The Last Twilight (14 page)

But this was something that might have given even him, Mr. Pollyanna, a bit of pause.

She lay on the ground, on a clean white sheet under the failing afternoon sun. The material was soft and smelled fresh from the dryer, even though one of the blond men had shaken it loose from his pack. Eddie was nearby, on a similar sheet. He lay very still. His breathing was shallow. Blood flecked his nostrils and the corner of his mouth. The dart still jutted from his shoulder.

Broker sat beside her. No conversation. No explanations. Not even a cackle or some waggling of a sinister eyebrow. Rikki would have preferred that. His silence felt like the grave.

Marco opened a small plastic box. Broker pulled out a pair of latex gloves. He snapped them on and flexed his fingers.

Rikki stifled panic. “What are you doing?”

“What I must.” Broker looked her in the eyes. “Are you scared of needles, Doctor Kinn?”

Rikki said nothing. She glanced from him to the two blond men holding her down—and decided right then that if she ever saw another fucking bleach-bottle head of hair she was going to bite someone’s face off their skull.

One of the men crouched over her shoulders. His fingers dug into her flesh, pressing down. He wore an earring, a diamond, just a pinch of a rock. The man at her feet had a tattoo of Elvis on his neck. The King was peeking out of his shirt.

“A Little Less Conversation” immediately began playing in her mind. She tried to move—managed to surprise the men—but Marco stepped in with a sharp foot to her gut, and she stopped. Mr. Earring shot the man a quick glare. Rikki tried not to wheeze.

“Marco,” said Broker. “Go to Edward.”

Marco did, shooting Rikki a dark look. His hands and arms were covered in white bandages. She did not like the way he stared down at Eddie. Or how he stroked the knife strapped to his thigh. He did not look exceptionally bright, but he made up for it in meanness.

“How do you know who we are?” she asked Broker, trying to keep her breathing steady as he removed a Vacutainer from the tiny plastic kit at his side. She saw several blood collection tubes embedded in foam, vacuum caps in an array of different colors—additive identifiers, for different blood work: toxicology, immunology, DNA studies.

“I make it my business to know many things,” Broker replied. “Identities are one of the easier to come by.”

Rikki looked again at Eddie. “He’s been exposed to a disease. We all have.”

“Of course.”

“You’re not worried about getting sick?”

Broker paused, staring at her. Then, very quietly: “Marco. Knife.”

Marco knelt and unsheathed his knife. He placed the edge of the blade against the joint of Eddie’s thumb. Rikki held her breath.

“I am going to draw your blood now,” Broker said. “I am going to draw your blood, and you will not fight me. If you do, Marco will cut off Edward’s thumb. He will cut off a finger for every time you disobey me.”

“He’s dying,” Rikki said, numb. “What do I care?”

“Oh,” breathed the man. “I think you care very much, indeed.”

Hate swelled. “Leave him alone. I’m the one you want.”

“Yes.” Broker smiled, tying her arm. “But not the only one.”

Rikki stared. He tapped out her vein and slid the needle home.

The man raised his brow. “The boy must have breathed something. Perhaps at the canisters you found?”

Rikki almost choked. “How—”

“How nothing,” he interrupted. “We’ve cleaned the spill. Destroyed the bodies.”

“You’re responsible,” she whispered. “You made this thing.”

“And how lovely that you did not take ill. How unfortunate, too, that this young man did.” Broker sighed. “And Amiri? His health?”

Rikki said nothing. Broker smiled and finished drawing the last vial of blood. He gestured to the men. They tied her hands behind her back, bound her feet, and set her next to Eddie. The young man’s breathing was slow and uneven. His face was red. Heat rolled off his skin. She tried to remember the notes, the recorded progression of the disease, but her thoughts ran up against static, the dull thump of her heartbeat.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Hey, kid.”

No response. Marco stood nearby, watching. Rikki met his gaze, straight and even, until the man with the earring stepped between them, seemingly by accident. He gave Rikki a look, though, and shook his head, just slightly.

A radio squawked. The tattooed blond slapped his hip and answered the call in perfect English, with a slight southern twang. A surprise; Rikki had been expecting something a bit more European, regardless of Elvis.

On the other end, words rattled in French. Rikki heard a distinctive—and familiar—clicking sound.

Broker held out his hand for the radio. “Yes?” he said, in English.

There was a brief pause. Then, from the radio: “Where are you?”

“Here and there,” Broker replied. “My duties called me away.”

Again, more silence. Then, “My men are not responding.”

“How unfortunate.”

“I think they are dead.” The male voice on the radio did not seem especially heartbroken. “If we do not hurry, we will lose the woman, too. She cannot survive long in the jungle.”

“No, I suppose not,” Broker replied, meeting Rikki’s gaze. “What would you like me to do?”

“I need replacements. Your men, this time.”

Broker made his own clicking sound, with his tongue. “That is not part of our arrangement.”

“The arrangement has changed.” Flat, hard. “I want your men. You will give them to me.”

“No.” Broker’s expression shifted into something so cold, Rikki found herself leaning back against Eddie’s prone body for comfort, for that terrible heat.

“I will kill you,” said the voice.

“And I will find your daughters,” replied Broker. “I will find your wife. And I will sell them. I will give them to men who are skilled in unspeakable things. I will send you the pictures. Would you like that, Jaaved?”

“You would not dare.” Rage. Shaking, terrible, rage.

“Your wife, then. Within the hour.” Broker ended the connection and turned off the radio. He nodded at Marco, who pulled a massive satellite phone from one of the packs on the ground.

Rikki stared. “You’re not serious.”

Broker looked at her, and she suddenly wished very much that she had not spoken. “Jaaved will thank me, later. I could have chosen his daughters.”

He took the phone and walked a short distance away, Marco at his back. The man with the earring watched them go, then crouched near Rikki. He shared a quick glance with Mr. Tattoo, who grabbed water from the pack and brought it to Rikki.

“Eddie first,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Rattled to the core by Broker’s words.

The man shrugged and knelt. Placed the bottle against Eddie’s lips and very gently tipped. Water went in, but most streamed down the sides of his mouth. He never stirred.

“You sons of bitches,” she murmured. “He’s just a kid.”

“Never seen a kid do what he does,” said the man, tattoo flexing. “We’re all that’s left. No one else can walk. All those men, and all he had to do was think hard.”

He held the water bottle to her mouth. She thought about refusing, but could not see the point. As she drank, the man said, “You better watch yourself, lady.”

She choked slightly. “Any other words of wisdom, Mr. Memphis Flash?”

The man blinked, then cracked a toothy smile. “Funny.”

“I never make jokes about the King.”

“Moochie,” said the man with the earring, gaze flickering to his right. Marco was watching them. Broker still had his back turned.

“Moochie?” Rikki echoed.

“And he’s Francis,” said Moochie, screwing the cap back on the water bottle. “Got an opinion about that? Keep it to yourself.”

“Right,” she muttered, thinking hard. “You guys like working for psychopaths?”

“Good health benefits,” Moochie replied dryly, and returned the water to the pack. The man named Francis said nothing at all. Behind them, Marco ambled close. He looked at Rikki, then Eddie. Studied the young man’s face, bandaged fingers twitching. She thought of him at the airfield, dressed as a peacekeeper. Calling out her name. Screaming as the fire exploded around him. Obviously, not for long enough.

But these were the people in charge of the violence at the camp; she was sure of it. At least, they were part of the puzzle.

Marco brought back his foot like he was going to put a soccer shot high and deep. Rikki did not think. She threw herself over Eddie’s body, caught the blow against her shoulder. It was hard and painful, but not as bad as knives. She heard a scuffling sound, men hitting each other…then Broker’s voice, cutting through the melee.

“You told us you don’t want them hurt,” Francis said, breathless, somewhere above her head.

“Yes,” Broker replied. “But at least he has the stomach for it.”

Rikki felt cold. Fingers laced through her short hair and pulled back. Cold dead eyes stared into her face, but this time she swallowed hard and said, “You want to tell me why I’m so popular? Why you lied to that other man?”

“You know things,” Broker said. “That is why Jaaved wants you.”

She gritted her teeth. “And you?”

He smiled. “Because you
have
things.”

She was afraid to know what that meant. Broker dragged her off Eddie’s limp body. Behind him, Marco cradled a bloody nose. Moochie’s knuckles were sticky red.

Broker tossed her down and looked at Francis. “Call the helicopter.”

“No,” Rikki found herself saying. “Why are you doing this?”

Broker ignored her. For one brief moment she entertained the overwhelming desire to start screaming. Just because. Like some miracle would happen. Superman flying down from the sky.

But she kept her mouth clamped shut. There was no one who could help her. No one, except Amiri. And if, by some miracle, he were nearby and unhurt, she did not want him here. Not
anywhere
near here.

Francis got on the radio. Broker took the satellite phone and began dialing. Marco went with him, still holding his nose, his attention thankfully on Moochie instead of Eddie. One-track man. No imagination for multiple acts of revenge.

Rikki focused on Moochie, too. “Thanks.”

But the man spit on his knuckles, rubbing them hard, and said, “Being nice isn’t going to get you free.”

“No,” she replied. “But maybe you won’t want to hurt me.”

“Wanting and doing aren’t the same things, lady.”

“He paying you that much?”

Moochie glanced at Francis, who was eyeing them both. He finished talking into the radio and said, loudly, “ETA, ten minutes.”

Broker glanced at him, covering the mouth of his phone. “The cooler and dry ice?”

“Coming,” Francis said, but that was all. The edge of the jungle exploded.

Fire. Trees cracking. Black smoke billowing.

Everyone flinched, except Broker. In his eyes, an eerie light bloomed. Excitement. Anticipation. His mouth opened, just slightly, as though he wanted to taste the air, and he looked at the men. “Go.”

Marco started running before he hardly had the word out of his mouth. Moochie followed, hugging an assault rifle to his chest. The grass came up to their waists.

Francis was slower. He paused by Broker. “Instructions?”

“Alive.” Broker set down the satellite phone and took out his gun. He shot the device. One bullet, shattering the casing and components. Rikki wanted to kill him.

Francis stared, his expression inscrutable. Turned on his heel, walking fast. As he passed Rikki, he kicked a rock at her. It was flat. And up close, it was not really a rock. Not unless a stone suddenly had the power to transform into a very tiny pocketknife with matte black finish on the handle and blades. She looked at Broker, but he stared at the fire.

Rikki scooted forward, fingers scrabbling in the dirt. Her bindings were made of nylon cord. The knife fit nicely in her hand. It cut very well. She kept her hands behind her, and scooted backward, hard against Eddie. She curled her legs, fingers grabbing the toes of her shoes and pulling. Broker still did not look at her, but she suddenly had the terrible feeling that he knew exactly what she was doing.

And then, behind the man, the tall grass parted. Rikki met a familiar golden gaze: sunlight caught in amber, spinning heat and fire.

Then the world pulled back, and she realized that no, she wasn’t seeing Amiri; she was looking at a cheetah. A big animal—too big, almost the size of a leopard—sleek and lean, muscles rolling with power. An unnatural sight. Cheetahs did not inhabit the jungles of the Zairean Congo.

The animal stared at her. Rikki stared back. Broker said, “Amiri.”

She tore her gaze away to look at the blond man. He was smiling, ever so faintly, still staring at the fire. Rikki looked around for Amiri—terrified, relieved—but then Broker turned, slowly, to face the animal.

“Amiri,” he said again, so softly. “Finally.”

The man is crazy.
Rikki began sawing at the bindings on her ankles, no longer caring if he noticed. The cord snapped. She stood, swaying. Broker did not look at her. His entire focus was on the cheetah.

He drew his gun. Fast, his arm a blur—that gun flashed silver. The cheetah lunged, snarling. Their bodies crashed together. The weapon flew out of Broker’s hand. He scrabbled to reach it.

Training took over. Rikki ran, tumbling forward in a tight roll that brought her up low and fast, almost on top of the weapon, perilously close to those flashing teeth and claws. Her fingers closed around cold steel and she did not give herself time to be afraid. She went nose to nose with that raging cheetah and slammed the weapon down, butt first, against the exposed side of Broker’s head.

He was thrashing, and the first blow was glancing. She hit him again, double-handed, like holding a hammer coming down on a cockroach. The cracking sensation traveled up her arm. Broker grunted. Rikki held her breath. Slammed down the gun again—so hard she felt something squish. Broker went still.

Rikki fell back, shuddering. Her lungs could not get enough air. Her hands felt numb but she did not drop the gun. It was pointed in the wrong direction, but her fingers refused to loosen. She wondered if this was how her father felt, all those years ago.

You’re in shock,
she thought, again and again, as though it would cure her. She stared at Broker, at the dent in his skull and the blood seeping through his blond hair. He was dead. She could tell just from looking. She had never killed anyone before. She thought she might puke, and that surprised her. After all these years, she assumed she would have been harder, sterner, her heart made of stone. She had practiced enough murder in her mind.

The cheetah stepped lightly off the man. Rikki tore her gaze from Broker’s head and looked into the animal’s eyes. Golden, calm, elusive—and if she could ignore the fur, the face, if she looked only into that hot gaze…

Amiri,
she thought.

It was insane; she knew it. But this—what had begun last night in the refugee camp—had crossed the line so far into crazy she did not know how to find her way back.

Same way you did before. The way you always do. Push on.

The cheetah did not move. Rikki stopped being frightened. She stopped caring. Her hands loosened and she placed the gun on the ground. Crawled back to Eddie. The young man was still, barely breathing, so deep in sleep it might have been a coma. His skin felt like fire to touch.

Another kind of warmth pulsed against her back; like sunlight pushing through a cloudy sky. Rikki did not turn. She held still, waiting, and when those strong dark fingers grazed her shoulder she knew who it was without looking. She closed her eyes. Forgot how to breathe and leaned into that touch. She did not understand—not why or how—but it was enough. She could suspend belief. She had done as much for Eddie.

Amiri’s hand never left her shoulder as he moved around her. He was naked, long muscles rolling beneath his rich smooth skin. She was so damn glad to see him, she wanted to cry.

“He’s dying,” she said. Amiri smoothed back the young man’s hair, his fingertips lingering on that pale cheek.

“Rictor,” he murmured. Rikki frowned, wondering, but Amiri’s shoulders stiffened and he stared up at the sky. She followed his gaze and heard, in the distance, an odd rough chopping sound.