He saw legs. A trim waist. Two brown hands. One holding a cigarette, the other a canister of gasoline. Both twitching nervously.
There was another set of hands. Large and capable, skin shadowed with olive undertones. Mottled, marked with burns. One sinewy wrist glittered with gold, a Rolex. And in the other hand he saw a metal clipboard with a silver pen held under a long thumb.
No protective gear. No gloves. Just like the men he had killed.
Amiri could not see their faces. He did not dare try. He focused on those hands, trying to capture scents, the stories in their crackling voices. In the midst of it all, he heard only one word that was familiar, a name that made him question his hearing.
“Rikki,” said the man with the clipboard. “Rikki Kinn.”
Everything inside him stopped. Rikki froze tight against his side. All he could hear was her name.
And then the clicking sound resumed. The pen was taken up, something quick written.
Nearby, a gun went off. The men did not flinch. Amiri heard a woman scream. The men did not stop talking. In the canister, gasoline splashed. Its bearer said something loud, laughing nervously. His companion did not respond; he took the pen and stabbed the other man.
Amiri did not see the impact, but he heard it. Rikki recoiled. He grabbed her hand, squeezing—listening as that sharp throaty cry died to a high whine of pain. The man fell to his knees in front of the tent. Amiri glimpsed the crown of a bald head, a chiseled cheek. The pen jutted from his shoulder. His attacker said a few harsh words, and the man nodded his head, babbling. Making promises, no doubt. Trying to make up for whatever had just caused this stroke of punishment.
Amiri heard a clicking sound. The pen was ripped out. Its silver shaft was cleaned on the shuddering back of the wounded man. Then his attacker turned and walked away—back into the bullet-riddled chaos, like he belonged there. Amiri glimpsed long black hair, glossy as silk. Listened as that odd click click click faded away.
The stabbed man kneeling in front of the tent still held his cigarette. His hand shook as he raised it to his mouth. He smelled like blood, death; bitter as poison. Mixed with the hard fumes of gasoline.
Which, after rising, he then proceeded to splash on the tent in which they were hiding.
It was so shocking that for a moment Amiri could not move—listening as the man upended the canister over the plastic sheeting and the ground around it—hearing those grunts of pain as the fuel rained down, soaking everything, seeping between the flaps.
No mistake about his intentions. None at all. There was only one reason a person doused something in gasoline.
Instinct took over. Amiri exploded from the tent, claws ripping through his gloves. He rammed his fists into the man’s throat and wounded shoulder, slamming him into the ground with a crushed windpipe. Fast, efficient. There was no chance to shout for help. The cigarette slipped. Amiri knocked it back into the man’s gasping mouth. Safer there. No fire. Gasoline continued to pour from the dropped canister.
Amiri sensed movement on his left, bodies in shadow. Guttural shouts pocked the air, along with the crackle of gunfire. The fumes from the gasoline rolled over him like smoke. His nostrils felt scalded.
Amiri danced back, the cheetah rising up through his skin. Fur brushed against the inside of his biohazard suit. His claws retracted, just barely, through the remains of his latex gloves. He could not fight the beast; it coiled inside his chest, screaming. He clamped his mouth shut tight and reached behind, grabbing Rikki as she pushed through the tent flaps. Eddie rode her heels. Amiri smelled fire, ash, felt an aura of intense heat radiating from the young man’s body.
“Take care,” Amiri whispered to him. “The petrol.”
Eddie nodded, peering deeper into the distant shadows where the clipboard man had disappeared. Flashlight beams cut a swath through the night, and the movement of light solidified on tiny figures, slender enough to be children, an army of them. It took Amiri a moment to reconcile the sight. Those were children. Small boys, loaded down with guns and gas canisters. Stumbling, clumsy. Emptying out the fuel with awkward haste. They worked in a line, methodically moving over the wrapped dead with quaking intensity. Some adults stood with them, but they did little but shout and hold flashlights.
Rikki muttered something. Her words were muffled beneath her mask, impossible to understand. She stared at the armed youths.
Eddie said, “Come on. We can slip around.”
“No,” she said, still watching the boys splash the dead with gasoline. “Oh, my God.”
Eddie went still. Amiri set his jaw, following her gaze, studying the children, concentrating solely on their actions. Their diligence. Their disregard for anything but those canisters in their hands, and those deadly diseased bodies at their small unprotected feet. He smelled the gas. Listened to it slosh, and in such amounts as to be part of the river wild on the other side of the camp.
He thought about the men. What he had just witnessed.
Amiri squeezed her hand. “You think they came here to burn the bodies.”
Rikki looked at him. “I think they came to burn us all.”
He stared, but there was no time to respond—a mechanical howl filled the air. The children stopped pouring gasoline over the dead and a shout went up.
“The plane,” Eddie hissed. The UN plane. Their one way out.
Amiri hauled Rikki close, forcing her to run. He kept one hand on her shoulder, guarding her back, his muscles bunching from human to cheetah. Gunshots rode the air, sharp voices. A figure in bright orange and white lurched from the shadows between tents, gloved hands clutching a rifle. Eddie raised his own gun, but stopped at the last moment. It was Patrick, the young peacekeeper who had helped them in Kinsangani. Mask off, hood down, goggles hanging around his neck. He was wild-eyed, flushed, covered in dirt and blood, and running so deep on instinct that for a moment Amiri thought the young man would shoot them on sight. But then his eyes cleared, his teeth flashed, and he gestured fiercely.
“Not that way!” Patrick shouted, but it was too late; they’d already been seen. Bullets hailed down. Eddie whirled, shooting back into the darkness. Heat rolled off his body, pressing through Amiri’s protective gear like a rush from an open oven.
Patrick still shouted. Amiri tried to listen, but this time it was Rikki who pulled, and he had no choice but to follow. They ran. Cut themselves away from the tents onto an open plain carved from the jungle. Airfield, runway, with only one cargo plane on the ground. Reinforcements coming had been the word on the flight from Kinsangani, though Amiri had paid little attention. Too many distractions. Memories of photographs, which were now nothing more than ash.
The airfield was crowded with the dead: a sea of body bags, stacked and tagged and ready for disposal. No scent of gasoline—not yet—but the smell of death was overwhelming. Amiri swallowed down the urge to vomit, and he set himself on Rikki, making certain she stayed close. Her scent cut through the carnage; wild, sharp, sweet.
A gunfight surrounded the plane. Amiri’s eyes shifted deeper into those of the beast and he found peacekeepers sprawled on their stomachs, peering through the aft loading bay of the cargo plane, shooting indiscriminately into the night. Amiri guided Rikki and Eddie closer to the body bags, searching for cover … and realized there were men there, too. Guns and faces were huddled amongst the bundled dead. They were firing on the plane.
But it was all wrong. His eyes were wrong. Those men could not be the enemy. Those uniforms … the colors …
Patrick shouted again. Amiri whirled and found the young soldier standing on the edge of camp. He waved frantically, beckoning them away from the airfield with furious, terrified, gestures.
“What—” Eddie began, but Patrick jerked, stumbling to his knees. He dropped his gun. Fell face first. Behind him, three men appeared. Men without biohazard suits, wearing light blue berets and camouflage gear. They were European in appearance; pale skin, dark hair.
Peacekeepers. Or men dress
ed as such. One of them nudged Patrick with his boot and laughed, while the others settled their gazes on Amiri and Eddie.
There was no place to hide. Amiri pushed Rikki behind him, but not before the men saw her. She was bundled tight, protective gear strapped over her face, but nonetheless the men stared, then glanced at each other with narrowed eyes. They raised their guns, taking careful aim. Behind, the assault against the plane continued; the massive engine roared.
Betrayed. They had all been betrayed.
The tallest of the men bared his teeth and called out in French; then, after a moment, guttural English. He was heavy with muscle, the tufts of his eyebrows furrowed over dark eyes that examined Rikki with an intensity that made Amiri want to kill. He smiled and said, “Come, mademoiselle. Come here now. We will keep you safe, yes?”
“Fuck you,” Rikki shot back, the weight of her stolen gun briefly touching Amiri’s back. He did not reach for the weapon, only watched as the interest in the Frenchman’s eyes turned into a startling recognition. The man’s smile disappeared. His finger rubbed the trigger of his weapon.
“Doctor,” said the man softly, taking a step closer. “Doctor Kinn.”
Rikki went still. Amiri said, “Eddie.”
Fire exploded. Fire in their hands, against their guns, beneath their feet. The men screamed, dropping their weapons, dancing backward. Flames licked their clothing. Rikki gasped.
Amiri pulled on her arm as the men dropped, rolling, stamping out the fire. The UN plane had begun to move, but the gunfire hailing upon it only increased, pinging the metal surface with sparks and hot bangs. He shouted once again for Eddie, and the young man whirled, eyes narrowed, expression hard.
A wall of fire erupted around the body bags, an inferno that swept inward, so high and thick it blocked the sights of the men firing on the plane—blocked them, too, from getting a clear shot on Amiri, Rikki, and Eddie. He heard them shouting, the high crack of panic. He could still see them in his head—wearing peacekeeper uniforms. All wrong, askew, like they had been thrown on in a haphazard manner.
Amiri snarled, pushing Rikki and Eddie toward the moving aircraft. His muscles contorted, shifting; the woman was too slow and he swept her up in his arms, ignoring her gasp of surprise. Eddie was just behind, arms pumping, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. The plane kept moving. Amiri could see the pilots in the cockpit staring at them. He shouted, desperation making him hoarse.
The plane did not slow. Behind, Amiri heard movement, shouts, screams. Pursuit. Eddie stopped, turning with his hands raised. Heat scorched the air, rushing over Amiri’s back with such force that he stumbled. Rikki gasped his name, arms clutched around his neck. He held her tighter, listening to the thump of her heart beneath the roar of the engines, smelling her fear beneath the miasma of death and fire.
“We’re not going to make the plane!” Eddie shouted.
Amiri agreed. Unfortunately, no one was going to make that flight.
There came a high-pitched whine, and he glanced to the right just in time to see something long and bright rush into the air from the jungle’s dark edge. It was like watching a falling star—a star in the shape of a missile—and it streaked through the night with a shriek.
“No,” Rikki breathed, stiffening in Amiri’s arms, flinching with a muffled cry as the missile slammed against the aircraft, tearing into it with a flash of terrible light.
Explosion. Shock wave. Shrapnel. Amiri took himself hard to the ground, covering Rikki with his body. Eddie fell against his side, also over the woman. The three of them huddled close, pressed so tight Amiri felt as though he was breathing for all of them. His ears hurt with the thunder and squeal of tearing metal, and the tremor of the air shook him as the plane ruptured again and again, passing from machine to nothing more than burning parts. His mask slid off, as did his goggles. He did not care.
He lost time, but not much. After the first terrible wave he lifted his head, just enough to see. Fires burned so bright it felt like daylight, and all around him was nothing but barren earth, hot metal … and just beyond, the jungle, waiting like some dark wet shadow.
Amiri staggered to his feet, dragging Rikki with him, holding out his other hand to pull Eddie up. They turned in a full circle, surveying the destruction. Sweat rolled down his body, pressure curling at the base of his spine, making his skin tingle.
Instinct. Someone was watching them.
He took Rikki’s arm. “We go now. Fast.”
She shook him off, staring. Her mask was gone, as were her goggles. Exposed, vulnerable, deadly. “This was murder. All of this.”
All of this. Her voice echoed inside his head, as did visions of the dead; a thousand corpses bloody and still and twisted in poses of agony. Amiri smelled burning flesh, the smoke of the massive funeral pyre.
Blood trickled down Eddie’s cheek. His protective gear was torn, his face exposed. He did not seem to care. There was fire in his gaze: those flames, reflected. Burning. “Jungle or river,” he said. “Those are our options.”
Amiri heard distant shouts. The fire was spreading into the refugee camp, no doubt licking the edges of fumes and gasoline. Ready for another explosion, another consumption. The river was on the other side of it all, swift and safe. A sure thing.
But the jungle was closer, and he was good with shadows.
There was a path through the fire. Amiri did not know what lay on the other side, but it was better than remaining still. He pointed and Eddie wordlessly took the lead, running ahead. Amiri grasped Rikki’s hand, but she pulled back again, still staring at the wreckage of the plane. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.
She never blinked. He expected her to be distracted, terrified, but instead her gaze was clear, hot, her focus utterly striking. She looked at him like she could see straight through to his soul, and it stole his breath.
“We must go,” he whispered, still holding her chin, his words tumbling into a growl. “We must live.”
Rikki touched his face, her fingers trailing up his cheek to the corner of his eye. The contact was fleeting, but it sent a shock of heat through him that went deeper than the surrounding fires. For a moment he forgot himself, the danger, his convictions; the cheetah rumbled through his chest, responding only to this woman, her scent. His hand tightened. He swayed closer.
Eddie shouted his name. Amiri froze. His heart thundered, everything inside his body tight, hard. He could not believe what he had been on the verge of doing. So stupid, so thoughtless. Less than animal.
Rikki still studied his face, but there was a difference in her gaze that he could not bear to look closely upon. He turned, grabbing her hand. Rikki stumbled, but this time followed. They raced away from the fire, toward the jungle.
Eddie was waiting. Amiri felt a sliver of fear for the young man—for himself, as well. They had done too much tonight. All their secrets, everything they had to hide, was bubbling to the surface. In front of a woman with sharp eyes.
Exposed once, exposed again. The world is too small if you are not willing to hide.
The pressure at the base of his spine intensified; his hackles tingled. Just within the leading edge of the jungle he passed Rikki off to Eddie, and turned in time to see a man follow them from the flaming wreckage. Not a peacekeeper, not a doctor or aid worker. This man wore a pale suit and a pale tie. An incongruous sight; an illusion, perhaps. Amiri stared, taking in the tall lean body, the short blond hair. Sharp features, deadly eyes. A face that reminded him of someone. A presence that made him think of cages and steel and Russia.
The man was some distance away, but he looked directly into Amiri’s hiding place and held up his hand. Waved, with a cold smile.
Amiri’s chest tightened. He melted backward into the jungle, passing into shadow. The cheetah fought him; the beast wanted blood, could already taste it, bitter and keen. Amiri bit his tongue to satisfy the urge. No matter who their pursuer was, now was not the time. He had the woman to think of. And Eddie.
/> They were waiting for him deep within the bush. The air was hot beneath the night canopy. Amiri listened hard, but other than the low hoot of birds, he heard nothing to indicate other humans, or pursuit. Not that it would last. They had been seen.
“Remove your protective gear,” he ordered, tearing his mask and goggles all the way off. There would be no hiding, no movement—not in this shambling outfit. He stripped away the latex gloves, hesitating for only a moment while he concentrated on maintaining the human appearance of his skin and nails.
Rikki and Eddie stared at him, unmoving. There was some light pushing through the trees from the burning airfield, but once they began walking it would be dark in the jungle. Only Amiri would be able to see, though Eddie, he thought, might have a penlight in his pocket.
“The disease,” said the young man, tentative. “I thought …”
Amiri slowed his movements, glancing from his friend to Rikki, whose gaze was lost in shadows. He wished he could see her eyes; even so, he could not look away from her. His hands stilled. “There is more happening here than just a disease. Or am I wrong, Doctor Kinn?”
She stood very quiet, a far cry from the quivering fury he had spied on the burning airfield. Her silence was profound.
“Doctor Kinn,” he said again, more gently.
“No,” she said softly. “You’re not wrong. But there’s still a risk.”
Amiri settled his jaw. “We have already been compromised. Even Eddie, with his torn suit. So we all die now or die later. I know what I choose.”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “But why do I think you always choose the hard way?”
Amiri smiled grimly, tearing off the rest of his suit. “Because for me, Doctor Kinn, the alternative has never existed.”
Chapter Six
When Rikki was twelve years old, she’d found herself—in the span of one night—homeless on the street, with no money, no family, and no way up or out by any means other than what she could do for herself. Her father was in prison, and all the money saved from his days of trucking had been spent on a fat little lawyer who had done so little to help his client, he might as well have wiped his ass with Frank Kinn’s freedom and flushed it down the toilet.
The Last Twilight Page 8
