Solomon's Seal

by Skyla Dawn Cameron

  Dawson halted beside the Jeep, handed me my knife, and his thick brows pulled into a frown in the low light. “You’re not coming?”

  “I will, after I get what I came for.”

  “Are you nuts—”

  “If we don’t come back with that ring, what do you think Ashford’s going to do? Send us on our merry way? Or have us take a walk on West’s wild side?”

  “She’s right,” Laurel said, and she snatched the keys from Dawson’s hand. She was a dwarf next to him but stood tall, shoulders squared, and nodded in my direction. “Do you know where we’re going? Even without the Jeep, they could make it to the rendezvous point before the plane gets here in the morning.”

  And we could be ambushed by people carrying guns and a willingness to use them.

  “We’re near Goba—find a nearby hotel. There are the mountain ranges around here and the caves, so there must be somewhere tourists go. I’ll be back in a few minutes—be ready to haul ass.”

  Laurel got in the driver’s seat while Dawson stowed their bags in the back and pulled out his cell phone. I didn’t waste time with a goodbye but instead jogged back for the tents. Risky and foolish, perhaps—I should just run, I should try to get more resources and track the Seal down later. But people had died. People had been killed over this. I wasn’t going to be another casualty, not at the hands of rogue mercenaries, and certainly not at Ashford’s right paw.

  The camp was in sight and I rounded it, keeping from the light. Tall, dry grass brushed my legs, and I was glad as usual for my kneepads—at least I had no scrapes there to irritate. My arm throbbed, still.

  I stopped and dropped to a crouch in the darkness, facing Tucker’s tent. The merc himself continued his trek around the camp and I waited breathlessly in the darkness, making myself as small as I could, as he passed ten meters ahead in my line of vision. His eyes flickered over the darkness, passing where I lay in wait, and kept going.

  Maybe I should’ve brought the gun but it was awkward to use with one hand, and slung over my shoulder I risked catching it on something. Had the gun been a sniper rifle, I might’ve taken both of them out, but I wasn’t a good enough shot from a distance with one, and it would be bad enough alerting one while I shot the other; missing my target would have both of them on me in seconds. No, this was all stealth. Had to be.

  I pulled my knife from its sheath, waited for Tucker to move out of sight, then I darted forward. The blade slipped easily into the tent’s canvas, slid down the seam, and cut a hole long enough for me to slip through.

  The tent interior was dark and silent. I returned the knife, pulled out the penlight, and cast it over the space. Where the hell would he put the Seal?

  With the penlight held between my teeth, I scanned the tent and my eyes snagged on the dark shape of luggage beside one of the cots—seemed a likely place to put it. I crawled forward, my poor kneepads dragging through the dirt. Firelight danced gently in the crack between the tent and the ground and shadows cast every time someone walked in front of it.

  Please don’t find me, please don’t find me... I didn’t fancy being shot in the back. But their footfalls were steady, nothing to suggest I would soon be bothered.

  I fumbled around the bag, checking the pockets first. Two multi-purpose knives, magazines for their guns. An inner pocket was zippered, and there I found a compass, a map. Passport. Stack of birr that I briefly considered pocketing—

  There. My fingers settled on the small black bag and pulled it out.

  I turned and started to rise, ready to go, when my penlight struck Tucker standing in the tent doorway, grinning coldly at me.

  “I wondered when you’d show up.”

  25

  Inevitable

  Silence stretched between us as I tensed from head to toe, still in a half-crouch.

  Tucker’s gun was pointed at me. And I was still unarmed. Three feet separated us, not enough for me to make much use of the space for running.

  So I talked. “This isn’t the ring.”

  “Nope. Just knew you had to come back.”

  “You know West will probably bite your hands off.”

  “Won’t know or find us. Did you send the others to the Jeep? Curtis is on her way now.”

  Well, news for her: I’d had the forethought to move the Jeep to the other side of the camp—Curtis would be going in the opposite direction and it was a pity I wouldn’t see the surprise on her face.

  If he hadn’t shot me yet, maybe he had a reason—maybe he’d hesitate. My gaze flickered to the back of the tent where the hole was for an instant before I darted.

  I scampered forward, banging my shoulder on the metal cot, scrambling for my exit when fire speared my scalp; he had my braid and jerked me back. A scream I couldn’t stop left my lips and I turned, ready to fight back, when his boot struck my side. Pain flared hotly against my ribs and I grunted, barely had time to recover before his boot came at me again. I was on my side and curled, protecting my stomach, free arm coming up over my head. His boot struck my kidney and I howled again.

  I hated being defensive and when he grasped my braid again, I lashed out, the knife in my belt finding its way into my hand. The blade scraped across his arm, splattering blood along the tent wall. I ached, gasped for breath, and got myself moving; I launched myself into him, knocking him off balance, and he lost his grip on my hair. Staggering to my feet, half-crouched still, I slashed with the knife again and it hit his thigh this time, cutting deep. A backhanded swipe hit my face, snapping my head to the side and briefly white played over my vision. I stumbled back. Something warm and wet slipped down my cheek.

  I saw it, then: the Seal. He wore it.

  Mr. Rolph suggested it would be bad to do so but I sensed nothing off about Tucker, no magic hovering in the air or additional threat beyond the steady, challenging glare of his eyes. Maybe he didn’t know how to use it. Maybe it didn’t have any real power after all. Regardless, right now I was still more concerned about the gun tucked at his hip which he could reach for again at any time.

  The world narrowed to a hard point, seeming to slow as my brain sped. He stopped being a man and started being parts; he was stronger with more training, more experience, at least as a whole. But as parts, I could handle him. Thumbs, hands. Eyes to claw, throat to strike. Vulnerable groin, targetable kneecaps.

  And that broken hand, wrapped up and kept straight by a splint.

  He’d holstered the gun while grabbing my braid previously; now he yanked it out again with his good hand, arching it toward me, the barrel a dark, bottomless hole pointing toward my forehead.

  I knocked his arm back with my forearm just as the gun went off, gunfire echoing in my ear far too close. When he swung it back toward me I grabbed for it, giving it a sharp push to redirect to the side; my knee rose to his groin as a follow up, then I gave the gun another twist. Bone cracked, the index finger of his good hand caught in the trigger guard an easy casualty. The gun slipped and I kicked it away.

  Great move and at least I was rid of the weapon, but a bit of pain meant nothing to a guy like that; this wouldn’t end until I put him down with something more permanent.

  Tucker came at me again with a roar. I ducked, flipped the knife handle so the blade was in a defensive position against my forearm, and slashed again, cutting his wrist and biting deep into the meat of his palm. His ankle slipped behind mine and jerked, but if I was falling, I was determined to take the fucker with me. My free hand locked onto his broken one and I jerked him to the ground with me, angling him so he landed on his injury. The splint snapped and he screamed, his howl of pain rivaling the one I gave earlier.

  The knife clattered beside me but I wouldn’t need it for this. Both of us on the ground, exhaustion only kept at bay by the adrenaline in my system, I twisted and locked onto him, scissoring his torso and right arm tight between my legs and grasping his left wrist. Soon he was grunting, red-faced, and immobile. I wrenched his arm until he couldn’t move without break
ing it.

  Though not stronger than him, certain positions have their advantages.

  His left index finger was bent at an odd angle and a bright, ugly red as it swelled thickly. The ring glinted in my line of sight on his pinky finger just as Curtis shouted in the distance—she must’ve heard the shot. I couldn’t let go of Tucker’s arm to grab my quarry so I tilted my head forward, wrapped my lips around his finger, got my teeth on the ring, and dragged it off.

  I couldn’t hold him for long, my strength waning; I gave his arm a wrench and a pop sounded, jerking it out of the joint. Tucker screamed, no doubt alerting Curtis to our exact location. I took a breath and moved, releasing him from the scissor-lock and scrambling up. As he tried to rise, left arm dangling uselessly in the muddy blood on the ground, I gave his kidney a brutal kick and he slumped back down, puffing up dirt.

  The knife, back in its sheath. The ring, down my shirt. And the gun, recovered from the ground and in my left hand as I darted again for the back of the tent, this time without him following.

  I tore into the cool night, straight from the tent and into the blackness beyond. Steps thrashed through the tall grass far to my right but I didn’t turn, didn’t look, just plowed ahead. The ground was uneven and my penlight was gone; I stumbled, nearly twisted my ankle, but wouldn’t give in and slow my pace.

  Blue light from the face of a cell phone shone ahead, vaguely showing the interior of the Jeep. I crashed onto the road and Laurel yelped, Dawson jumped.

  “Drive!” I shouted as I climbed in the back, and set down the pistol for the MP5K.

  As the engine whined and groaned to a start, bullets cut through the night—Curtis had found us. I couldn’t see, had nowhere to aim, but pointed the gun into the darkness and squeezed the trigger, spraying bullets randomly over the field to give us cover as the Jeep moved.

  Tires spit up dirt and rocks and I jerked forward, jostled around as Laurel peeled away. I dropped the gun, crouched, and waited, but Curtis didn’t return fire—either I’d hit her or we were out of sight. Laurel kept the headlights off and I doubted we were on the road anymore as the Jeep careened back and forth.

  Agony hit my body at once and I sagged forward, breathing heavily. “I think you can put on the headlights now.”

  It was three more minutes before she did and she only drove faster once she could see where she was going.

  I got myself onto my knees and turned around, and hunched between the seats to look over Dawson’s shoulder. “Where are we going?”

  “Wabe Shebelle Hotel,” he said. “A few more kilometers. Nice enough place. Also pretty much the only place.”

  “Should we be keeping a low profile?” Laurel asked, not taking her eyes from the road.

  “And do we have money?” I asked.

  Dawson sighed. “Look...they have showers. Hot water.”

  Oh forget that—I’d sell my fucking body right then for a hot shower. My poor, bleeding, bruised body. Goddamn, I hurt.

  I turned again and leaned against the back of Dawson’s seat, cradling my arm, wind whipping my hair around and a headache starting in my temples. The ride was rough but it beat walking so I closed my eyes and tried to relax for the duration of the trip to Wabe Shebelle Hotel.

  26

  Choices

  The hotel was situated in a park and the front of the building looked clean and welcoming. Laurel had a rather large stack of birr in her bag—prepared for any eventuality, perhaps—and she and Dawson headed into the hotel first to book us three rooms. He came back out to get the bags, give me my key, and lead me to where we were staying, so I could avoid any of the hotel staff seeing me directly given the state I was in.

  I didn’t actually get to see how bad I looked until I was situated in my tiny room, with its cheery yellow walls and tiled floor, and a double bed that under normal circumstances might have been forgettable but looked like absolute heaven after the shit I’d been through in almost a week. I skipped everything and went straight for a hot shower in the closet-sized bathroom. Dawson had promised me a chance to check in with Pru and Em, and I intended to take him up on that offer...just as soon as I stopped looking like I’d been chewed up and spit out by a dragon.

  I painfully stripped out of every last piece of grimy clothing. Peeling off my socks left wet, black marks on the bathroom tile—although I was certain housekeeping was efficient, I sort of felt obligated to clean up before we left in the morning after this. My feet were blistered and bloody in the odd place, ankles had imprints from my socks and boots. Scrapes ran up and down my legs. Purple bruises bloomed, some going black, up and down my torso. My lip was split, side of my face dark blue, the cut Mr. Rolph had patched up was bleeding through the gauze, and my scalp ached as I let loose my braid.

  My arm was a whole other matter.

  I carefully unwound the blood-soaked gauze. It stung with every movement—goddamn, it looked bad. A hospital was still out of the question, probably. At least I hadn’t passed out from blood loss.

  Always looking on the bright side, that’s me.

  The moment I stepped in the hot corner shower, however, the sight of my arm left my memory. Water beat down, soaking my hair, loosening grime. A glance down and the water swirling at my feet was a mix of black and red. I had no shampoo but the soap was serviceable and I scrubbed at my roots until they felt cleaner if not cleanish. Soon my stomach was growling—I’d been told on my way in that they had twenty-four hour room service and I intended to beg some birr from Laurel to obtain it.

  And maybe some gin.

  I toweled off after what still felt like too soon, rewrapped my arm in the remaining gauze from my first aid kit until I could figure out who I’d get to stitch it up, and worked the largest tangles from my hair. Wrapped in a towel, I realized after a glance at my ruined clothes on the floor that I would also need to beg pants or something from someone.

  The Seal couldn’t be left anywhere; I fished a length of string from one of the pockets of my bag and threaded it through the ring, tied the ends, and slipped it over my head. The Seal disappeared between my cleavage beneath the towel and I suspected that whenever King Solomon was, he was likely rolling over in his grave.

  I left the bathroom, ready to set off to borrow favors from Dawson and Laurel; I trekked through my room, past my boots to the side and West on my bed, and continued for the suite door.

  And stopped as realization hit me.

  “So much for not seeing you again, Mr. West,” I said first before glancing back over my shoulder.

  He sat as if he belonged there, long legs hanging over the side of the mattress and palms slightly behind him, propping him up. The tactical gear was gone; he wore black jeans and a dark brown coat with a white button down beneath it, casual as can be. His lips formed a canary-eating cat’s grin like he knew no other expression. A white toolbox sat on the bed next to him.

  West clearly wasn’t going anywhere so I sighed and walked back into the room. “What?”

  “Ran into trouble?”

  “Yes, it seems Ashford’s hired guns didn’t entirely appreciate your threats and decided to take it out on me. Did that not occur to you?”

  “I actually can’t remember the last time one warning wasn’t sufficiently believable.”

  “Well, maybe you’re slipping, Buttons.”

  He glanced over me again. “You look like hell.”

  I blinked at him. “Thanks ever so much.”

  “Hungry?”

  Just as he said it, the whiff of something delicious tickled my nose and I glanced around until I saw the covered dish on the nightstand. “You brought me food?” I started over but he leaned across the bed to grab it and set it next to him. So I’d have to endure his company to eat: I wouldn’t object with the twisting my stomach was doing. I was fucking sick of energy bars.

  I took a seat on the other side of the dish, the bed sinking beneath me in a way that left me longing to stretch out and drift into unconsciousness. The scent of spic
es held me in place, however, and I lifted the lid to find a plate of flatbreads and some sort of stew.

  “Injera and wat,” he said. “Not much else on the menu here.”

  “No objections.” I already had a piece of spongy bread in hand and dipped it in the stew. No idea what I was eating but it was savory and delicious and I strongly suspected I’d be licking the plate clean in a most unladylike fashion quite soon. “And when did you join the hotel wait staff?”

  “I was waiting at the Bole International Airport, ticket in hand, when I decided to check in with Thomas and he let me know what direction things had gone in.”

  I nearly choked on my bread and it wasn’t until I swallowed water from the bottle he offered me that I could speak again. “Thomas is alive?”

  He nodded. “And downstairs—he and Pulaski are under my orders not to let you from their sight. Again.”

  “Tucker shot him. Point blank. I saw it.”

  “He is...” West barely searched for the word—I strongly suspected he had no intention of telling me how the man could survive a bullet like that. “Resourceful.”

  “But he got shot.”

  “And it was extremely painful.” Apparently he wasn’t going to explain further. His gaze settled on my arm and he held out his hand.

  I was in rough shape and wouldn’t argue; I extended my arm and let him peel off the fresh gauze.

  “This looks horrible,” was his assessment.

  “You have such a way of making a girl feel special.” Of course, I was busy stuffing my face and didn’t take it personally. “I need sutures.”

  “I know. How long since it happened?”

  “Over six hours. I’ve kept it disinfected.”

  “Your own kit?”

  “Bathroom.”

  He rose, reached into his jacket pocket, and tossed a small red case onto the bed beside me; I couldn’t read the writing in white across the front, but thumbed open the flap to find it was an emergency suture kit.