The Taste of Fear (34 page)

They went to the window.

“On the count of three,” he said.

“Okay.”

“One,” he said.

“Two,” she said.

“Three,” they said together.

They kicked the large square pane of glass in unison. Their feet smashed through it, leaving twin basketball-sized jagged holes. They watched as physics took over and the weight of the glass collapsed down upon itself, spilling out of the wooden frame, splintering on the teak deck into thousands of slivers.

“Go!” Thunder said. He gave her a half nudge, half lift with his shoulder, helping her up and over the low window ledge. Then she was running to the portside railing, straddling it, leaping to the river below. She hit the water with a splash and was immediately enveloped in darkness. For a moment she had no idea which way was which. Panic swelled inside her. She swung her head from side to side, her hair trailing in front of her eyes. A foot brushed the bottom and she knew up from down. She looked up and saw what she thought was the dark hull of the riverboat. She kicked toward it.

The riverboat had a very shallow draft, only a couple feet deep, which made it easy for her to swim beneath. The width, however, was much wider than she would have thought possible. She barely made it to the keel before her lungs were aching and her head pounding from oxygen deprivation.

She kept kicking until the darkness finally lightened and she knew she had cleared the hull. She fought the natural instinct to crash through the surface. That would likely earn her a bullet in the head. Instead she poked her head above the water as quietly as possible, sucking back a huge gulp of air, which for her overworked lungs was like sucking back gasoline fumes. She made a sound like a rusty door opening, but she didn’t think it was loud enough for Jahja to hear. Her eyes watered and she thought she was going to sputter and cough. Nevertheless, she bit back the gagging impulse and got her breathing under control.

She started swimming away from the riverboat.

Thunder remained by the window until Scarlett had jumped over the portside railing, then he flattened himself into the crook next to the door. Seconds later he heard Jahja stomp down the staircase, pausing when he reached the stern deck. Thunder imagined he was studying the broken glass. The lock clicked, the door swung inward. If Jahja had shoved it open all the way, it would have bounced against Thunder’s chest, giving away his presence. Luckily, he only opened it enough to stick his head inside and give the room a quick perusal before hurrying over to the portside railing.

Thunder left the hiding spot and stuck his head out the door. Jahja was bent over the railing, looking down at the river, the AK in one hand, a kerosene lantern held high in the other. The clear yellow flame was constant and bright, enveloping him in a circle of light.

Thunder started across the deck, taking large steps to gain momentum while trying to remain silent at the same time. Glass crunched underfoot.

Jahja turned, his eyes widening in surprise.

Roaring, Thunder lowered his shoulder and barreled into him, sending them both sprawling to the deck. The lantern smashed the deck a few meters away, the glass globe exploding on impact. Kerosene spilled and caught fire. Two-foot-tall flames whooshed into existence.

Jahja, however, managed to hold onto the AK. Before he could swing it around, Thunder kicked him in the neck. This time Jahja released the rifle. It clattered across the deck, slipped beneath the iron railing, and splashed into the water below.

Shouting something in Arabic, Jahja leapt at Thunder. Thunder planted his feet firmly in Jahja’s chest, catching him in midair and using the terrorist’s own momentum to toss him over his head. He landed with a thump and an unearthly howl. Thunder twisted around and saw Jahja flopping from side to side in the pool of flames, which were now nearly a meter high and spreading quickly. Jahja sprang to his feet, a human torch. Screaming, he ran blindly around in circles until he collided with the starboard railing, cart-wheeled over, and plunged into the river seconds later. The night smelled like burnt flesh and hair and clothes.

“Thunder!” It was Scarlett, faint, somewhere far away. “Get off the boat! It’s going to blow!”

He looked left, to the fire. The flames were licking the twin diesel engines. He scrambled to the railing, scissor-hopped over it, and was just about to jump when there was a deafening explosion. The pressure wave from the hot, expanding gas caught him from behind and launched him like a rag doll through the night.

“Thunder!” Scarlett cried, swimming back toward the riverboat, kicking with her feet. She stopped a few yards away from the now burning wreckage and treaded water, her eyes darting from each piece of fiery debris floating on the water. She didn’t see him anywhere.

A hand grabbed her shoulder from behind.

“Thunder?”

Even as Scarlett turned, she knew the hand couldn’t belong to Thunder because his were bound behind his back, as were hers. Instead she found herself staring in horror at Jahja—or what had once been Jahja—because what stared back at her was no man but something from a nightmarish world, a Halloween mask come to life.

Every inch of his face was bright red and purple and mushy, except for his nose and lips, which were black and charred. The skin along his left brow had clumped and now drooped in front of his eye, almost completely covering it, while that around his right eye had melted away, leaving the eyeball unnaturally wide and round. His mouth was open in a soundless scream.

Scarlett tried desperately to shake the hand off her shoulder, but it held her firm. His other hand grabbed her around the throat and squeezed. She brought her legs up to try to kick away from him. To do that, she had to stop treading water, and her head immediately sank beneath the surface. In her panic she swallowed mouthfuls of water. She coughed, swallowing more water.

She was going to drown.

Then she remembered what the Irishman had done to Thunder. She stopped kicking and shot her legs straight up, out of the water, locking them around Jahja’s neck. She corkscrewed her body, the maneuver working like a teeter-totter, dunking Jahja beneath the water while buoying her up. Her head broke through the surface again.

Jahja’s hands clawed at her legs. She squeezed her thighs and ankles tighter. The clawing became less persistent. Five long seconds later it stopped altogether. She held firm for another five seconds, just to be sure. Finally she released his neck and, with the last of her strength, kicked to shore. When she felt mud beneath her knees, she stopped kicking and began waddling. She got halfway up the bank before she could go no farther.

She collapsed beneath the great, black, African sky.

“First things first,” she told him. “Jahja’s dead.”

“I saw him catch fire. He jumped into the water. Maybe—”

“He’s dead.” Scarlett explained everything that had happened. “I managed to get to shore okay,” she finished. “After I caught my breath, I went back in the water to look for you. But I didn’t find you—at least, not until I was back on shore again, looking for a rock to free my hands.”

“Where was I?”

“Right here.”

Thunder looked at the riverboat, twenty meters away, then back at her. “Are you having a go?”

She shook her head.

“Blimey.”

“Do you think you can stand? I want to show you something.”

He tried pushing himself off the ground but collapsed back to his rear. She helped him the second time, then led him along the bank. With each step he grew more surefooted until he was walking on his own. A little farther on she stopped and pointed. Instead of looking where he was looking, following her finger, she watched his face. His eyes widened and he broke into a grin that lit up his entire face. Then she, too, turned toward the small skiff tied up against a tree stump. She smiled the first real smile in days.

“There’s even an extra tank of fuel between the seats,” she said.

“The Irishman’s?”

“Has to be.”

Thunder didn’t say anything more, and Scarlett realized he was choked up with emotion. She took his hand and they continued the rest of the way to the boat. They untied the painter line and pushed away from shore. She tugged the starter cord. The 25-hp Johnson motor fired up on the first go. It was one of the most beautiful sounds she had ever heard. She opened the throttle and pointed the skiff upriver.

They were going home.