Chapter 1053: Tracking and the Banana Haulers of Odibyo (Patreon)

When Jack returned with Old Muto, looking slightly strange but otherwise unharmed, everyone finally let out a breath of relief.

Nearby, a new jeep had pulled up. Two local policemen, wearing the same uniform style as Detective Paulino, were collecting the remains.

They spread a large waterproof sheet on the ground and quietly began gathering the scattered bones.

“Anything new up there?” Jubal asked while reapplying mosquito repellent.

Mosquitoes are Africa’s deadliest killers, spreading malaria, yellow fever, dengue, and West Nile virus, among others.

Tanzania experiences two rainy seasons—November to December for the short rains, and March to May for the long rains—with the rest of the year being dry. Fewer mosquitoes come with the dry season, but Jack still insisted everyone wear long sleeves, tuck in their pants, and reapply repellent regularly.

In Tanzania, malaria is as common as catching a cold. Locals might shrug it off, but for foreigners, it could land you in the ICU with liver failure—and ICU beds here are extremely scarce.

“They’re not involved,” Jack said directly. “They only have twelve men, and they don't have the organizational capability to pull off a mass kidnapping. Plus, there’s no room up on that ridge to hide so many people.”

He didn’t go into the details of his meeting but simply gave his conclusion.

Clearly, Old Muto and his militia were the real authority here, while the small Somali group was just seeking refuge.

Old Muto had mentioned "The Lion King" Simba—a young man with a fierce scar on his forehead, lounging with a majestic male lion at his side. The nickname obviously came from his lion, and the inspiration likely from the Disney movie.

Through tense negotiations, Jack—with Old Muto acting as the supplier—exchanged four Type 81 rifles and 1,000 rounds of ammo for intel.

According to Simba’s lookout, early yesterday morning, they’d seen about a dozen armed men escorting a group in red T-shirts through the valley. Later, they took two leaders toward the forest edge; only one returned, and that one didn’t seem intimidated by the captors.

“According to the local pastor, the Brunswick Missionary group had two leaders: Jacob Bruce and Elijah,” Jubal said, pulling up a photo Garcia had found. It showed three people in a group shot: a local Black pastor in the middle, flanked by Jacob Bruce and Elijah.

“We need to take a closer look at Elijah,” Aubrey suggested.

“And that pastor, too,” Jubal added, signaling Paulino, who nodded. “I’ll send people to the town immediately.”

“What about tracking? Follow the footprints?” Hannah asked.

Jack looked up at the sunset, then at Old Muto. Without Muto’s team, Jack wasn’t confident they could survive overnight in the wilderness.

Luckily, Old Muto volunteered: “Leave the tracking to my men. I’ll contact you tomorrow morning.”

Thus, the group returned to Arusha and stayed at the most expensive hotel available.

Thanks to Rossi’s advice (after suffering from bug bites on previous trips), they enjoyed clean mattresses, stable electricity and water, and decent food.

Ugali (maize dough) with sauce was a staple here, while rice, surprisingly, was cooked with oil and salt, making it taste odd to Jack.

After dinner, they connected with Alice and the BAU team. Updates from New York revealed more suspicions.

Of the 23 originally kidnapped, only 10 female victims had family contact. The 11 men, including Elijah, had no relatives or social media traces—highly suspicious.

Garcia and Alice were stalled. Jubal told them to focus on Elijah Ward for now, who seemed even more suspicious than Pastor Tumaini Makani.

Meanwhile, Rossi and JJ were interviewing the families of the missing women, looking for common threads.

—

Early the next morning, just after breakfast, Old Muto arrived in Arusha driving his battered Liberation truck.

“We lost the tracks by a roadside about 20 kilometers away. We think they had a vehicle pickup there.”

Clay immediately grabbed his gear. “Take us to the site. Maybe we’ll find something nearby.”

Aubrey wasn’t so optimistic. “If they had vehicles, they could be anywhere by now.”

Just then, Jubal’s phone rang—it was Detective Paulino. He had located a suspected camp where Pastor Tumaini Makani might be hiding.

Jubal marked both locations on a map. Both were over 100 kilometers from Arusha, and he frowned.

“I’ll go with Hannah and Old Muto to the tracking site. You three go help Paulino,” Jack suggested.

No time to waste. They split up and set off.

This time, Jack personally experienced the agony of eating dust behind Old Muto’s slow-moving truck.

Fortunately, most of the journey was on paved roads—only needing to watch out for some unexpected companions.

In Tanzania’s west, roughly 700–800 kilometers from Arusha, lies Burundi—a small, mountainous country.

Most people’s impression of Burundi is limited to the Hutu-Tutsi genocide and, of course, the infamous banana-hauling Odibyo.

Today, Jack encountered Tanzania’s version of Odibyo: young men, some barely out of their teens, riding old steel-frame bicycles loaded with 300–400 pounds of green bananas, racing down the highway.

These daredevils would grab passing trucks to hitch a ride, quickly linking up into long, snaking convoys.

Realizing a line had formed behind him, Old Muto deliberately slowed down and honked the horn whenever potholes appeared, warning the boys who had no forward visibility.

Any misstep could mean a crash. Injuries were minor worries—damaged bikes were manageable—but if the bananas were crushed, it meant days of labor lost.

Clearly, Old Muto ran this road often. His young militiamen exchanged greetings with the banana haulers.

Naturally, none dared latch onto Jack’s Humvee. Even so, he slowed down to keep a safe distance from Old Muto’s truck—just in case.

Jack whistled a playful tune, serving as background music for the lively convoy. Near their destination, the banana-hauling boys reluctantly detached themselves, waving goodbye as Old Muto laughed and cursed fondly.

“My boys searched this whole area overnight. No more bodies found—that’s good news, right?” Muto spread out a map and circled their current location.

It was a north-south highway, running parallel to the railroad for a stretch before veering northwest.

Traffic cameras were nonexistent. Forget about retrieving dashcam footage—this place wasn’t built for such luxuries.

“We at least need to figure out their direction to guess their destination. But if they had vehicles, two days is more than enough to get far,” Jack said, worried they might have left Tanzania already.

Seeing Jack and Muto troubled, and after listening to Jack’s whistling for so long, Hannah raised an eyebrow.

“Twenty-two Americans in matching red T-shirts, plus armed escorts. And by the time they reached the road, it should’ve been noon or afternoon. Wouldn’t a group like that attract attention?”

“In the wild, sure. But near a road, all you need is one bus…” Jack trailed off mid-sentence.

He suddenly understood what Hannah was getting at.