The Last Twilight (11 page)

“But there was no time. Not in that camp.”

“No. And no matter how virulent a disease is, that doesn’t happen. Ever. It would require the infection of every single person, virtually at once.”

“The water supply?”

“The water was pumped from the river, but as of last night no one downstream had become ill. They should have, if the contaminant was there.” Rikki shook her head. “There were monkeys involved. They died first. That’s what the notes said, what we found when we investigated the jungle near the river. Hundreds of dead primates, but only on the eastern edge of the forest. Other areas were clean.”

“Someone could have eaten one of the infected monkeys. That might have started it.”

“But slowly.” Rikki hesitated, seeming to struggle for words. “That’s what I missed, what I didn’t think of until I saw all those bagged bodies on the airfield. Every one of us doctors were so caught up with the disease itself, we never stopped to think that
it might not be natural.”

Amiri thought of the canisters, of those dead soldiers. He could not tell her of the scents he had found, the numbers of men. Dull, days old; but still violent, dirty. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. “A weapon?” he suggested.

“Maybe,” Rikki said. “But I’m making too many assumptions. It’s not good science.”

“You are following the only evidence you have. Logic does not require a test tube and microscope.”

She sighed, hands tightening around the cone of mushrooms cradled against her chest, and continued to voice her thoughts aloud. “No rebel militia would destroy a UN-protected camp so thoroughly on their own. Not to mention those men in uniform were helping them. Which means they were paid, ordered. Working with someone— perhaps even someone on the inside. And if the people who ordered the destruction of that camp knew what to expect—if the disease
is
a weapon—then their actions imply the dead were no longer contagious. That whatever killed them did so fast, without danger of spreading. In other words, this is a disease with a shelf life.”

“Is that possible?”

“I don’t know. Anthrax isn’t spread from human to human, but Ebola? Whatever this is, it scares the shit out of me.”

It frightened Amiri, too. “The destruction was methodical. Dousing the bodies with gasoline in order to burn them. Destroying the plane to keep anyone from escaping to tell the story.” He considered Duna, Max. “You are certain there was no media contact, no transfer of evidence to the outside world?”

“Mack and I
were
the outside world, the only people in that camp with a direct line to Atlanta. The Hot Zone was too big for media. We needed to keep the deaths secret in order to avoid panic. Or a frenzy. Journalists are hard to contain.”

“And when should we know for certain whether we will take ill?”

“Tomorrow, the day after. Sooner, probably. What killed those refugees is
not
a subtle illness.”

“A weapon,” Amiri said again, almost to himself. “I still cannot imagine.”

“Not many do. You have no idea of the value placed on live viruses. They’re worth
billions
to the wrong people.”

Amiri nodded. “And the woman who hunts them, who can identify them? What is
she
worth?”

Rikki flinched. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have nothing to offer—not if they’ve already got what they’re looking for. And if what killed those people in that camp is any indication, then they do. They really do.”

“And yet, men were sent to kidnap you. Even last night, they would have stolen you away.” Amiri stared at her. “Is there something you are not telling me?”

“No,” she said, and he knew instantly that it was a lie.

Amiri waited, watching her cheeks flush an even brighter red. She was a bad liar. Even if her scent had not exposed her, everything else would have.

But he did not argue her deception. He looked away, jaw tight, hurt. Which was foolish. She did not know him. He did not know her.

Hairs curled against his neck; the air whirred softly with the chirr of insects, the flap of wings. He tasted something acrid on his tongue, faint, but alive with bitterness. Amiri turned, looking up, trying to see. The canopy was too thick.

Rikki shifted, swaying near. “What is it?”

“Smoke,” he said. “I can smell it.”

“The refugee camp?”

“Perhaps.”

Rikki closed her eyes. “Do you think the rebels are still there?”

“You want to go back.”

“People will be coming. Help.”

“Help you can trust? You are a hunted woman, Rikki Kinn. Betrayed.”

She hesitated. “You’re saying the UN won’t be able to protect me?”

“I am saying that you do not know who your friends are.”

“And I’m supposed to trust you, is that it?”

His heart ached. “You want to make a difference. I understand that. You want to fight. I understand that, as well. But as long as you are alive, you are doing
something.
Those men knew your name for a reason—tried to
take
you for a reason—which means you are either a threat or a commodity. And now, a direct witness. Do you not see the value in that? The
importance?”

“I’m not the only witness,” she said quietly. Amiri opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say died in his throat.

He turned, listening, felt bathed in heat, a cocoon of scent and sound, all under a domed shifting mask of green. He could hear every tick and whir of the world: insects buzzing, the whispers of leaves as some small animal snorted its way through the undergrowth—and the scents, the scents that were rich, lusty, wet, full of musk and loam and age; like twilight, shadows.

He could hear, too, the distant voices of men. The cracking of branches. Farther still, the scent of ash and fire and burned flesh. The world carried stories.

The cheetah inside went very still. Amiri did not. He grabbed Rikki’s hand, momentarily blinded by a sea of sunlit green—the sun, the leaves; something more, like eyes, burning—and he blinked hard, shaking his head.

“Amiri,” Rikki murmured.

“Men are coming,” he growled, and gave her no time to ask. He pulled her close against his side, pushing them down the faint trail they had created, back to Eddie.

He was easy to find; Amiri glimpsed his white T-shirt through the trees. Down on his knees, he was drinking from the pool. His clothes clung to his lean frame. The air felt hot as a sauna, and smelled as though something had been cooking. Small plants drooped, wilting, and the water itself appeared different, too. It looked clear.

Amiri wanted to throttle him.

“What happened here?” Rikki turned, staring. Incredulous. Eddie did not answer. He looked at Amiri, face flushed.

Amiri took the wrapped mushrooms from Rikki’s unresisting hands and handed them to the young man, using the close proximity to mouth one word:
Later.

Then, “We will not be alone for long.”

Eddie straightened. “Time?”

“Less than an hour.”

Rikki knelt at the edge of the pool. She put her hands into the water and flinched. “Damn. It’s
hot.”

Eddie stuffed a mushroom into his mouth. Amiri crouched, blocking her view of him, watching shadows gather in her gaze.

“Drink,” he said. “You must.”

“No,” Rikki replied. “You’re hiding something.”

Behind him, Eddie went still. Amiri waited, searching her gaze, but she refused to budge.

Well.
He
was thirsty. He knelt low over the pool and scooped water into his mouth, drank heavily, feeling the burn of her gaze—and when he turned, finally, to look at her again, there was something wild in her eyes, as though she had caught him doing something not meant to be seen. It was an intimate glance, but instead of looking away, Rikki moved close and dipped her hands into the water.

She drank—hard, fast, like her life depended on it. Amiri imagined how the water must taste to her: clean and good and hot. When she finished, he did not look away, and she met his gaze with the same thoughtful intensity; sharp, all cheekbone and soft edges.

“Say it,” she said.

“You must trust us,” he replied, simply. “You must, or we cannot trust you. And all we have here is each other.”

“Trust,” she echoed. “I don’t know you.”

“It is no different for us.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Because we are two men?”

“You can’t force someone’s trust.”

“I know,” he said heavily. “But I am asking for it.”

She stared. “You’re a hired gun. Why do you care?”

His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Rikki flinched, but all he did was place her palm on his chest. His heart thundered. Behind him, Eddie stirred, but he was hardly aware of the young man’s presence. Only Rikki mattered.

“I give you my word,” he whispered, with such intensity his voice broke. “You are safe with us, Rikki Kinn. You are as safe as my last breath. I promise you this.”

He might have hit her. She looked as stricken as he felt. So much, he wondered if anyone had ever shown her kindness, how long it had been since she had relied on anyone.

Rely on me,
he thought.
Trust me.

“Why?” she whispered.

Amiri closed his eyes. He tried to find the words, but all that filled his mouth felt soundless and empty and hollow compared to what was boiling in his heart. He could not answer her. His reasons were too much, bigger than words. He could not fathom them.

He kissed her hand. Pressed his lips tight against her skin, pouring his answer into that one gesture—trying to give her all his desire and uncertainty—feeling like a fool with it. So much the fool, drunk on the fear and exhilaration that pounded through his blood. He could not differentiate the two. Like racing off the edge of the world, without anything to catch him. Losing his mind, losing his life. All the same.

Her scent rose—vanilla and pepper, rich and rosy and full of fire. Amiri loosened his hold on her hand, but instead of pulling away, he leaned in closer. His fingers grazed her chin, the high line of her cheek.

“Do you believe me?” he asked, hoarse.

“Yes,” Rikki breathed, eyes wild. He did not stop touching her. She took a deep breath. “Are we done?”

“No, we are not.” His hand dropped. The loss of contact left him cold. “Sometime soon I will ask once more why you are being hunted. I will ask if there is something you are hiding. And you will
not
lie to me. Not again.”

Her face turned crimson, but she did not dissemble. “So ask me now. Get it out of the way.”

A faintly bitter smile touched his mouth. “It would be better to give you time to know me first. So that when I do ask, you will trust me, and be too ashamed to lie.”

He thought she almost laughed, and he held himself still as stone as she leaned in, so close her mouth brushed against his ear.

“Diabolical,” she whispered. “But when you finally get around to asking me that question, expect some of my own. Like how Eddie managed to
boil a fucking pond.
Or why your eyes
glow.”

Amiri stayed frozen. Rikki pushed away and stood on unsteady legs. Watching him watch her. Gazes locked. Hiding nothing. He felt raw, cut open; the look in her eyes was little better. She held out her hand. Amνri did not need her help, but he accepted the gesture and stood. Her grip was gentle, firm, but the heat that gathered between their palms traveled to the bone.

Trust,
he thought, aching.
Hypocrite. You, with your secrets. Expecting her to give you faith, when you have none for her.

“We’ll figure this out, somehow,” Rikki murmured.

He thought it might be an apology—as much of one as he could expect, though he deserved nothing at all. Amiri tilted his head, and watched her with a stillness that he felt in his soul.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I am afraid we will.”

“Like you said,” Eddie replied. “No toilet paper.”

Amiri sighed, and the young man pulled the handguns from the back of his jeans. He checked the clips, replaced the weapons, and looked again at Amiri. His voice was less than a whisper. “How close are they, really?”

“Too close.”

“And the plan?”

“Find the river. If we can reach a settlement, we can hire someone to pirogue us downriver to a larger town. Max needs to be warned.”

“Sending help would be good, too.” Eddie frowned. “Do you think we’re sick?”

Regret flared, but not for himself. “I am not certain. There are inconsistencies. You know that as well as I.”

“Yeah.” Eddie glanced in the direction where Rikki had disappeared. “Those men who want her…they’re not going to give up.”

Amiri said nothing. Above the canopy, the high winds still blew in their favor; he smelled the lingering smoke of the fire drifting down through the leaves, as well as some bitter hint of man. He tasted Rikki’s scent, as well. Covered in it; it branded his skin like an echo of fire.

It would have been easier if he disliked her. But in that, too, he was—to use the colloquial term favored by many of his friends at Dirk & Steele—utterly, miserably, screwed.

He heard Rikki coming back, and took another deep breath, steadying himself. “I will go and observe our pursuers. Provide a distraction.”

Stop them entirely,
he did not add. Eddie seemed to know, though, and began shaking his head just as Rikki appeared. She stared at them, and there was something dark and dangerous in her eyes.

“You try to leave and I’ll bust your ass,” she told him.

“You have good hearing,” Amiri remarked.

“Cut the crap. You’re no bait.”

“But I am, as you say, a hired gun. This once, treat me as such.”

Rikki flinched and looked away. Eddie stepped close. Blocked her from his sight. Face strained, flushed with more than heat.

“Go,” Amiri whispered, forcing his hands to unclench. “I will travel back the way we came. If anyone is still following us, I will lead them away. It should not take more than the afternoon, but if I do not find you by evening, continue on. The river is to the west. Use the sun to guide you.”

“I don’t like this.”

“You are strong enough.”

“I’m not worried about me.”

Rikki stepped around the young man. Amiri could not help himself. He moved close, bent down, and pressed his lips against her forehead. He heard her breath catch— or maybe that was his own—and he stepped back, quick. Shot Eddie a hard look. The young man’s expression was inscrutable.

“Keep her safe,” he said. “Remember what I told you.”

Eddie said nothing. Amiri backed away. He did not look at Rikki again, though her presence burned at the periphery of his vision. He could not bear to see her eyes.

Amiri slid through the underbrush like a ghost. He heard his name called, but did not slow. He simply shifted his focus, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand. If he were going to do this, it had to be fast—done right.

Survival at any cost,
he heard his father whisper with disturbing clarity.
Nothing else matters. Pride and honor are human constructs, meaningless. Accept them, and you accept the limitations of humanity. Become human in your heart, and you will die.

Amiri wished he would stop hearing his father’s voice. He blamed this place, blamed being on the old continent. Too close to memories. He had not heard his father inside his head for years, but this…this was like having him at his side, and that hurt too much.

He tore off his clothes, stashed them in the roots of an old tree, and entered the body of the cheetah. Bathed in fire, marrow and muscle melting, he molded into a shadow. Same heart, same mind. Hunter. Hunted. All around him, the scent of woman, clinging. Hot. Lush. Dangerous.

The cheetah ran. As a child, Amiri had dreamed long and hard of other lives, captured as he was by stories told to him by Wambui, his human nursemaid. His father, too, had tales, but these were morality stories laced with dire warnings against the world beyond and not quite as enjoyable as pirates and princes and men traveling through time. A shape-shifter, no doubt, could swashbuckle just as well as anyone else, even if he spent most days in the body of a cheetah.

Though Amiri was grown now, a man thirty-six years ancient, he still felt that child pulsing inside him as he ran through the jungle. Pushing him onward, filling him with a determination that was wholly pure in its focus, and sharp, so sharp. Dreams had always become his reality, and here, now, he was dreaming a way to survive.

It did not take him long to find the men: a loose squad of ten, armed with machetes and handguns, grenades, and AK-47s, dressed in lightweight olive fatigues. They smelled like smoke and death and gasoline. Their uniforms were covered in dried blood. One man had a necklace of ears hanging from his neck. Still fresh, a mixture of skin colors.

Amiri’s belly scraped the ground. Invisible, he lost himself in the tangle, waiting in the underbrush, looking for opportunities. The men drank. The men ate. Some napped.

Then, with such casualness he almost missed it, one of the men pulled a photograph from his pocket. Stared hard, then passed it around. Amiri caught a clear glimpse of the picture from where he crouched and his body went stone cold.

It was Rikki. A black and white candid, a profile shot.

The photo was given to a man with a knife in his hand. He cracked a smile and made a slicing motion across the picture. Said something to the others—her name, followed by a string of words. A brief conversation ensued. One of the men patted his groin and grinned. Several men laughed. Amiri contemplated removing their tongues.

A radio crackled. The sound was crisp, clear, like a gunshot. The man who had first passed around the photo slapped his hand to a pouch at his belt and removed a small black unit that fit in the palm of his hand. He announced himself.

The voice on the other end spoke French. Amiri heard a clicking sound.

“Trouvι elle?”
You found her?

“Non,” answered the man, sharing a long look with his companions, some of whom shifted uncomfortably, even with fear.

“You have by sunset,” came the swift reply, still in French, cold and sharp as nails left in a freezer full of clipboards and Rolexes and bloody pens. “I want her alive. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” The man waited for a response, but none came. Finally, with some hesitation, he slid the radio back into its pouch. Said some words in Bantu. The others nodded, but Amiri could taste the change in their scents. Fear. Anticipation. Adrenaline beginning to boil.

One of the men stretched, scratched his ribs, and ambled away from the group. Amiri followed, slinking low to the ground. He watched as the soldier found a spot out of sight from the others, tugged down his pants and squatted, plucking at the leaves around him.

Amiri came up from behind. Fast. Silent. He clamped his jaws around the man’s neck, snapped his vertebrae. Crushed his windpipe. Tore out his throat.

The blood was hot. The cheetah liked the taste, but Amiri asserted control. He dragged the man deeper into the bushes, and shifted shape, just enough to regain use of his hands.

He stole a grenade. Prowled back through the brush, keeping low. Listening hard.

He pulled the pin, waited two seconds … and threw. No one had time to react. The explosion was horrifically loud. Monkeys screamed, hopping in the trees. Amiri shifted fully into the body of the cheetah. Smoke burned his nostrils, as did the scent of blood and viscera.

He crept into the crater left by the explosion. Five men were dead. Four were alive, but wounded. Those who lived, did so barely. Blood leaked from their ears, from blast wounds and burns. Eyes fluttered shut. There was no way to save them.

Amiri put them out of their misery. Not one had the strength to reach for a gun as he clamped his jaws over their throats and choked them to death. Clean, quick, painless. He felt some regret. His father would not have—a true cheetah, after all, did not know guilt—but human weapons were an unclean way to end a life, and none of these men had been given a fighting chance.

He kept the healthiest for last. The man was conscious, eyes open, breathing shallow. Little blood, but his body was limp. Paralyzed, perhaps.

Amiri crouched over him and shifted shape. He felt naked doing so—vulnerable—but the man would be dead soon. Amiri could only imagine the sight he made: a demon, some sorcerous apparition. He did not shift entirely into his human body, but instead kept the face of the cheetah, as much as he could.

When his vocal cords were restored, he dredged up what little French he remembered and rasped, “Why are you hunting the woman?”

The man’s breath rattled. He squeezed shut his eyes, shaking his head. The scent of fear rolled off him in waves, and was so wet, so vile and purulent, Amiri wanted to gag. He wanted to run. He wanted to forget that woman who long ago had looked at him the same way, with the same scent, and called him monster. Monster.

For Rikki. For Eddie. Be the monster. Spare them the sacrifice of fighting for their lives.

Amiri repeated his question. Hard heart, hard voice. Thinking of Rikki, shaking in his arms. Those men, pointing a gun at her, talking soft as death. Eddie’s old eyes. One thousand dead. He held up his clawed hand—black hooks curving wickedly from long furred fingers—and pressed them against the man’s cheek.

“Tell me,” Amiri whispered. “Tell me or I will make this slow.”

“Paid,” he mumbled, finally, coughing up blood. “We were paid to find the woman.”

Amiri recalled the man with the Rolex, as well as the suited figure walking from the burning airfield. Waving at him, so casually. He remembered, too, the photographs.

“Why? Why her?”

“No. I cannot.”

“Why?”

But he shook his head, terror sweating off his body. Amiri leaned in, trying to take advantage of that fear, but the man looked past him, gaze distant, and he realized that the horror he saw was not entirely for him.

“Tell me,” Amiri rasped, hearing a clicking sound inside his mind as he read the man’s fear.

“My family,” gasped the man.

“Tell me about the woman.”

“He will hurt my family.”

“Why Doctor Kinn?”

But the man’s eyes rolled up into his skull—he was choking, seizing up—and all Amiri felt was a deep low shame that did not weaken his resolve, but only made him hurt long and hard.

“More,” he begged quietly. “Please tell me more.”

But the man did not. Blood trickled from his mouth. His eyes closed. Amiri shifted back into the cheetah. The beast was ready, willing. He used his jaws, ended it quick.

He felt no satisfaction. Ten minutes, ten dead. Amiri slumped on his side, head bowed. Fur sticky. Smoke curled all around him. Some of the plants still burned, though the forest was too damp for the fire to spread. It was a smoke signal, though. More people would be coming. Amiri forced himself up, still in the body of the cheetah, and went to each of the dead men, scenting packs for food, water—searching for that radio. He found it, but the casing had shattered.

A breath of air stirred the ruff of his neck. In the dull burning silence, Amiri sensed movement, a whisper. He turned. Ready to fight.

And found an unpleasant, inexplicable, surprise.

A familiar man. Tall. Light brown skin. Brilliant green eyes. Tight black shirt and loose cargo pants. No shoes.

Time gentled nothing. Memories rose and died; soft, spitting, brutal in their simplicity. Amiri looked at the man’s hands—those monstrously strong hands—and felt them still, holding him down upon a cold steel table. Strapping him in while the doctor cut and prodded. That pitiless gaze, cool as cut stone. That body, bearing the wounds of Amiri’s claws as though his flesh were made of air.

Amiri shifted, bones and muscles flowing warm into the shape of a man. No fear, no hesitation. No secrets with this man. He stood naked in the carnage, waiting and watching and staring into those unflinching green eyes.

It had been two years since he had seen this man. Not since the lab, Russia, the escape. So many memories, so many different people affected by that place. And by those who had imprisoned them there.

Now this. He could not imagine why. Why here, now.

“Rictor,” Amiri said. The name tasted hard and old inside his mouth. He received no response. Not that he expected one. This creature was not made for words.

Rictor stepped sideways around a smoking corpse, and walked a slow circuitous path along the smoldering ring of the explosion; easy, graceful. He did not look once at the dead, nor did he seem to care that he moved barefoot through a bloody graveyard. His gaze remained on Amiri. “Long time,” he said finally.

“Long enough.” Amiri’s claws threatened to push through the tips of his fingers. “You have been watching us.”

“You hardly noticed.”

“I was distracted.”

“Yes. I saw that. Very sloppy.”