The sunrise was more brilliant and colorful in South Sudan than former president Barbara Anderson had ever seen in any country or state she’d visited. Over the course of her three week visit she’d seen hope and heartbreak in equal measure, but was leaving buoyed by hope and inspired by new friendships.

Not all of the conversations had been easy. The civil war that broke out in 2013 left deep wounds that the peace agreement signed five years later would struggle to heal. The promised elections had been delayed once again, and now were set for late 2024. Both parties to the peace deal seemed equally happy to kick the can down the road by extending the agreed-to transition period time and again.

Anderson relaxed into the second row seat of the black government SUV and closed her eyes. An easy smile tugged at the edges of her lips as fresh memories washed over her. The chatter from the two Secret Service agents in the front seat were white noise.

“You seem pretty content,” Grant Hawthorne said.

Anderson opened her eyes and turned toward him, catching his gaze. “I am, actually. I’m ready to go home now. I feel like we’ve achieved most of what we wanted to with this trip.”

“We did, with the exception of a meeting with the two warlords threatening trouble in the South. Unfortunately we couldn’t find a way to meet with them safely, but that was always going to be a long shot anyway. I’ll be honest, I’m relieved that meeting fell through.”

“Well, in twenty four hours we’ll be home again.”

“Which means the hard work starts when we get back?”

A smile spread across her face. She liked the young man. He was her first hire when the General Services Administration made funds available to hire two staff members and establish an office. Two years out of Harvard law school, he was smart and confident, but respectful and hard working. In return, he’d get to plug into a network that was the envy of most graduates looking to enter politics. It was a fair trade.

“Yes, the hard work begins when we get back. I’ll need for you to set up meetings with the State Department first…” she was interrupted as their car lurched to the left followed by a bang that was felt more than heard.

Grant grabbed onto the shoulder of the seat in front of him to steady himself, his eyes wide and scanning the windows. Anderson braced herself with one hand grasping the door handle and one pressed against the back of the seat in front of her.

“What’s going on?” Grant called out, his voice suddenly shrill.

“Sit tight, please,” came the calm voice of the secret service agent in the passenger seat, as he yanked open the glove box and removed additional magazines for his handgun.

The driver of the lead vehicle had veered off the road in an effort to get in front of them again, while the trailing SUV followed closely behind. The convoy had swerved suddenly off the paved highway onto a dirt road. Anderson looked back and saw a rusted out car with mismatched doors engulfed in flames blocking the road they’d just left.

“Look out, straight ahead!” the agent in the front passenger seat called out.

Anderson peered around the driver’s headrest and could make out a line of soldiers in front of them, at least three of which had shoulder-mounted weapons of some sort. Her driver made a hard right away from the soldiers while their lead vehicle slowed for a moment to take up their left flank in a defensive maneuver.

Falling back into her seat and ducking down she felt Grant put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. An explosion rocked the Secret Service SUV to their left and the driver’s side windows in Anderson’s vehicle exploded inward in a shower of pebbled glass.

Grant now pushed her down onto the bench seat and leaned his body over hers.

“Stay down! We’re almost…”

There was a spate of gunshots and Grant Hawthorne’s sentence was cut short. In her fugue, former president Anderson was vaguely aware that she suddenly bore her aide’s full body weight and that her face was wet. She reached for her cheek and rubbed it with her left hand. When she pulled it away and looked, her palm was covered in blood.

Boom! Boom!

Explosions seemed to come from all around as her driver continued to race forward, swerving madly. She looked up and the agent in the passenger seat was grasping the wheel with one hand while straddling the center console awkwardly. Her eyes were drawn to the driver, who was slumped forward.

In a moment of surreal detachment, she was suddenly in the morning security briefing. The lead agent explaining that there were two backup convoys. One a mile ahead and one a mile behind and she suddenly understood what the agent was doing. He was trying to get them back onto the paved highway, where the backup team was surely waiting.

Working her way from under the prone body of her aide, she sat up and grasped the sides of the seat in front of her. Her eyes glued to the front windshield, she could see two black SUVs on the road ahead, driving toward them. The agent straddling the front seat was fighting the wheel when a sudden puff of pink filled the front of the car and his head snapped to the right. He collapsed into the passenger seat and the car instantly slowed to a crawl.

Fumbling with the door handle, Anderson yanked and threw the door open. With the vehicle moving slowly and curving lazily to the left, she stepped out in her black mid heeled pump and immediately went over on her ankle. The ground came up fast, a mix of dry grass and hard-packed dirt. The former president spun and sat up. Her wrists ached. The car she just fell out of had rolled between her and her attackers.

Anderson kicked off her shoes, and got to her feet. One of the two rescue vehicles had turned off the road and was driving toward her, kicking up an angry trail of dust behind it. She raised a hand senselessly as she ran.

Why are you waving? She thought angrily.

The agents in the second vehicle had exited and were positioned behind the SUV, laying down cover fire. Anderson looked back over her shoulder in time to see an object streak through the sky toward the stationary vehicle on the road. The object looked like it was going to fly right over, but just as it reached the vehicle it exploded directly above its target. The cover fire stopped.

Her eyes turned toward the sole remaining vehicle racing toward her. As she took her next step the front windshield suddenly spidered, turning white, and littered with bullet holes. The vehicle took a hard right turn and roared past her, aimlessly. In slow motion she watched the vehicle glide past, just as she was hit violently in the back and thrown to the ground.

Gasping for air, she rolled over to see a green military motorcycle, the rider with one foot extended as he sped past her. As she regained her senses, Anderson became aware of a Jeep skidding to a stop yards away from her. A tall and unnaturally thin man in fatigues sat with his long legs, boots up, resting on the windowless dashboard. He observed her with a wicked smile. In a seamless motion he spun on his butt and dropped his legs to the ground with a thud.

In seconds he closed the distance between them. His sleeves were rolled up above the elbow to reveal a brutal machete wound, which had been roughly stitched up in the distant past. The scar ran the length of his left forearm. He removed a cigar from his mouth and spoke.

“Madame president,” he used the ceremonial title mockingly. “You said that you wanted to meet?”