City of Saints & Thieves

by Natalie C. Anderson

  But the familiar voice at the tent door kills my remaining hope.

  “Hello, Michael,” Mr. Omoko says. “Ready to bid us all good-bye?”

  FORTY-ONE

  It seems Christina and her friend have abandoned you,” I hear Omoko say. “I half expected to come in and find you missing too.”

  I am positive that he can hear my heart pounding in the silence and he’s just toying with me. Any second now he’s going to order the Goondas to search the tent.

  “Has she been here?”

  “Yes,” Michael says.

  I nearly gasp out loud.

  “She came and told me that you’ve got Kiki,” Michael says, “and that she couldn’t do anything to help me. She ran off.”

  “Smart girl,” Mr. Omoko says, after a pause.

  Does he buy it? Something in his voice sounds dubious.

  “Boss,” another voice says from near the tent entrance, “the truck is ready.”

  “Okay, take him out, boys. We’ll deal with looking for the other two later.”

  I hear scuffling and then the sound of footsteps receding. I curse myself, wanting desperately to stand up and do something. But I know no good will come of it. I wait for the sound of the truck driving away before peeking out. The tent is empty, and I fling the blanket off. I open the back flap a sliver and check outside for prowling militia. There’s only one guy that I can see, but he has his back to me. I grab the first heavy thing I can find—a box of bullets—and creep to the flap. The guy is smoking now. I take a deep breath and rush out, landing a blow to the back of his head. He falls over with a grunt.

  “Hey!”

  I whip toward the voice. Another militia guy is to my right. I hadn’t seen him from inside the tent. I bolt, making for the forest and hoping I can outrun him. I hear him yell to one of his buddies and charge after me. I have Ketchup’s gun, but there’s no way to get a clear shot through the trees. As I dodge and weave through the growth I let all of my adrenaline and fear take hold and my feet fly, and to my relief, I can soon tell I’m breaking away, getting farther and farther from my pursuers. They sound like elephants crashing along behind me. Finally, something is going my way.

  And then I realize I’m not headed toward Michael at all.

  I curse and change tack, angling back toward where I think the road is.

  I run. I run until my lungs are ready to explode. Then I run some more. I careen off trees. My feet are torn to shreds. I scream at myself to keep moving. When I’m sure I’ve shaken the militia guys I stop, listening for the sound of the helicopter. There’s nothing but silence.

  I keep going. The road has to be up here. It has to be. I scramble down a gully, go up and over fallen trees, and just when I’m starting to panic, the ground falls away and there it is, the muddy track of a road. I stop for only a second to make sure it’s clear before I leap onto it, my lungs on fire, going for a full-out sprint now.

  I’m going to be too late. They’ll be gone before I get there. And once the helicopter is airborne . . .

  I come up over a hill and see the sudden light of a clearing. That must be where the helicopter has landed, and the sight gives me a burst of speed, just as a dark figure steps out on the path in front of me.

  I nearly scream, but the person grabs my arms and says my name in a frantic whisper.

  “Boyboy!” I gasp.

  “Shh!” he says, and drags me off the path.

  “I thought they’d caught you,” I choke out.

  Boyboy pulls me toward a gap in the trees where we can see the clearing. “What happened? I just saw Mr. Omoko come by with Michael! Couldn’t you get him out?”

  “No,” I moan. “I didn’t have time.” Boyboy and I crouch behind a tree. The helicopter sits in windswept grass and wildflowers like a giant black wasp. “And his hand is broken, so he couldn’t drive the motorcycle.” I can just see two figures inside the chopper. I look past the brightness of the field, and my blood goes cold. The militia truck is there in the shade of the trees, surrounded by men bristling with AK-47s. A Goonda has Michael by the arm and they’re standing just at the edge of the forest next to Mr. Omoko. “Did you talk to Mr. Greyhill?”

  “I think I was too late,” Boyboy says, his face twisted. “I came this far to try to make the call, but then I heard them coming after me. I had to run maybe a couple of kilometers down the road before I got a signal at Catherine’s home.”

  “Catherine’s?” I ask, looking at him sharply.

  “I recognized it when I came out of the forest.”

  She wasn’t kidding when she said the militias were just up the road.

  “And I called Mr. Greyhill, but he didn’t answer,” Boyboy goes on. “I had to leave a message. I called three times, but then I heard the helicopter, so I gave up and followed it back here. I don’t know if he heard any of them. I’m so sorry, Tina.”

  Trying to swallow my panic, I shake my head. “It’s not your fault.”

  Nothing is going right. My last hope was that Boyboy could talk to Mr. Greyhill and he would somehow salvage things.

  There’s movement at the helicopter and then I see Mr. G step out, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. I look from him back to Michael. If Mr. Greyhill knows what Omoko’s true intentions are, he doesn’t show it. He buttons his jacket, like he’s headed to a business meeting. Mr. Omoko steps out of the shade and walks toward him.

  “Did you talk to Catherine?” I whisper.

  “She went to try and get help.”

  Boyboy doesn’t sound hopeful, and there’s no reason he should be. What sort of help can she find? The local police are probably on the militia payroll. An army unit might respond, but that’s only if she can find and convince them.

  When Omoko and Greyhill are face-to-face, Omoko smiles and reaches out to shake his old boss’s hand. Mr. Greyhill doesn’t take it. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Mr. Omoko’s smile tightens. He claps Greyhill on the arm instead, and starts to lead him back toward Michael. I can see now that the militia guys have set up a small table and chairs at the edge of the forest. I count. Four militia guys and two Goondas are visible, but it wouldn’t surprise me if there were more, armed and hidden in the forest.

  Michael is presented to his father and his blindfold yanked down around his neck. He blinks into the sun, and I can’t do anything but stare at his face. Mr. Greyhill reaches for him, but at a word from Omoko he stops and slowly lowers his hand. Now his emotions are obvious. Even from here, Greyhill’s barely contained fury is palpable.

  Mr. Omoko gestures to the table where a laptop has been set up, and the two men sit. Michael is moved away.

  I look back over my shoulder, as if by magic there might be some help coming up the road. There are only trees.

  I stand. This is it. No one is coming to help us. I pull the gun out of my waistband.

  “Tina, what are you doing?” Boyboy tugs at my arm, but I shake him off.

  The gun is heavy, but at least it’s a handgun, not one of the AKs, or otherwise I would have ditched it to run faster. I check the magazine—six bullets, plus one in the chamber. I fix my stance like Michael taught me to when we were kids, like the Goondas reinforced when we went out to shoot beer bottles off the edge of the sea wall. I aim at Omoko. He is smiling as Mr. G brings the laptop closer and starts to type. I breathe.

  But I can’t get my hands to stop shaking.

  “I’m too far,” I say, and use my shoulder to wipe the sweat that is trickling into my eyes.

  “Tina . . .”

  “I need to get closer.”

  I move sideways through the forest, keeping my eyes locked on the two men at the table. They look so odd, like a business lunch misplaced. I can hear Boyboy following behind me and turn to signal him to move back. I want him farther away, where he won’t be heard. I run through the forest on quiet feet.
Feet that have been trained to be silent sneaking into houses also do pretty well running through forests, it turns out.

  The field is broad, and it takes me a while to get around behind them, especially while trying not to make any noise. I creep up the hill above the militia truck, then down through the undergrowth, moving as fast as I dare, until I come to a sort of a cliff, where I can crouch and look down at them. The men stand in a line, Goondas on one end, militias on the other. Mr. Greyhill is typing something on the computer, and Mr. Omoko is engrossed in what he’s being shown. I had expected to come up on more men in the forest guarding Mr. Omoko’s flank, but there’s no one, no sign of disturbed undergrowth. It’s a lucky break, but still, what am I supposed to do now? Shoot as many of the militia and Goondas as I can, plus Mr. Omoko? Hope they don’t kill Michael? I’m closer, but still outnumbered. Desperation swells in my throat.

  I hear a snap of a twig behind me and spin, heart thumping, gun raised.

  Boyboy already has his hands up, grimacing. I put a finger to my lips and motion for him to get down. He crawls forward and peers over the edge with me.

  I can see it on Boyboy’s face. He sees what I see. At best it’s a shootout, which will most likely end with Michael getting the worst of it. And Boyboy doesn’t even have a gun. I try to keep my breath steady. Think, Tina, think, there’s got to be a way. Why can’t this be like the movies, where I just tear down through the woods, bad guys tossed back by bullets, the captive never getting a scratch?

  If I can even hit Mr. Omoko I’ll be lucky. But no other plan is coming to me. I see Mr. Greyhill pause, his finger hovering over a key. Mr. Omoko smiles like a lion that’s just brought down prey. Soon the transaction will be over, and Mr. Greyhill and Michael will be in the helicopter. I ease myself onto my belly, swallow, prop up my elbows, and raise the gun. I squint one eye closed and try to block out Boyboy’s rapid breath, try to slow my racing heart, and keep my trembling hands from shaking the sights away from my target.

  I put my father’s head in the crosshairs.

  I can feel the resistance of the trigger under my finger. One tug is all it takes.

  Shoot him, Tina. Now.

  Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak

  Tak-tak-tak-tak

  I start, and lift my head, so wound up that for a second I can’t loosen my grip on the gun. Boyboy and I look at each other, then at the men. They’re all talking, focused on something across the field in the direction of their camp.

  “What’s going on?” Boyboy asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  Tak-tak-tak-tak

  Tak-tak-tak-tak-BOOM

  I hear birds screaming in the forest. The militiamen shout and point. I crane my neck to see and sniff the air. “Smoke,” I say. “It’s coming from back at their camp.”

  The militia guys seem to have the same thought and turn to Mr. Omoko. An argument starts, but then Mr. Omoko yells for the Goondas to stay put while the militia guys go see what’s going on. Mr. Greyhill sits ramrod straight, eyes glued to his old Number Two. I don’t think he’s hit the key he was hesitating over. The Goondas finger their weapons and watch their boss. Michael looks at his father. Everyone is as tense as strung bows.

  I look from Mr. Omoko back to the truck, where the militia men are clambering in. Did they leave their RPGs or take them? With a roar the truck is bouncing across the field, back toward the camp.

  And before I can come to my senses, I swivel the gun, line up the sights, and take a shot.

  I watch the Goonda holding Michael’s elbow jerk forward and fall onto the table between Mr. Omoko and Greyhill.

  Then all hell breaks loose.

  And I don’t let myself think, even though Boyboy is shouting and grabbing at me. I tell myself I’m that action hero charging down the hill, high with adrenaline, taking shots two, three—except it’s all happening too fast—fourth shot—and my feet are slipping, and I don’t hit the other Goonda or Mr. Omoko, and I feel little explosions in tree trunks and earth around me as bullets dance past my head. Everyone is screaming at everyone else to stop shooting—fifth shot—except for the other Goonda, who I realize is the one who was in the fistfight, Toofoh-or-Toto; he’s just rat-tat-tat-tat-tatting away, aiming with his one good eye, and then I trip over something and I’m going to land right at Toofoh-or-Toto’s feet, but then suddenly he’s flying sideways, shot by the pilot who has come out of the chopper, and who has maybe been hit too, and also falls into the grass, and then, like it never happened . . .

  It all goes dead quiet.

  I stagger into the light, the gun up and pointed at Mr. Omoko. I have two more bullets left. Michael is crouched over his father, who is ashen and gripping his leg. A few feet away, Omoko slowly brings his hands up from his sides. He glances at the two Greyhills.

  “Stay back from them!” I scream.

  I hear Boyboy come up behind me and run to Mr. G’s side. Mr. Greyhill’s leg is dark with blood. Boyboy yanks off Mr. G’s tie and begins to wrap it around his leg as a tourniquet. Michael is writhing on the ground, and my heart skips because I think he’s hurt too, but then I realize he’s pulling his legs through his tied arms to get them in front of him.

  I register all of this out of the corner of my eye. I am fixed on Mr. Omoko, the gun aimed at his head.

  “Christina,” he rumbles, “what are you doing?”

  “Put your hands up. Up!”

  “You think you’re going to shoot me, Tiny Girl?”

  I keep the gun raised. The sun is beating down on me, and the gun is slippery in my hands. I can feel the rage of a thousand days spent waiting for this moment shimmering inside me. I rock from foot to foot.

  “Yes,” I finally say.

  A slow smile spreads over Mr. Omoko’s face. “I thought so. All right. Do it. You’ll never have a better shot.”

  Michael raises his head. “Don’t, Tina.”

  I keep my eyes on Mr. Omoko, trying to block out everything else. He’s right. I am too close to miss. Sweat stings the corners of my eyes, and I blink.

  Mr. Omoko begins to lower his palms.

  “Put your hands back up!”

  But he doesn’t stop. They descend inch by inch. “You are losing your chance. What’s the matter? You are already a killer, daughter,” he says, waving a hand over the dead Goonda.

  “I’m not your daughter!” I scream. I sound like a child, but I can’t stop myself.

  “You are, like it or not. But the question is whether you are too much like your mother,” he says. His lip curls. “Weak.”

  “My mother was not weak!”

  He smiles again, and for a second I am horrified to see a twisted mirror of my face. I feel myself breaking apart, my limbs rattling and popping like an old machine. “I’m going to kill you,” I whisper.

  His teeth are too big in his mouth; his gums shine. “You’d better do it, then. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To destroy your mother’s murderer?” Mr. Omoko opens his arms wide. “Here I am!”

  I can’t move.

  “I created you!” he shouts. “I made you who you are! You owe me everything! I made you the girl who can kill a man. So let’s see it! Let’s see how much like me you really are!”

  Every word is a stone, smashing against me. You are like me. Like me. I am his daughter, just like him. There is a dead man at my feet. I have a hostage tied up in the forest. All this time, year after year, all I’ve ever wanted was revenge. Being with the Goondas has nursed this violence in me, but maybe it’s been there all along, in my bones. My fury has been boundless, my love for my mother buried underneath it. And it’s all because of him. Because I am his daughter. I am of his blood. I am his.

  And then very softly, but very firmly, in the back of my mind I hear a voice. Not Mr. Omoko’s voice, though. Not my mother’s.

  Mine.

  My voice says, N
o, Tina. He’s wrong. You are who you choose to be. You are yours.

  And I feel the sun burning and strength returning to my arms. And my voice when I speak is my own, not some sad man’s daughter’s.

  “I am nothing like you.”

  I raise the gun to his head, and I am ready. At the same moment I see him reach for his pocket. All in less than an instant, there is the shine of the metal in his hand. The black eye of the gun barrel. The succinct and complete distancing of himself from me.

  A single shot cracks and echoes.

  Noise fades. A cloud slides over the sun, dark, then light.

  I wait for the pain.

  I look down at my body. I look up. I’m distracted by birds flinging up from the grass into the white sky.

  I am whole.

  The gun is still in my hand, but it’s cold. I haven’t fired it. My ears ring. I look back up at Mr. Omoko as he looks past me. There is a sudden brightness at his chest, right at his heart, like a flower blooming. He raises his fist and coughs a little into it. When it comes away, it is red. He takes a step. He tries to raise his gun, but it slips from his hand and lands in the grass.

  I feel myself turn to look over my shoulder, and it takes some time for my eyes to focus. At first there’s nothing there. Light playing on leaves. Darkness. And then I see the gun muzzle slide out from the crook of a tree branch where she’d steadied it to line up a perfect shot.

  Catherine’s face is clear; she is calm. Our eyes meet and lock, holding steady for a long time. Then she slides the gun strap over her shoulder and hefts it onto her back.

  There is a noise from Mr. Omoko, and I turn back. He’s fallen to his knees, hand to his heart. The red slides out around his fingers and drips onto the ground. He opens his mouth like he wants to tell me something, but I turn away, to the forest.

  Catherine is gone.

  I stand completely still, staring into the dark between the gem-bright leaves. Flattening and springing up with the wind, the grass is like an ocean. I do not look toward the sounds of my father’s last wet breaths.