward the water as he dropped everything in his arms.

"What are you doing?" I asked with a gasp.

I saw some guy do this on TV—piece of cake. He stood in front of the huge animal. As he kicked the crocodile in the nose, it retreated, and we were safe from its massive jaws and big teeth.

Finding myself sitting near a bunch of trees, I stood and looked at all the mud on the back of my tan shorts, still keeping an eye on the river in front of me. I hated being dirty but at least I was alive.

~~~~~

Chapter 2

I bent over to pick up the bags, but was lifted and tackled to the ground, away from where I'd been standing. I didn't even know what had happened until I looked up and saw Mr. Hamilton lying on top of me, with his light blue eyes framed by his medium brown hair. The thought that he'd do that ticked me off. This was no time to get chummy. I had to remember he was engaged, so I kept at least an inch between our heads.

Comfy? he asked, grinning.

I pushed him off and slid from under him with a grunt. What was that for?

He pointed up to the tree I'd just been standing under, at least a few feet from where I'd been just moments before. A huge grayish-brown snake dangled from a branch. Its mouth was open, showing the black color inside along with huge white fangs.

I swallowed hard and let my mouth fall open. What is it?

A snake.

Men. Such comedians.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. I know that. What kind of snake is it?

Black mamba.

I looked back up at the thing. Is it poisonous?

Definitely. Their venom paralyzes muscles needed to breathe, so you'd suffocate to death. You'd have to be kept alive by mouth-to-mouth.

I was ready to slap the stupid smirk off his face; definitely glad I wasn't bitten. To endure being kept alive by my rich boss and owing him for the rest of my life, was more than I wanted to think about. However, crazy eulogy guy describing it at my funeral would be worse.

The snake slithered back into the tree, making the birds screech and fly away.

I couldn't believe what had just happened. You saved my life from the crocodile—and the snake? And from fruitcake heaven?

Don't think about it. He grabbed my hand, helped me to my feet, and examined me from head to toe. When he finished, a grin covered his face. You seem fine. Was he trying to be nice to me?

I had to keep it professional, like he'd done for the past two weeks on our trip. All in a day's work. What do I owe you for saving my life…twice?

He almost laughed at me. Nothing. I'd do that for anyone.

So, I was nothing special? Keep it professional and be careful. Don't spew the one-line insults at the man, even though I'd love to. Well, I appreciate it.

Once he grabbed his bags, he hiked back a few yards from the edge of the river to where it was drier and warmer. Just to be safe, I followed him.

With my eyes glued to the huge river in front of me, I sat down on the ground and pulled my knees to my chest. I had to make sure the crocodile and his nasty friends stayed away from us.

Even though the temperature felt like it had to be somewhere over 100 degrees with the sun beating down on my back, I was drenched and chilled.

I thought over my life, reminding myself of this adventure. Since I was named Kes—which rhymed with mess and meant chubby baby—I'd always been ready to defend myself against name-calling and nasty people. It'd made me a fighter because I wasn't about to let anyone get the better of me—especially those who thought they ruled over me. Maybe that's why Mr. Hamilton chose me to join him on his adventure of a lifetime, because I was a curmudgeon and didn't put up with anything.

Three months earlier, on that fateful day at work, I'd gotten a memo from Mr. Hamilton's secretary. It said if I wanted to keep my job, I'd join the man and his fiancée, Tara, for two weeks in Africa. Except the secretary had left out the fiancée part. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, happy the two weeks were just about over.

The thought of Mr. Hamilton's power over my job made me more determined than ever. I flung my wet hair back and wrung the length of it out on the side, checking through the dark red wavy strands for other animals or insects. After a minute, I turned toward the man in front of me. Mr. Hamilton—

He put his hand on my shoulder. Please call me James.

"Mister Hamilton, I repeated, moving away from his hand. Since he was my boss and engaged to evil Tara, he should know better than to be so forward. Why did the guide and your fiancée stop their raft before the rapids and end up on the other side of the river?"

For some reason he seemed amused. "Well, Miss Madrid, because I asked the guide to. He stood and surveyed our surroundings. We need to get someplace safe. Do you have a map?"

What good is a map if we don't know where we are? I removed my shoes and dumped out the muddy crud, but the water seemed to be saturated inside. I struck them together, the clumps of mud falling off the soles. I was drenched. My socks were next, and after peeling them from my skin, I wrung them out and stored them inside my thoroughly soaked backpack. I un-tucked my white shirt from my shorts and aired it out, while Mr. Hamilton watched me with raised eyebrows. Tough. It was wet and I didn't like wet t-shirt contests. He'd better keep his wandering eyes to himself.

Unfortunately, he did own the newspaper where I worked. He'd been so pushy and nasty during the whole trip, treating me like a slave while he had fun with Tara. I was only an employee to him and had to keep that in mind. He'd even insisted I call him 'Mr. Hamilton' from the moment we stepped on the plane in Denver. I'd never forget it and never let him live it down. This was a working trip, testing my limits of the word 'professional.'

His hands rested on his hips as he stared out over the river. If we just knew what area we were in, we might be able to figure out where we're headed with a map. I have a general idea of our location.

Yeah, me too. We're in Africa.

He smirked, making me rethink my comment. I seemed to have a problem with sarcasm and had to rein it in.

I know that, he said. We were on the Zambezi River.

Yeah, and are bound to become some animal's dinner.

Not even close. You need to think of this as fun instead of dangerous. I remember when…

I tuned him out. I didn't want to deal with his stupid stories, because my underwear was wet. I hated wet underwear, and I hated the mud all over my new tan shorts. As I stood to look at the back of them, I realized this mud was never going to come out. I wondered if bleach would be the best solution for these puppies. For all the money I'd spent on them, they should've cleaned themselves.

…have you ever been to the Grand Canyon? he asked.

I looked up from my shorts. Huh? That big hole in the ground that's been glorified so much to be called a national treasure, but just houses nasty deadly animals? I really wasn't in a good mood, even taking it out on a hole in the ground. Someday, I really wanted to see that hole in the ground, along with many other national landmarks, just to say I'd seen them. I was certain they were beautiful, even with the nasty deadly animals making their homes there.

Mr. Hamilton grunted. Never mind. I know how to figure this out. I have a GPS with me. He grabbed one of the dripping wet backpacks and rummaged through it. I know I packed one somewhere.

I sat back down and watched him search. Being a typical man, his fiancée or one of her servants packed everything for him.

Where did you put it? I asked.

Tara put it in the pink…

I rested my case. Typical man.

His voice trailed off as he stared at the packs sitting beside us. There's no pink bag here.

I glanced around. "Nope. It seems your fiancée, who likes pink, decided it needed to stay with her and her matching pink luggage."

His glare was hard and his jaws were set. "Don't ever talk about Tara like that again."

I only said she liked pink. What's wrong with that?

I know what you're thinking. You're jealous of her and her beautiful clothes.

My gaze stayed on his face. Oh, you're so right. Not even close. I just hoped he didn't hear the sarcasm in my voice.

I turned toward the Zambezi and wrapped my arms around my calves. I hated being passive to him, but worried about losing my job. He had so much power and money that I would've loved to bring him down a few pegs. But now wasn't the time. What I'd said was true and wasn't that nasty. She did like the color pink and I was just pointing it out. He seemed a bit testy about that fact.

It made me wonder how their funerals would play out. With Tara, everything would be pink and gossipy. With him, it would be a formal occasion, with no one weeping. They wouldn't be allowed to show any emotion and everyone would be wearing formal wear with air-kissing. I hated air-kissing—it was so fake.

I could feel him staring as he knelt in front of me. His fingers were warm against my chin as he lifted it, his eyes meeting mine. I'm sorry. Please forgive me?

Yes, sir. I wasn't about to give in, so I narrowed my eyes and gave him my toughest look, crossing my arms. I wondered what game he was playing, trying to be nice to me. But I wasn't about to fold.

Kes, please?

He continued to stare, but I said nothing.

I'm sorry, really. I know she bothers you…

He had no idea how much she bothered me. And it wasn't just because he could do so much better for a wife. The woman was evil.

His sentence trailed off while he watched me. He knew I wasn't going to give in, so he let go of my chin. I see.

He turned his attention away from me and looked through a few of the bags. I bet Tara packed the GPS with her things, thinking it was a small computer or something. No problem. I'll just call them on the satellite phone and let them know where we are. He looked through the bags once again. Did you see the satellite phone?

I closed my eyes and rested my chin on my knees, imagining I was at a five-star resort on the beautiful sunny beach of a tropical island. In my fantasy, I was lying in a hammock, having my every need satisfied by an adorable man with dark mysterious eyes, dark hair, a great body, and an incredible tan. We were both scantily clad, and—

Kes. I'm speaking to you. Are you even listening?

My attention popped back to the tyrant standing in front of me as I opened my eyes. "Yes, sir."

Did you see the satellite phone?

No, sir, I didn't. My voice was quiet, because even though he was a tyrant, he did sign my paychecks.

I bet Tara packed that in the pink bag, too. He watched me stare at him, probably trying to think of something to say in that accent of his. He plopped down beside me and watched the river. I think we're in trouble.

Oh yeah…sir. And headed for fruitcake heaven.

~~~~~

Chapter 3

Mr. Hamilton removed the items from one of his backpacks and wrung the water out of his clothing, even though they'd been wrapped in plastic. Water drenched the saturated mud and muck under where he stood, seeping out from the bottom of the packs. I joined him by standing up and doing the same with the items from my pack. Since I'd removed my shoes, my feet sunk into the mud and oozed between my toes. The thought of worms and other yucky mud-insects made me move to a less muddy area.

I looked toward where he was working. So, what's the deal with this trip?

We're on a safari, and that's it. I want you to take pictures and keep a diary for an article we're going to publish when we get back. Those pictures you got on the raft ride should be money makers.

Probably not. I highly doubted they'd be any good but didn't have time or the energy to check.

A safari? I asked. Why would we be going on a safari when our plane leaves this afternoon? I think we need to get to the airport, right?

We need pictures for our article. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. He didn't look at me as he wrung out his clothes, laying them on a huge rock to dry, even though they didn't seem to be very wet after being stored in plastic.

While watching him work, I wondered what was going through his head. You know, it would've been nice to know we were going on a safari before we left Victoria Falls. We might miss our flight.

He kept laying out his clothes. I said we were going on an adventure. How much more detailed a description do you want?

Men. Such conversationalists. "A little more, like where are we headed for this safari and