“No.” That diamond earring glinted as Francis turned to look up the stairwell. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
She is safe, whispered his father’s voice, loud inside Amiri’s ringing head. She is a fighter. She fights for you.
He wanted to slam his fist against his skull. Footsteps rustled on the steps. Moochie appeared. “I sent them in another direction. Come on. We have to hurry.”
“Where would Broker go in a time of danger?” Amiri growled, as they sped up the stairs.
“Helicopters,” Rictor said, before the other two could respond. “He’ll search out his most valuable assets, and then try to run with them.”
“Rikki,” Amiri said. “Us.”
“And some others,” Francis added, giving Rictor a hard, keen look. “The children.”
Sister. Amiri felt a pang strike through his heart at the memory of that little girl, so much like him, a twin in everything but gender. He had never imagined such a thing—a sister—but he felt the rightness of it at first sight, knew the truth. He’d suffered an odd and petty jealousy, just for a moment, as he watched that child hold her father’s hand—a father who welcomed such a gesture, when Amiri had never been offered the same affection.
She is blood. Your family. You must protect her. She is yours to protect.
A growl rolled from his throat. They reached the landing door, and edged into the empty hall. Amiri smelled violence, listened to shouts and screams echoing off the walls. Close, dangerously so.
“Aitan moved the kids to a new room. That’s where we’re supposed to find each other.” Moochie’s gaze darted down the corridor, and he took the lead, running smooth, silent, on light feet. Amiri smelled blood, and around the bend they came upon three bodies swimming in a pool of red—two in the black mercenary gear that Broker’s men favored, and one man who wore a torn olive uniform. Rebel. Militia. Jaaved’s hired soldier.
Francis passed the dead without a second glance. “We’re close.”
Unfortunately, so was everyone else. They found a firefight near the room where the children were being kept. Broker’s mercenaries were pinned down ahead of them, just at the intersection of several different halls, peeling out of hiding to shoot at some unseen target that every few moments chewed the plaster with a rain of bullets.
“Hide your gun,” Francis hissed to Rictor, and stepped in front of him as Moochie dropped to the rear, aiming his weapon at Amiri. He winked, just once. Which was no comfort at all. Francis waved at the men ahead of them, one of whom slid sideways, away from the corridor intersection. His face was ruddy, sweat-slick, and he eyed Amiri and Rictor with suspicion. Francis snapped his fingers at him. “Broker wants me to bring these men to a special holding room. Is he already up at the helicopters?”
“Fuck, no. He insisted on going into 4B. Got company right afterward. Never did get a good look, but the boss is pinned down, and so are we. We can’t leave him behind, and there’s no way to circle around in this spot.”
“4B?” Francis echoed, voice slightly strained. Amiri’s stomach dropped, and he shared a quick troubled look with Rictor. Was that where the chidren were? If Broker had taken them …
“What about the others?” Francis asked sharply. “How many of us are left?”
The man gave Amiri and Rictor a wary look. “Enough.”
“And the other side?”
“No way yet to be sure. Feels like an army, though.”
Francis glanced at Moochie. “Got our little Avalon?”
“On it.” He moved forward, tattoo pulsing as he reached inside his vest and pulled out a small brown cylinder that looked suspiciously like a cigar-shaped grenade. He pulled the pin with his teeth, pushed aside some of the men manning the corridor intersection, and tossed the device down the hall. Amiri heard a sizzling sound, then several large pops that whistled and burned.
Thick white smoke began pouring into the corridor. Francis grabbed Rictor’s arm, and he gave Amiri a hard look. He guided them toward the smoke. The man they had been speaking to tried to stop them. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Our jobs,” Francis snapped. “You’ve got temporary cover. Use it to blast those guys to hell and give us some cover. We’ll be with Broker.”
“You won’t make it.”
“Give us some goddamn cover,” he hissed, with such force the other man stumbled back against the wall.
“We got thirty seconds,” Moochie said, and Amiri had no time for second thoughts before the four of them passed into the smoke screen, keeping close to the right side of the wall as bullets rang down from behind them on the left. No one shot back. The sudden silence was eerie, almost as much as being blind. Amiri could hardly see his hand in front of his face; the smell of the churning smoke was bitter, acrid. Beneath it, though, a familiar scent. His father.
I am here, he imagined the old man whispering, and just ahead of them, a low crooning whistle rose from the mist. Amiri faltered. He knew that voice. Max. He grabbed Francis’s arm. “Those were not Jaaved’s men shooting.”
The mercenary froze, but he was already standing in front of a white door. 4B. He held up his finger to Amiri, and keyed in a code. The door clicked. He opened it a fraction and said, “Mr. Broker? It’s Francis. I’m here to escort you to the helicopters.”
Amiri wished for silence—that Broker would be elsewhere, and not with the children who must be hidden inside this room—but a heartbeat later he heard that soft cold voice say, “Come in,” and Francis did. But only for a moment. A gun went off. The mercenary flew backward into the mist-shrouded hall, slamming into the floor. Moochie shouted. Amiri darted into the doorway.
Broker was there. Shirt still missing. Scars puckered. Kimbareta was in one hand, gun in the other. Its muzzle was pointed against the child’s head. A’sharia—my sister—crouched on the bed, claws out. Making high-pitched hissing sounds.
Broker took the gun off the boy’s head and pointed at Amiri. He was too close to miss. Had no intention of missing. His eyes were cold, dead, done. No more games. Amiri prepared to lunge, ready to fight, to die. He thought of Rikki.
Something hard hit his shoulder just as Broker fired his gun. Amiri felt heat burn his skin, but nothing hit him. He heard a thud, though. A grunt. Smelled blood and spring rain and thunder. He turned and found Rictor—Rictor sliding backward, hard against the opposite wall inside the corridor. Rictor, falling down. Crumpled. Eyes closed. Chest gaping.
It happened in moments, heartbeats, hardly a breath of time. Amiri watched Rictor die.
He could not fathom it. He could not believe. He looked back at Broker, who even seemed stunned. Staring. As though he had just murdered the unthinkable; a myth, a god.
Rage poured free; Amiri saw red, heard Rikki’s voice somewhere distant behind him. He threw himself at Broker, and this time the man was too slow. The gun went off again, but wild—the bullet struk the wall—and Amiri tore into the man, disarming him easily, ripping Kimbareta away and tossing the child on the bed.
He held down Broker’s pale straining throat. He began choking him.
Broker smiled. A terrible grimace, the crack of a rattling laugh. A hand touched Amiri’s shoulder. He looked up. It was Rikki, tears in her eyes. And just behind her was Max. His face torn, beaten. But good to see.
“I need that man’s mind,” said his friend. “Don’t kill him yet.”
“It hardly matters,” Amiri replied, but he eased off Broker and leaned back, letting the man push away from him, hands clutching his throat, wheezing. Wheezing and still laughing.
Amiri could not bear to look at him. He stood, wrapping Rikki in his arms, breathing in her scent with such desperation that part of him thought she might be the only reason he still wanted to be alive. He saw his father gathering the children off the bed, pushing them into the massive arms of an extraordinary creature—another shape-shifter, with feathers and muscle and golden piercing eyes. The man picked the children up and took them into the corner.
&n
bsp; Moochie crouched in the hall, one hand pressed against Francis’s wounded side. His other held the radio. He was talking fast. Tears ran down his face. Rictor sprawled nearby in a spreading pool of blood.
The smoke from the grenade was beginning to clear. Any moment they would have more company. Nothing was going according to plan.
Amiri looked again at his father. Met that inscrutable, cold, gaze. But the old man glanced past him, at Broker, and the hate that twisted his face was so shocking, so visceral, Amiri turned Rikki away, shielding her.
“Where is it?” Aitan growled. “Where have you hidden the device?”
“No taste for watching your daughter die?” Cold words. Everyone stopped, staring. Broker smiled. “You didn’t tell them? About the chip in your child’s brain? The detonator? What I did to her mother?”
Amiri felt sick. He watched Aitan begin to shake with fury. Pure rage. “Where?”
“Anywhere,” Broker said, calmly. “And should I … fall out of circulation for a certain length of time, I have left instructions for the device to be used. Not just on your daughter, but others. So. Let me go, let me take Doctor Kinn and your son, and I will tell you where it is.”
“Max,” Amiri said.
His friend closed his eyes, dark hair falling over his face. “He’s closed up tight.”
Aitan flowed forward. “I could give you to Jaaved. Imagine his delight when you do not die from his torture? When you heal before his eyes? I doubt anyone would see him again, for all the time he will spend lavishing his love upon you.”
“Then your daughter would die. Nor would she be alone. Kamau Shah would follow her. And Rikki Kinn.”
Amiri’s heart lurched. Rikki stared. “You’re lying.”
“Touch the base of your skull. You’ll feel a hard bump.”
Amiri could taste her reluctance, her fear, but she did as Broker said, and when her fingers rubbed the back of her neck, words were unnecessary. Her face paled. Behind her, the avian shape-shifter also examined his neck, and a snarl of rage passed over his face. The children, huddled in his arms, winced.
“Fail-safe. If I cannot have you, no one can.” Broker stood. “Do we have a deal?”
“What of the others?” Amiri asked, struggling with himself. “Those we leave behind?”
“Jaaved’s men rule this facility now. They are on their own.”
“Then take me,” he said. “Leave the woman out of this.”
“I need her more than I want to kill you.”
“Then me. Only me,” Rikki said. She pulled herself out of his arms, but Amiri stayed close, grappling with her hand. Refusing to let go. Fighting for options. But he could not think; his thoughts were crazed, random—focused only on Rikki and death and the little family he had never known existed.
Broker’s gaze traveled over them all, proprietary, almost triumphant. Amiri heard a commotion out in the hall. Men. Moochie shouted, but no guns fired—even though, somewhere distant, Amiri heard the renewed spark of a firefight.
“Both of you,” Broker said. “We go now. The rest of you will not follow. If you do, I will give the order to kill the child. And if that still does not dissuade you, then the eagle and the doctor will die as well.”
He walked past them. Arrogant. Giving Aitan a long look that had the old man drawing blood from his palms. The sweet spot of his spine gleamed like a row of jewels. Amiri wanted to sink his teeth deep there.
Max grabbed his arm, shaking his head. “Stall him,” he mouthed.
Right. Friends were coming. Ten minutes or twenty-four hours. Amiri wanted to laugh. And then, perhaps, go a little mad.
Rikki grabbed his hand, pulling him after Broker. He shared his own look with his father—again inscrutable, showing nothing of his heart—and Amiri wondered how it was possible he could hate and love one person so much, both at the same time. He heard a voice inside his head, a whispered, Forgive me, I am with you, and his father chose that moment to nod. As though it was him, in his son’s thoughts, speaking softly.
Amiri frowned, but there was no time. Out in the hall stood men: four mercenaries and Moochie, his hands covered in blood. He tried to draw his gun on Broker, but was stopped instantly. He fought the hands that restrained him, shouting obscenities, grief making his voice raw, hoarse.
“Stick him in the room with the others,” Broker said. “Lock the door. And take the doctor’s gun, if you will.”
Amiri had not noticed Rikki was armed. She had a small gun in her jacket pocket, which she handed over with a grimace. Behind them, the door was locked. Moochie’s shouts were instantly cut off. On the floor was Rictor. And Francis, breathing shallowly, bleeding out. Rikki made a sound low in her throat, and Amiri pulled her close against him. His heart felt numb. No grief. He could not feel grief. Not now.
He looked away. Hands nudged him. They started walking down the hall. Two mercenaries were in the lead, two bringing up the rear. A convoluted path, down halls that smelled of disinfectant and orchids and fear.
Straight into the arms of another enemy.
Chapter Twenty-two
It seemed to Rikki that she would never breathe normally again. Her heart was going to need therapy. Medication, maybe, if she survived this. Meditation, too. A nice long vacation in some boring American town. Give her the Midwest. Indiana. Ohio. Iowa. Rolling fields of corn and old folks driving pickups at thirty miles an hour on a state freeway. Cotton candy, Saturday morning cartoons. Omelets and flapjacks and big fuzzy slippers. Anything but more men with guns or psychopaths obsessed with controlling her life. Rikki was done proving how tough she was, even to herself. Enough. She believed it. She had the scars to prove it. Badass, be thy name. Yippee-ki-yay.
She stood in the main hall, Amiri at her side. In front of her, the fountain had been turned into a monument of death. Bodies were in the water. Puddles glistened on the polished floor, water mixed with blood. The dead, everywhere. She felt as though the miasma of violence covered her skin, filled her lungs. It made her remember years past, seeing her friends in the dirt, bodies shredded by knives and bullets.
And here, more rebels. More of Jaaved’s men. Dressed in olive uniforms and thick black boots, weapons held with grim pride. Broker’s small group was vastly outnumbered. Rikki felt like a sardine about to be stabbed with a hundred different forks. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Broker had led them into the main hall, the only way to the helicopters. Such bad planning. Broker was obviously not paranoid enough for secret exits and entrances.
Which was terrible. Because his foes had found him. Eight men. Two to one, when it came to firepower. Rikki supposed it was inevitable. Forget Shit Creek; she was going over Shit Niagara Falls.
A man pushed through the gathered soldiers. Dusky skin, long dark hair. Strong features and a compact muscular body. Hairy knuckles. His jaw flexed, and she heard a loud metallic clicking sound. She remembered, with painful clarity, the sight of a man being stabbed by a pen.
“Broker,” said Jaaved. “Attempting to escape?”
A cold smile touched Broker’s mouth. “It crossed my mind.”
“I secured the helicopters. Your security center. No one was able to call out for help. You are alone here. You are mine.”
“How titillating,” Broker replied. “And if I offered you a deal? Perhaps the lives of your family?”
Jaaved narrowed his eyes. “They are safe. I had them moved.”
“You had your children moved.” Broker tilted his head. “Not your parents. Or your sister. Or your brother and his children. Quite shortsighted, if you ask me. I took precautions last night.”
“You lie.”
“Did I lie about your wife?” Broker snapped his fingers. One of his men reached slowly inside his vest and withdrew a small envelope. He tossed it at Jaaved’s feet. “More for the photo album. Feel free to send them around for any holiday you celebrate next.”
Whatever was in those pictures made the blood drain from Jaaved’s face. His hands shook. And
he only looked at the photo on top; the rest he shoved back into the envelope. He took a deep, shuddering breath.
“I am going to kill you,” Jaaved said.
“Of course you will,” Broker replied. “But if you do kill me, you will never see any of those people again. Ever. Can you live with that?”
Rikki was seeing all kinds of hate today, and most of it was directed at Broker. Jaaved had a particular twitch, though, a flutter in his eyelid that kept perfect time to the precise clicking of his jaw.
“What do you want?”
“Free passage.”
“I require the woman.”
Amiri tensed. Broker said, “I suppose you think you could take her from me.”
“It crossed my mind,” Jaaved replied, with a cold smile.
Broker also smiled. “There is a device implanted at the base of her skull. If you take her, I will order her death. If you kill me, eventually the same will occur. And no … do not accuse me of lying.”
“Even if you are …” Jaaved looked at Rikki. “You could make this easy on us all. Tell me what you know, and I will let you go. Give me the location of the Ebola reservoir.”
“Sure,” Rikki said. “It’s up your ass.”
Jaaved’s jaw clicked, and somewhere behind them, in another part of the building, men began to scream.
Rikki flinched. It was a distant, blood-curdling sound, wet and dripping with terror, and it had been years, years since she had heard anything so horrible—like men were having their souls ripped from their flesh.
Jaaved tensed, and glanced at the men beside him. “You four, go check it out.”
They looked at him like he was insane, but they went—more afraid of their boss than the unknown, she supposed. The mercenaries in front of Broker shifted, just slightly, fingers tightening around their guns. The screaming continued, getting closer, broken by the chatter of gunfire. She thought she heard a familiar voice mixed with all that shouting. Moochie.
Hope flared. She glanced at Amiri. Noticed Broker watching her, in turn.
“Enough,” Jaaved muttered, sweat beading on his forehead. He looked at his remaining men. “Kill the guards.”
The Last Twilight Page 30
