The Last Twilight (26 page)

Broker sighed, and hit the intercom by the door. “Ajax, report to this location, please.”

Rikki did not miss the look that passed between Francis and Moochie. She kept fighting, but she was watching their faces, too. They would not look her in the eyes.

A new man appeared in the doorway. He looked like he ate steroids with his Cheerios. His arms were oiled monoliths—chest broad, straining against his too-small shirt—his legs thick and bowed at the knee. He had hairy knuckles. A thick brow.

Broker said, “Ajax? If you would.”

Ajax reached behind the door. Pulled hard. A man stumbled into view. Bloody, broken, hardly able to stand. His face almost too swollen to recognize.

But she did. Because he was a friend.

“Jean-Claude,” Rikki breathed, and Broker leaned close to her ear.

“Everyone who protects you suffers,” he whispered. “This man saved your life, Doctor Kinn. He wrested you from blood and pain and death. Look at what you give him in return.”

Jean-Claude was so quiet, Rikki wondered if he hardly knew she was there. Or if he even cared. His eyes were swollen shut. He smelled like blood. He smelled like her memories. She remembered his warnings at the ferry, his fear, and wanted to kill Broker. Again. “You son of a bitch. You could knock me out, easier.”

“Yes,” he replied smoothly, “but sedatives contaminate several of the tests I need to run. Otherwise, my dear, you would be quite unconscious, and this poor man safe at home with his wife and children. Unfortunately for him, I know how sentimental you are.”

Broker flicked his finger at Ajax. The big man hauled Jean-Claude away, leaving behind a smear of blood where he had slouched. Tears burned Rikki’s eyes. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” Broker said softly.

Rikki looked at him. Hate filled her throat. Hate lodged in her gut. Her heart ached with hate.

She stuck her feet in the stirrups. She held her breath and gazed up at Francis and Moochie, who stared back, impossibly grim. They released her shoulders and arms, and she lay down. She thought of Amiri, what he had undergone at the hands of these people. If he could survive, so could she. If she could survive what had been done to her, she could handle anything.

Broker stood over her. “You are a very strong woman, Doctor Kinn. To break you would require almost killing you, and I do not want that.”

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Why?”

“Because someone must,” he said, and for one moment something came alive in his eyes, something that was not warm or soft, but hard and vital. “Because otherwise, Doctor Kinn, we are all going to die.”

Chaos had spit on the land. Amiri saw no dead, smelled little blood, but the miasma of fear and anger coated the air, thick as rotting soup. Ramshackle homes had been torn apart, with clothes, pans, books—anything not tied down—now spilled onto the grass. Men and women were trying to clean away the destruction, but they did so with movements that alternated between sharp, furious and exhausted. Ekemi was amongst them. He no longer wore his glasses, and his nose looked as though it might be broken.

Amiri did not want to speak to him. Guilt twinged, but he had to know. Had to be sure.

He shifted shape. His father remained a cheetah, and flopped down on his side, eyes closed. Resting. Amiri watched him, feeling lost in another, far stranger world. Heart aching. But staring did no good, changed nothing, He left the jungle to find out what had happened to Rikki and Rictor.

People saw him coming. Few recognized him from the night before, given the spike of fear and uneasiness that marred the already devastated faces. His nudity walked almost twenty feet ahead of him—which, for the first time in quite some while, made him regret that he could not carry clothes while running as a cheetah.

Someone ran to fetch Ekemi. Amiri was close enough to see the man’s expression change. It was not terribly pleasant. Not that Amiri blamed him. Of late, he felt rather like a bad charm.

“Rikki,” Amiri said, as soon as Ekemi was in earshot. The man’s uniform was stained with blood, as was the skin around his nose and lip. He glanced down at Amiri’s nudity, but showed nothing on his face except stricken concern.

“They took her,” Ekemi said. “There was a helicopter.”

Amiri’s jaw locked. His entire face frozen—a cold mask, revealing nothing, though beneath his skin he screamed. He had left her. He had known what would happen, and had gone anyway.

You did what you had to. As did she.

His father’s whisper. Still inside his head, even though the man himself was a stone’s throw away. The irony was sickening.

“Did they harm her?” He had trouble getting the words out.

Bitterness stole across Ekemi’s face. “Not to my knowledge, but I was…otherwise occupied. They took the boy, too. The child you brought with you.”

“Kimbareta?” Amiri frowned. “What of Rictor?”

“Your friend is gone. He asked for a rifle, took some clothing and ammunition, and disappeared into the forest.” Ekemi shook his head. “I believe he was trying to follow the helicopter.”

He forced himself to breathe. “I will rectify this situation, Ekemi. I will make it right.”

“No.” Ekemi backed away from him. Not unkindly, but with a finality that cut, nonetheless. “We will be fine on our own.”

Amiri tried to argue, but stopped. Ekemi had every reason to be wary. Later, maybe. When this was all done. He would find a way.

He held out his hand. Ekemi shook it, briefly.

“Thank you,” Amiri said. “For everything, thank you.”

“Go,” said the man, gravely. “Go and do what you must.”

Spoken as though he believed Amiri were capable of saving Rikki. As though he had no doubt.

A small comfort. Amiri turned and ran.

His father was not waiting where he had been left. Amiri tracked the old cheetah around the border of the camp, finding him crouched above a bent sapling, mouth open, inhaling a scent on his tongue. Amiri knelt beside him, and touched the broken plant. Brought his fingers back to his nose. He tasted rain, the weight of a thunderstorm.

His father shifted just enough to speak, still more animal than man. “The one who passed here is not human.”

“No,” Amiri said. “None of us know what he is.”

“Old blood,” Aitan rasped. “Gods and monsters.”

An appropriate description. Perhaps even for themselves.

They continued on, embraced by the cheetah, and though they were made for open plains and dry winds, the jungle held no secrets, no barriers. Amiri slipped through the morning shadows, relentless, and inside his heart he sensed a pulse that was only Rikki—as though he could feel her heartbeat closed tight within him, reaching and pulling him near.

His father’s motives remained more elusive.

Time passed. Amiri’s throat burned. He thought about finding water, and was close to doing so when a gunshot blasted the heavy mid-morning air. He heard shouts, branches breaking.

Power poured into his muscles. He surged ahead of his father, cutting a streak through the tangle. Sunlight danced through the leaves into his eyes. He caught the scent of thunder, blood, men…and found Rictor, who was pressed on his side in a mass of ferns, using a fallen tree as cover, a rifle balanced and braced against his shoulder. He wore pants, but no shirt. The gashes across his back were livid, raw, etched in green. Nothing, from his upper shoulders to the base of his spine, had been spared.

Men were firing on Rictor. It was difficult for Amiri to see how many, but the scents were thick and the harsh tones of heavy breathing gathered like the wind in his ears. He followed the sounds to their source—found three mercenaries, men in black staying close to trees and the ground. He crept behind them and they never noticed. He felt his father join him, staring.

Broker’s men,
Amiri imagined the old man saying; the words were in his eyes. Cold eyes, calculating. Amiri saw no remorse—none—and watched his father lunge from the underbrush, slamming one of the gunmen sideways into the ground. Amiri followed suit, moving so fast the second man could hardly react to his partner’s death before he himself tumbled into the leaves, screaming. Amiri sank his jaws into that soft throat and ripped. Blood gushed into his mouth.

He heard the creak of the last man’s gear as he turned, heard a muffled gasp. A gun went off—a thunderous blast. The mercenary flew sideways, a hole in his chest. Amiri turned. Found Rictor walking toward them, rifle poised. His eyes were like cut glass, sharp. Even before, in the lab, the man had never looked so uncompromisingly lethal. Amiri wondered, briefly, if he was going to die.

“Took you cats long enough,” Rictor rumbled, pacing over to the dead mercenary. He glanced around, scanning the undergrowth, then set down his rifle and started stripping the corpse of weapons. Amiri shifted shape. Rictor glanced up and said, “Your guy doesn’t have bullet holes in his vest.”

It was not an actual request, but Amiri had no desire to sting another man’s pride. He stripped the man he had killed, unbuckling his vest, and tossed the clothing to Rictor. Rictor slipped it on, wincing just slightly.

“What happened here?” Amiri asked, glancing at his father. He found the old cheetah sitting on his haunches, watching Rictor. Blood covered his muzzle. The air smelled thick with death, and was just as still. No birds sang. No monkeys rattled through the canopy.

Rictor met Aitan’s stare, and held it. “Ambush. My hearing’s not as good as yours.”

“I am surprised you are so proficient with a gun,” Amiri murmured. “I cannot imagine you ever had a use for one.”

“Not before now.” Rictor finally tore his gaze from Aitan. “Go ahead. Ask.”

Amiri inclined his head. “Who hurt you?”

“That’s not what I wanted you to ask.”

“And?”

“And I did it to myself,” he replied darkly. “The moment I got stupid.”

“From birth, then?” said Aitan, shifting into his human body. Rictor gave him a hard look and traded his rifle for the AK-47 and a pistol.

Amiri rose smoothly to his feet. “Interfering, Rictor?”

“Do not talk to me,” he said harshly. “Do not.”

“I simply want to be clear. Are you here to help us?”

“You fuck,” Rictor snapped quietly, and there was enough grief and rage in his eyes that Amiri felt ashamed of himself. But it was brief, because this was survival, and the question had to be asked.

Aitan looked to the east. “We are close. We should hide the bodies. Someone might have heard the fight.”

Rictor’s mouth tightened. He bent down, grabbed ankles, and started pulling. Pain twisted his face, but he made not one sound. Amiri moved to help him, taking the brunt of the burden. Neither man looked at the other.

A radio crackled. Rictor snatched it up and clipped the device to his pocket, turning the volume down low. Amiri glanced at his father. “How close?”

“Less than an hour’s walk, even in these bodies.”

Rictor straightened. “You have a plan?”

“I will tell you on the way,” Amiri said.

Amiri exhaled, slowly. “Do you have a better plan, Rictor?”

A grim smile touched the man’s mouth. Mists rose around them; the air was hot, but with a damp fresh scent that provided an illusion of something cooler. Amiri heard voices. Far away, near the bottom of the ravine. Nothing dangerous.

“Broker is going to kill you,” Rictor said, looking him straight in the eye. “Broker dreams of you dead. I’m on that list, too. Artur. Elena. Everyone who was there in Russia.”

“Why?”

“Why does any man murder?” Rictor looked away, down at the facility. “We killed someone he loved.”

Aitan crouched, palms open, hovering close to the ground as though soaking the warmth of the earth into his skin. It was an old gesture, one Amiri had seen a million times—though not in years. It made him hurt. It made him remember good times instead of bad.

“It is the only way,” said his father quietly. “They expect me to bring him in. And Broker will not wish to immediately kill Amiri. He will torture him first. That will give me time to take down the security protocols for Jaaved and his men.”

“Ah,” Rictor replied. “Hope he’s not quick with the hot irons, then.”

Amiri set his jaw. “How long until Jaaved is in position?”

“Six hours, at least. We moved considerably faster than him.”

“Rikki might not have that much time.”

“She is more valuable to him alive,” said his father coolly. “She will survive.”

“Why?” Amiri snapped, choking on fury and fear and heartache. “Why do they want her?”

Aitan hesitated. Rictor said, “Blood. The blood of the Magi, to be specific.”

Amiri stared. He knew little of the Magi, only stories told by fellow shape-shifters and other members of the agency: A sorcerer, two thousand years old, had cursed himself and another with immortality, a long life that had not offered respite from death, but only the desire for it.

“I do not understand,” he said. “How does that involve Rikki?”

“The Magi was a baby factory,” Rictor replied. “He had loads of children. Buckets of children, for two thousand years. Right up until this century, when he finally died. He has babies scattered you still don’t know about.”

Aitan looked intrigued. “They are all similarly gifted?”

“Some. Depends on how diluted their blood is.” Rictor gave Amiri a bitter smile. “Would you like to guess how many members of Dirk & Steele are his descendents?”

“I would rather not,” Amiri replied, rather troubled by the whole idea. “But even if Rikki
is
related to him, then what do they hope to achieve by having her? She is an extraordinary woman, but she has no otherworldly gifts.”

“Not that you know of,” Rictor muttered.

Aitan rose slowly. “Enough. I will scout the perimeter. Both of you stay here.”

Amiri wanted to protest, but remained quiet. Being around his father made him feel like a child again, a stranger in his own skin. He hardly thought he knew himself or the old man. Nor did it help having Rictor near. One had raised him. The other had tortured him. The two were not so different.

Aitan slipped away. Rictor said, “Enjoying your reunion?”

“Read my mind.”

“Go to hell.”

Amiri studied him, unaffected by his anger. “Are you truly powerless?”

“You think I like your company that much?”

“I think that you are, and always will be, a stranger. I do not know what to think.”

“How heartening,” Rictor muttered.

Amiri sighed. “I am sorry. Is there
anything
that can be done for you?”

“No.” The other man’s gaze turned distant, thoughtful. Edged with hard memory. “I’m alive. I have everything I need.”

“Indeed,” Amiri murmured, surprised by his answer. Suffering an odd pang of conscience. “Rictor. Why
did
you come to us? You said Elena, but—”

“She never asked me.”

“You said she did not have to. What does that mean?”

“It’s none of your fucking business.” Rictor stood. The radio crackled on his hip. He turned up the volume. Voices hissed. Amiri heard comments about transport times, supplies, more men…and then, at the very end, a mention of one Doctor Regina Kinn.

You should see what she did to Marco,
someone laughed.
Son of a bitch wants to kill her ass.

Amiri stood, heart pounding. Staring blindly at the facility. Desperate enough to slam himself against those walls.

“Don’t,” Rictor said, watching him. “Don’t even think about it.”

“And what would you do for Elena?” Amiri asked sharply. “I
cannot
wait for Jaaved. Not when she is down there waiting for me.”

“Then do not wait,” said a new voice, soft and cold as ice. Amiri whirled, stunned.

Broker. As though materialized from air. No sound of his approach, and hardly a scent. He stood as though carved from stone—perfectly still, his gray suit smooth as bone. His eyes were flat, dead.

Further back, some distance away, was yet more movement. A cage closing in. Men rose from the forest floor like an army of ghosts. Camouflaged, weapons held high. Amiri tried catching their scents, but all he found was the faint musk of leopard scat. The mercenaries had used a spray to cover their odors.

And they had been in place for a long time, if Amiri was any judge. He had heard
nothing.
Of all the foolish, stupid,
senseless
—

“Amiri,” Broker said, and his gaze flicked to Rictor, who had his gun pointed strong and steady at the pale man’s face. He smiled, but it seemed forced. Uneasy. “You know better than that.”

“I know I could slow you down,” Rictor replied. “I know I could tear you apart with my bare hands.”

“You could do more than that, but only one man can kill me.” Broker tapped his skull. “I’ve foreseen it. But he’s not here. You are. And what strange irony that is.
Mon petit meurtrier.”

Green light flashed through Rictor’s eyes. Power. But only for a moment, and then it was like watching a man be struck by lightning, or hit in the spine with a dozen hammers all at once. Rictor’s eyes glowed, and in that same instant his back arched so deeply Amiri heard his spine crack. A scream of pure agony choked free of his throat. He fell on his knees, coughing, gagging.

No,
Amiri thought, watching Broker.
No.

But the damage was done. Broker stared, pure astonishment cutting through his gaze. “What is this? What has happened to you?”

Rictor spat. Broker crouched, peering closely. Eyes finally sparking with some vital, dangerous light.

“A man like you needs no gun,” he said, and then, even softer: “You are mortal.”

Amiri stepped in front of Rictor, dropping low, fingers digging into the dirt. “Stay away from him.”

“Or what?” Loose laughter tumbled free of Broker’s throat. “Oh, my. If only Artur and
Elena
were present—”

Rictor reached around Amiri and fired the gun. Broker caught the bullet in his head and flew backward, slamming into the ground. Rictor scrambled to his feet, shoving Amiri aside. Running. He emptied the gun into Broker’s chest. Then kicked him.

Amiri kept expecting one of the watching mercenaries to stop Rictor, but none did—except for a single individual, a familiar face. From the airfield. His eyebrows thick as a rug. He looked from Broker to his attacker, and his eyes darkened with outrage. His finger tightened on the trigger of his gun.

Amiri knocked Rictor out of the way, hearing a roar in the air, feeling a roar in his body as pain snapped through his shoulder. He fell down hard, swimming in agony. Rictor fell on his knees beside him, handgun tossed aside in favor of the stolen AK-47, held tight and steady, aimed at the mercenaries as though his one weapon could kill them all. His face was grim as death, and he wore a cold hard resignation that was, for one brief moment, unreservedly bitter.

“It’s a flesh wound,” he said of Amiri’s wound, glancing down for just a moment. “Took a slice out of your shoulder, but nothing else. No smashed bones.”

Amiri had suffered from flesh wounds and this felt incredibly more painful. But he rolled to his knees, clapped his hand over the injury, and felt a tear in the meat, gushing blood. A quarter of an inch lower and his entire shoulder would have been destroyed.

Not that it mattered. Not when Aitan walked free of the forest.

He moved as though he owned the men around him, as though he was Broker and the man dead on the ground was the servant. Amiri searched his father’s face, but all he found was something aloof and pitiless, a quiet indifference, as though Aitan might watch the world burn and feel nothing: no love, no anger, no passion at all to live.

This was not the man Amiri remembered, even at his worst. The man who stood before him was a stranger.

This was not our plan,
Amiri thought, and he had the sudden, terrible feeling that this had never been his father’s plan.

“I am certain you would rather die than be taken alive,” Aitan said to Rictor, with hardly a glance at Amiri’s bleeding shoulder. “Consider, however, what will happen to those who take your place when Broker awakes.”

Amiri stood, staggering. Rictor moved with him, catching him with his shoulder. Gun still raised, ready to fire. Behind Aitan, the mercenaries moved free of the forest, wielding a considerable amount of firepower.

At their feet, Broker stirred.

“In or out?” Rictor whispered. “Are we doing this?”

“In,” Amiri breathed, thinking of Rikki. Sweat soaked his skin; the pain was immense. He wanted to vomit.

The bullet in Broker’s forehead wiggled free, rolling into the grass. Amiri had never seen such a thing, and watched, steeling himself for the inevitable.

Broker opened his eyes and sat up. His face was still wet with blood; a red mask. All around them, silence. His men showed no reaction to their employer’s resurrection. Not even when he stood, and bullets rolled out from under his shirt and hit the grass.

Broker looked at Amiri. He looked at the blood, and the wound. Extreme displeasure filled his face. “Someone shot you.”

An unexpected response. Not the first thing Amiri had thought to hear. Though it made sense. Broker wanted him dead, but only by his hand. His revenge.

Broker looked at Rictor, then Aitan. “Who was it?”

“Marco,” said the old man.

He nodded, as though unsurprised. “Kill him.”

Aitan turned without hesitation. Marco stared, incredulous, then backed away with arms raised.

“No,” he gasped, staring at Broker. “Please—”

The shape-shifter’s hand lashed out, sweeping across Marco’s throat, leaving behind a hole so deep that Amiri imagined he saw the man’s spine. Marco scrabbled at himself, blood gushing. Eyes rolled up with horror. He collapsed on his knees, writhing, twitching.

Aitan shook his hand. Blood spattered the grass. His fingers were thick with claws, spotted fur riding up the sinewy muscles of his long forearm. Amiri could only stare, disgusted and astonished: His father, killing on the order of another—partially shifted in front of witnesses? This was a man who had murdered to keep such secrets, to keep himself safe from such a future. Who had raised his son in virtual isolation, simply to protect their bloodline.

I do this for you,
whispered his father, inside Amiri’s mind.
Anything for my children.

Amiri stamped down that voice, the terrible echo of his father that would not leave him.

Broker straightened his jacket—a ridiculous gesture, given the blood soaking through his clothes, still shining on his face. He gave Aitan a cold look. “Jaaved is coming?”

“As you requested,’ replied the old man, without a glance for his son. ‘He believes he will kill you tonight.”

“And Amiri believed you were offering him a way to do the same.” Broker smiled, faintly. “You were right about the lure. Nicely done. Very…poignant.”

Amiri clenched his jaw tight. Slid a mask over his face. Calm, steady, hiding the storm in his heart. Erasing his rage. His fear.

No fear. Not when Rikki still needed him. All he had left was her. No one else mattered. And if she got hurt, or worse,
died
—

—he was going to kill his father.