Chapter 10

The sound of a door closing hard startled Scott from a sound sleep. He squinted, looking around at his unfamiliar surroundings, then gazed upon the naked bodies of Jenny and Sula beside him. He glanced at the table clock, showing it was six in the morning. He kissed both his wives, urging them to wake up.

“Good morning, my husband,” Sula said as she stretched her arms over her head and rested her head on his chest. He could feel her warm body and her breasts against him.

“Come on you two, we’ve got a busy day ahead of us,” Scott said, nudging Jenny awake. She stretched her slim body and then rolled on top of him.

“Shower for three?” She smiled.

They had a long, sensual, soapy shower together. Scott was anxious to get on the road, but the girls convinced him to eat their pussies, and they teasingly sucked on his cock.

“Feel better now?” Jenny asked him as they dried off.

“Ready to relax a little?” Sula added.

“I’ll relax once we’re safe in Accra and we’ve given Oscar’s flash drive to the Deputy Police Chief.”

After dressing, Scott hid the guns and placed the flash drive in his sock. Jenny opened the door, taking a cautious look both ways in the hallway. The daily newspaper was at the foot of the door. She picked it up, looking at the headlines.

“I see it’s all in French. Can you take a quick look and see if there’s anything about us?” He inquired, handing it over to Sula.

Sula quickly scanned the paper and said, “Here’s something.” Sula read the article in French and translated it into English.

“La police Libérienne Monrovia continuer à chercher des Killers. La police a libéré le propriétaire d’une Mercedes de couleur argent portant la plaque d’immatriculation qui correspondait à la voiture s’éloigner. Les policiers sont à la recherche d’une2010 médaille d’argent Mercedes roulement Liberia plaque d’immatriculation nombre AZ – 9019, Les fugitifs sont citoyen anadien Scott Richardson et Ghanéens citoyen Jennifer Okyere qui a tué un policier et un touriste roumain, Tous deux sont considérés armé ET très dangereux.”

“Liberian Police continue searching for Monrovia Killers. Police have released the owner of a silver Mercedes bearing the license plate that matched the getaway car. It is suspected that the fugitives switched the license plate on a car similar to theirs. Police are searching for a 2010 silver Mercedes bearing the Liberia license plate number AZ–9019. The fugitives are Canadian citizen Scott Richardson and Ghanaian citizen Jennifer Okyere, who murdered a police officer and a Belgian tourist. Both are considered armed and very dangerous.”

“At least they’re not looking for a black Mercedes with Ghanaian plates,” Jenny reassured them. They packed up and went to breakfast. Scott peered out of the restaurant window at their car.

“What’s wrong?” Jenny asked.

“I still feel uneasy. The police could have found us, but decided to place a bomb in the car to blow us up when we started it up.”

“Here, hand me the car keys,” Jenny said, holding out her hand.

“You’re not going out to start the car, are you?”

“No,” she said, pressing a button on the key fob as she pointed it at the car. “Cars like that have remote starters.” Scott peered out the window, seeing vapours coming from the exhaust pipe.

“Now, can you relax?” She inquired, kissing him.

Scott enjoyed his wife’s attire, which consisted of short, sexy dresses. “I could get used to you wearing clothes like that every day,” they said.

They ate their breakfast, checked out of their room, and loaded the car again. Scott put the Mercedes in reverse, and the transmission strained to move it. He continued backing out of the parking space and noticed a small pool of liquid on the ground. He stepped out and inspected the puddle. “Shit, transmission fluid!” He said to himself.

“What is it, Scott?” Jenny asked, sensing something was wrong.

“I fear that the transmission may have been damaged on our escape from the policeman.”

“Will we still be able to make it to Accra?” She asked.

“I hope so. We’ll buy some more fluid when we stop for gas in Cape Coast.”

He drove the 90 miles towards the Ivory Coast/Ghana border. Scott kept one gun hidden in the side pocket of the driver’s door, just in case, and the other Jenny hid in her purse.

“I feel uneasy with so many military vehicles on the roads,” he said as they approached the border.

“These are tense times in this area. Many rebel factions of the military in the Ivory Coast and Ghana have been engaging in border skirmishes. Each side blames the other, but the real victims are the civilians caught in the middle,” Jenny explained. Scott appreciated the peace and stability of his homeland even more.

The truck and car traffic was more frequent, signalling the approaching border. “I hope we have an easy crossing into Ghana. I’ll feel more comfortable being back in my own homeland,” Jenny said.

They moved slowly, car by car, towards the inspection point. “Make sure we have our passports ready,” Sula mentioned.

Jenny took them out of her purse, handing each one theirs. “Oh Scott, don’t forget your moustache,” Jenny reminded him. He pressed it above his upper lip, and a moment later, it fell off. He reapplied it, but the moustache wouldn’t remain in place.

“Shit, my moustache won’t stick to me because of my whiskers! What do we do?” He feared.

“I don’t know!” Jenny cried.

There was no time to do anything as the Ivory Coast border guard motioned Scott up next to him. “I thought we’d be stopped by the Ghanaian border guard first, not the Ivory Coast military,” he complained.

“Passeports, s’il vous plaît,” “Passports, please,” the guard asked, holding out his right hand. Scott inspected the AK-47 slung across his chest as he handed him their documents. He made a note of the weapon’s two magazines taped together. The guard looked at Scott’s passport last. He gazed from the picture to Scott’s face and back to the passport picture. A second guard stood at the rear of the car, his finger poised over the trigger guard of his AK-47.

“Pourquoi avez-vous rasez votre moustache,” he asked.

Sula leaned left, touching Scott’s shoulder, and said, “He wants to know why you shaved off your moustache.”

He started to panic, not knowing what to say. “I, ah, uh, I had grown my moustache for a charity in support of cancer research when my photo was taken for my passport. I didn’t know I’d have to replace my photo or keep my moustache,” he explained. Scott tried to remain calm but could feel his pulse pounding in his neck.

“Je ... euh ... euh, je m’étais ma moustache pour un organisme de bienfaisance en faveur de la recherche sur le cancer quand ma photo a été prise pour moi passeport. Je ne savais pas que je dois remplacer ma photo ou garder ma moustache.”

Sula translated, leaning over to see the guard. Her low-cut dress gave the guard a clear view of her breasts, and he stared at her nipples. Jenny and Sula had forgotten to put on their long robes.

The second guard came up on the right side of the car and peered in at Jenny. She politely smiled as his eyes devoured her partially exposed tits. He rubbed the side of his AK-47 as if it were his cock, then his crotch, offering his cock to her.

Sula had a twenty-dollar bill ready to give to the guard and placed her hand out the window. Scott couldn’t help breathing in her aroma and looking down her dress, too.

“Nous avons apprécié notre visite à la Côte-d’Ivoire et Abidjan beaucoup, Nous avons hâte d’y revenir bientôt, merci,”

“We enjoyed our visit to the Ivory Coast and Abidjan very much. We look forward to visiting again soon, thank you.”

The guard accepted the bribe money and motioned them on their way to the Ghana border. “I thought we’d had it with him,” he said, relieved.

“I hate seeing all those guns everywhere. That second guard gave me the creeps, rubbing his crotch as if I’d let him fuck me,” Jenny said.

“He could have raped you both at gunpoint, and there would have been nothing I could have done about it. Two pistols are no match for a dozen or so AK-47s, and he probably would have killed all three of us. We’re already part of one international incident. We don’t need to cause another one.”

“I’ll sure be glad to be back on home soil,” Jenny sighed.

The Ghanaian border guard raised his hand to stop Scott. “At least he isn’t carrying a gun,” Scott observed.

“Welcome to Ghana! May I see your passports, please?” Scott didn’t question that he had to show his passport, again, even though the Ivory Coast and Ghana guards could wave a hand at each other. “And you’re Visa, Sir.” He fumbled with the armrest and presented it.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to either keep my moustache or get a new passport photo,” he justified.