The Last Twilight (30 page)

It was a large cage, made for a man and not a cheetah. There were bars and a bucket for a toilet, but nothing else. No bed, just hard concrete. The air smelled like the lab, recently cleaned with bleach. No light. It was pitch dark, but his eyes adjusted, and he found another cage nearby. Inside, Rictor. Sitting up, staring blind into the dark.

“What happened?” Amiri asked, his voice slightly echoing. He glanced around the cavernous room for cameras or guards. Found nothing. They were alone.

“What does it look like?” Rictor shot back, voice dull. “Cages, for animals.”

Amiri made no reply. His throat was raw with thirst, and his shoulder throbbed. The rest of his body was still sluggish. But he thought of Rikki alone with Broker, and he could not help the sound of rage and frustration and fear that broke from his throat.

“You’re thinking of her,” Rictor said.

“No doubt you’re thinking of Elena,” Amiri retorted.

“No doubt,” Rictor agreed.

“Why do you bother? She loves her husband.”

“I know.”

“And yet, you think she could love you just as much?”

In the darkness, Amiri saw Rictor turn to look in his direction. “You owe me the price of a life. The least you can do is not be an asshole.”

Amiri lay on his back, staring at the bars of his cage. “You never answered my question, about you and her. How you knew to help us.”

“Fuck you,” muttered Rictor.

“And the rest? Are you certain you would not like to talk about that, either?”

“Not with you.”

Amiri thought for a moment, perversely driven to irritate the other man, and recited, softly, “‘Give sorrow words…the grief that does not speak whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.’”

Rictor grunted. “I can’t believe you just quoted Shakespeare at me.”

“It seemed appropriate.”

“He was a mouth breather and his farts smelled like onions.”

Amiri closed his eyes. “You just ruined me.”

“My pleasure.”

Behind them, Amiri heard a rattling sound. A lock being turned. The door opened and light flooded the room. He squinted, found two silhouettes just standing, staring. Only for a moment. Those bodies ran into the room, and he heard keys jangling. Saw blond hair, the glint of a diamond, the pattern of a tattoo. He smelled gunpowder and cigarettes, the faint whiff of orchids, and deeper yet, Rikki.

He was on his feet in a moment. “Who are you?”

“Dumb and Dumber,” said the man with the tattoo. “We are so fucking dead.”

“Shut up,” said his companion absently, unlocking Amiri’s door. Rictor’s cage, too.

Amiri said, “What is this? Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter now,” said the man with the earring, giving him a long steady look that was old and cold and deadly. “That woman upstairs won’t leave without you. Or everyone else in this goddamn building.”

“Morality is the fucking plague,” said the tattooed man.

“Damn straight,” Rictor muttered.

Amiri rubbed his arms. “Take me to her.”

The man with the earring hesitated. “I have a message first. Max is here. Held captive on the upper level. Broker brought him to use against you.
And
because he was causing trouble with our people in the city.”

Amiri froze, then forced himself to take a slow breath, listening hard to those words. “That is not the message.”

“No. Max asked me to patch a call to your boss in America. Help is coming. Couldn’t understand it all, but the gist is that you’ll see a familiar face in either ten minutes, or twenty-four hours. Whichever comes first.”

“That’s a lousy offer of help,” Rictor said. “Fuck. I bet he’s going to get Dean to come here. What a little turd.”

Amiri ignored him. “You work for Broker. Why are you helping?”

The tattooed man passed a gun over to Rictor. “We already covered that. Morality. Plague.”

“Money,” added the other man. “Survival. Do you really need anything else?”

“Names,” Amiri told them, and the mercenaries shared a quick look.

“Moochie,” said the man with the tattoo. “And that’s Francis.”

“How cute.” Rictor checked the gun clip. “Let’s go shoot people.”

The men ran from the room, Amiri sinking down on all fours to run within the skin of the cheetah. His shoulder hurt, but the pain lost strength against his focus on Rikki, Max and the rest of his friends. Help was coming. Ten minutes or twenty-four hours. Either way, he had to make certain everyone stayed alive long enough to see that moment.

Outside the lab, in the long hall, men and women in long lab coats were dashing into rooms, hauling paperwork, laptops. Hair wild, glasses askew, they were babbling and shouting to each other in various languages. A red light strobed against the walls. Amiri smelled fear. It reminded him too much of the escape from Russia, and he glanced at Rictor. Found a troubled frown on the man’s face. From memories or something else, he could not tell, but the whole thing made him cold, angry.

How many such facilities exist? How many are suffering? And the people who involve themselves, all in the name of science…

He stopped himself. Concentrated on running. Listened hard as they took the emergency stairs, rattled up the metal steps. Above them, shouts. Moochie and Francis shared a look, and then the smaller, tattooed man climbed ahead, leaving the rest of them behind. Amiri heard him whistle a greeting, then receive a few sharp words in reply—something about soldiers, rebels. Somewhere not so distant, gunfire blasted. Amiri flinched. Rictor grabbed Francis’s arm and hissed, “What the hell is going on?”

“Diversion.” He indicated Amiri. “His father set it up. A terrorist is in the compound, shooting the living shit out of Broker’s people. Jaaved. All we have to do is reach the assigned meeting place and wait out the fight. Pick off the winners, if we need to.”

“Rikki,” Amiri whispered, shifting shape. “Where is she?”

Francis hesitated. “With Aitan.”

Fury rolled through his chest. “He will betray her.”

“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 Tightness 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 children 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 struck the wall—and Amiri tore into the man, disarming him easily, ripping Kimbareta away and tossing the child on the bed.