City of Saints & Thieves

by Natalie C. Anderson

  Bug Eye stays silent.

  “For you and for me. I know you want to be where he is. You should be. And you know me. You know I mean it. I’ll do it. But”—I pause to make sure my voice will be steady—“only if my sister is safe. I need you to save her. Take her to the Greyhills’. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure the crown goes to you once Omoko’s out of the way. This is your chance, Bug Eye. Take it.”

  “You’re talking crazy, Tiny Girl.”

  “I think you should listen to me, Bug Eye. I know it’s a lot to take in so quickly, but this is your moment. You help me, I kill him, you become the boss. Why does it have to be any more complicated than that?”

  I hear Bug Eye take a breath. “Where are you, Tina? How did you get this phone?”

  I close my eyes, picture my sister, tied up and scared. I might hate Ketchup, but I don’t want to do this to Bug Eye. Bug Eye is violent, terrifying, and ruthless. He’s holding my sister hostage. But still, for the last five years he and the Goondas have been the closest thing I have to family other than Kiki. He taught me how to fight and defend myself. For some of us Goondas, he’s the only adult we trust. We know that if we’re loyal to him, he takes care of us. That’s the rule. That’s law. The Goondas may be a crazy-violent dysfunctional family, but they’re still my crazy-violent dysfunctional family. I break this rule, and it’s all over. There’s no going back to being Tiny Girl, Goonda.

  Why can’t he just take what I’m offering now? I know he wants to be king. I know it. Can’t he just agree to let Kiki go? He doesn’t like holding her hostage either. That’s what he just said. And I don’t like being the thug that gets to someone by threatening his family.

  I try one last time. “He doesn’t trust you, Bug Eye. He’ll make someone stab you in the back. You won’t see it coming. I don’t want it to happen, and you certainly don’t. It’s not good for the Goondas. It’s not good for anyone.”

  “How did you get Ketchup’s phone, Tina?” Bug Eye asks again, his voice as low and bloody as I’ve ever heard it. “And don’t forget for a second that I have your sister. I’m looking at her right now.”

  I haven’t forgotten. His words are the push I need to turn my insides to ice. When I open my mouth, I know that what I say will break my bond with the Goondas forever. And I’m okay with that. “I need for you to make a decision, Bug Eye. Do you want to be the king of the Goondas with your brother by your side?” I pause. “Or do you want to be nothing, with no one?”

  There it is. My final card: Ketchup. “I’m going to kill Omoko,” I say. “With Ketchup’s gun. And after I do, you can take the Goonda crown. And then everyone gets their brothers and sisters back. And we go our separate ways. But otherwise . . .” Every thread of my body is tensed, waiting to hear what Bug Eye will do.

  His silence seems to go on forever. “I don’t believe you really have him,” he finally says. “You’re bluffing.”

  “I thought you might say that,” I say, and realize that I’ve said basically exactly what my father said to me a little while ago. I am just like him. I swallow, forcing myself to go on. Kiki’s life depends on just how nasty and thuggish I can be in this moment—on just how much of him I can find in myself.

  “I’m sending you a photo,” I say.

  • • •

  When I hiss at Boyboy from behind the tree, his head jerks toward me. Too late he realizes what he’s done as one of the Goondas looks over at the motion and frowns. Dude’s noticed I’m still gone. I stay perfectly still while Boyboy sweats, looking for all the world like he’s about to go into hysterics.

  After a while the guy watching Boyboy fishes in his breast pocket, pulls out a liquor baggie, and rips it open. He squirts the contents into his mouth, tosses the bag aside, and settles back down.

  I can feel a beam of sunlight on the top of my head. Time is getting short. Finally, Boyboy looks back at me and I mouth at him to come on.

  He shakes his head, making eyes back at the camp. I get it. Everyone is awake and looking bored now. As soon as he bolts, they’ll be after him. I bite my lip, unsure what to do next. I creep closer, making sure to stay blocked by the trees.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers.

  I nod, even though I’m still shaking. “He’s going to do it.”

  Now that I have royally pissed off one of the most lethal people in all Sangui City by holding his brother counter-hostage, all we have to do is the near-impossible: break Michael out. The next part of the plan is that Boyboy slips away and we carry Ketchup farther into the forest and hide him. Then Boyboy takes the phone and makes a run for it. He’ll contact Mr. Greyhill and let him know what’s happening. After all, if I’m going to do my part and steal Michael and a motorcycle out from under Omoko’s nose, we need to know that Mr. G’s helicopter is going to be ready and waiting.

  It was Boyboy’s idea to use the satellite phone’s GPS to both tag where we stash Ketchup and tell Mr. G where we are. Boyboy needs to get Mr. G to bring the chopper to the closest possible landing site down the road. One of Mr. Greyhill’s guards will go retrieve Ketchup. The others will hide in the bushes in case Michael and I need covering fire as we’re hauling ass to get to our ride out.

  So. As long as Boyboy can find and convince Mr. G that we need his help, and as long as I can rescue Michael, steal a motorcycle, create a petrol-fueled diversion, and make a lightning-quick escape without getting caught, shot, or blown up in the process, it’s a perfect plan.

  In Boyboy’s words, the only thing crazier is staying put.

  Of course, if Boyboy isn’t able to slip away, the whole plan will self-destruct before it even gets started. I look back at him. He has a familiar frown on his face, the one he gets when he’s calculating something.

  “I’m going to make a run for it,” he whispers.

  “Not yet—they’ll catch you!”

  He shakes his head slightly. “They’re drunk. I’m quick.”

  I hesitate. He is. Sort of. For a computer nerd. But still . . . if they see him, he’s dead.

  “It’s going to work,” he says. The look on his face says he knows he’s dead anyway. “Make a distraction so I can get a head start. Now!”

  “Wait! The diversion comes later,” I begin, but he’s already on his feet, crouched down, ready to run. Someone’s going to notice him, and before they do, I have to act. I grab a stick from the ground and fling it as hard as I can toward the kitchen area. It careens into a pot, which knocks over a propane stove, which goes crashing into a tall stack of metal dishes. It all makes a terrific noise. The men shout, stumble to their feet. As they’re looking in that direction, Boyboy leaps up and we take off through the forest. I’m terrified that at any second a hand will clamp down on me from behind, but we make it to Ketchup without anyone coming after us.

  “What did you do to him?” Boyboy asks as I sweep away the debris from my captive’s face.

  “Nothing he didn’t deserve.”

  I grab his legs and Boyboy picks him up under the arms and we run as fast as we can toward the rising sun. I keep waiting for Ketchup to wake up and struggle, but he stays limp. When I think we’ve gone far enough I stop, looking for a good spot. “There.”

  We’re drenched in sweat, and the dirt and dried leaves cling to us as Boyboy and I quickly dig a little trench next to a boulder. We shove him in and I use the ties from my pocket to attach his hands to a tall sapling that’s sprung up from under the rock. Then we cover him again with brush. As I’m finishing, Boyboy marks the spot on the phone’s GPS.

  “It’s like we’re digging a grave,” Boyboy finally says.

  “He’s not going to die,” I say. “He can’t.”

  Boyboy finishes and frowns at the phone. “There’s no reception here. I’m going to have to move.”

  “Head for the road. I think it’s that way.” I point.

  “Okay, I’ll
meet you at the helicopter.” Boyboy’s face is grim. “Be careful.”

  “You too.”

  • • •

  The camp is utter chaos.

  My distraction worked—maybe too well. By the time I get back, there are about forty dudes running around yelling at each other and the kitchen tent is ablaze.

  Apparently the propane stove I knocked over exploded, which isn’t great, seeing as I’d been counting on a later explosion to cover Michael’s and my escape. But maybe if I can get Michael out quickly, there will still be enough mayhem.

  There’s a one-eared militia guy who must be the leader screaming orders in the middle of the clearing. It looks like he’s realized his prisoners have escaped. I watch him catch a couple of militia guys and send them out into the forest. If they’re after us, though, they’re going the wrong way. So that’s something. I don’t see Mr. Omoko anywhere. I hope to God he isn’t in the tent with Michael, because that’s where I’m headed.

  The guys who were guarding Michael have run to help put out the fire that’s spreading from the kitchen tent to a tree. The smoke from the green leaves is lucky. It makes everything hazy. I wait until I’m sure no one is watching, then run in a crouch to the back of Michael’s tent, where I’m blocked from the view of most of the camp. I quickly pull the tent flaps apart a centimeter and try to get a look inside. It’s dark and I can’t see much more than shapes. I’m just going to have to risk it; I’m an easy target out here. I take another quick glance around and then slip in. For a second I’m blinded and panic swells in me.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Shhh. It’s me,” I whisper, creeping toward Michael. My eyes adjust to the dim and I see he’s blindfolded, tied up, and bruised, but alive. His hands are chained to a small generator. It must have been the heaviest thing they could find.

  “Tina,” he breathes. “You’re okay. Where’s Boyboy? Is he all right? They wouldn’t tell me what happened to you guys.”

  “I’m fine. We’re fine.”

  I push the blindfold up off his eyes, and he blinks. It feels like eons since I ran away from him at the guesthouse, and I have a sudden urge to grab him and make sure he’s real. I crouch down to check out his bindings. He’s got the same wires around his wrists that I did, but they’re also around his ankles. When I take his hands, he hisses with pain.

  “What?” I ask. One of his wrists is swollen and dark with bruising.

  “I think it’s broken,” he says.

  I sit back, looking at the hand, my stomach sinking. “Mavi,” I curse.

  “My legs are fine. Can you get me out?”

  “Um, no chance you can drive a motorcycle like that, huh?” I ask with a forced smile.

  Michael looks from me to his wrists, understanding passing over his face. “Is that our escape plan?”

  I swallow. “What if I steer?”

  “You have to shift on the handles. I mean, if we had time for me to show you, I’m sure you could do it, but . . .” He looks toward the front of the tent, where, from the sound of it, pandemonium still reigns. “Get me out, and we’ll make a run for it. Where’s Boyboy?”

  “Going for help. Hopefully in the form of your father.” I curse again. “He’s supposed to be meeting us down the road. But we can’t outrun these guys. They’ve got trucks and bikes.”

  “Can we go through the forest?”

  I think about it but shake my head. “The going will be too slow, and they’ll just come around and surround us before we can get back to the road.” I go back to his bindings. I can at least get his legs loose while I’m thinking of a new plan.

  “Tina, what’s going on? Who are these guys?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll explain everything once we’re safe.”

  “I heard them talking about—”

  I cut him off with a quick gesture. “Someone’s coming! I have to put your blindfold back on.”

  “No! Tina!”

  But I’m already yanking the greasy fabric over his eyes. I grab the blanket off the cot and scurry to the rear of the tent, where there’s a big wooden crate. I squat behind it and throw the blanket over me. It’s a terrible hiding job, but at the moment it’s the best option I’ve got. I squeeze down into a tight ball and try my hardest to look like a pile of dirty laundry. Hopefully in the dark no one will notice me. I want to kick myself for not keeping Ketchup’s panga. I still have his gun, but I’d rather defend myself quietly. Nothing to bring a horde of militia down on our heads like gunshots from the prisoner’s tent.

  A silhouetted figure throws open the tent flap and begins yelling at Michael. The guy seems to have just been sent in to check on him, though, because he tells Michael he’s worth “less than a monkey turd,” if he moves, and then he’s gone again.

  We wait a few moments in silence. I lift my head. “Charming.”

  Michael lets out his breath, and then winces. I wonder if he’s got broken ribs too that he’s just not telling me about. “They’re all insane. There’s this one who keeps telling me he’s going to enjoy watching my fireworks. No idea what he’s talking about, but it cracks him up every time.”

  I stiffen. Michael doesn’t know about Omoko’s plan for blood.

  “Hey, can you come take this thing off? I hate not being able to see.”

  I creep back over. Should I tell him what Omoko is planning, or will that just take more time we don’t have?

  “Thanks,” Michael whispers when I pull the blindfold off.

  For a moment I’m caught in his gaze, unable to move. I want so badly to apologize for screaming at him and running off and for letting him get caught and for generally getting him into a situation where he may end up dead, but there’s no time for that right now. I force myself back to trying to get him free.

  Pulling the bobby pin out of my pocket, I go to work.

  “Why did these guys capture us?”

  “Mr. Omoko wants to ransom you to your dad.” The pin has twisted somehow in all of this and won’t go in. I bite it, trying to mash it back into a useful shape.

  “Who’s Mr. Omoko?”

  “He’s . . .” So much has happened. I’ve never even mentioned Omoko until now, other than during my drug-induced rant outside the guesthouse. I pull the pin out of my mouth to examine it. Still not right. “I’ll tell you everything later,” I say, “but for right now, he’s the bad guy. He killed my mom.” I stick the pin back in my mouth, trying again.

  Michael stares at me, as if what I’m saying will make better sense if he looks at me hard enough. “What? Why? Who is—”

  “And he kidnapped my sister,” I say as I try again to wedge the pin into the bindings on his ankles. It isn’t going in right, but that might be because my hand has started trembling. “I think she’s safe now, but still . . .” I shake my head, unable to go on.

  “Our sister.”

  Startled, I look up.

  There is something so fierce in Michael’s expression, but at the same time, a vulnerability that has nothing to do with his bindings. Before I can stop them, two quick tears fall down my cheeks. “Our sister,” I whisper.

  My chest suddenly feels like it’s being ripped apart. I drop my eyes to the crescent moon scar I can just barely see in the dark crook of his arm. Slowly, I slide my hand up his wrist until it rests on top of the raised line. I feel him shudder under my touch. The ache in my throat is almost unbearable. When I look back up at his face I realize I finally understand what he’s thinking. I was right. He does care about me.

  He bends his head toward mine. Our foreheads bump gently.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, letting my tears fall freely now.

  “There’s nothing to—”

  But I stop him by placing my mouth onto his. I barely know what I’m doing. For once, I don’t consider or think or weigh consequences. I just do. He kisse
s me back, softly at first, and then harder, hungrily. A heat travels up my spine, radiating throughout my entire body. I lift my hands to his face and breathe in his skin.

  When I finally pull back, he sighs into me. “I’ve been waiting for that my whole life,” he says.

  I laugh through my tears. “Sorry it had to happen here.” I want so badly to kiss him again, but I know the clock is ticking. “We have to hurry,” I say, bending to his bindings again.

  “Yeah,” Michael says, sounding less convinced, and leans back to let me work.

  I think I’ve almost got it when I feel him tense. “I’m sorry, I know this hurts—”

  “Shh. Do you hear that?”

  I stop, ears pricking. I was so intent on what I was doing that I hadn’t registered the thrumming. It’s distant now but getting closer. “A helicopter.”

  “It’s Dad!” Michael says, breaking into a full smile now.

  But something is wrong. “No,” I say. “It’s too close. Boyboy was supposed to tell him to keep out of sight of the camp. Maybe he never got through.”

  Oh God, what if they caught Boyboy? This is all my fault. I bolt up. Shouts from the militia tell us they’ve noticed the helicopter too. And I never explained . . .

  “It’s a trap, Michael!” I say. “Omoko is going to shoot the chopper down as soon as you’re airborne.”

  Michael’s smile vanishes. “What? But—”

  “He’s going to kill you and your father.”

  “Go time, boys!” a voice crows outside, very close.

  Michael’s head swivels to the front tent flaps. “Someone’s coming.”

  My fingers work at his ankles frantically. “Come on, come on . . .”

  “It’s the guard coming back! Hide!” Michael says.

  “No! I can—”

  “It’s too late, Tina! Hide! You can’t help me if you’re dead!”

  I can see a shadow descending on the tent.

  “Now!” he says, pulling his feet from my hands, oblivious to the pain the movement causes him.

  I hesitate for a second longer, and then, hating myself for it, dart back behind the crate, yanking the blanket over me again. My heart pounds. It’s just the guard. He’s checking in again and then he’ll leave. I’ve still got time to free Michael and make a run for it.