City of Saints & Thieves(89)

A silhouetted figure throws open the tent flap and begins yelling at Michael. The guy seems to have just been sent in to check on him, though, because he tells Michael he’s worth “less than a monkey turd,” if he moves, and then he’s gone again.

We wait a few moments in silence. I lift my head. “Charming.”

Michael lets out his breath, and then winces. I wonder if he’s got broken ribs too that he’s just not telling me about. “They’re all insane. There’s this one who keeps telling me he’s going to enjoy watching my fireworks. No idea what he’s talking about, but it cracks him up every time.”

I stiffen. Michael doesn’t know about Omoko’s plan for blood.

“Hey, can you come take this thing off? I hate not being able to see.”

I creep back over. Should I tell him what Omoko is planning, or will that just take more time we don’t have?

“Thanks,” Michael whispers when I pull the blindfold off.

For a moment I’m caught in his gaze, unable to move. I want so badly to apologize for screaming at him and running off and for letting him get caught and for generally getting him into a situation where he may end up dead, but there’s no time for that right now. I force myself back to trying to get him free.

Pulling the bobby pin out of my pocket, I go to work.

“Why did these guys capture us?”

“Mr. Omoko wants to ransom you to your dad.” The pin has twisted somehow in all of this and won’t go in. I bite it, trying to mash it back into a useful shape.

“Who’s Mr. Omoko?”

“He’s . . .” So much has happened. I’ve never even mentioned Omoko until now, other than during my drug-induced rant outside the guesthouse. I pull the pin out of my mouth to examine it. Still not right. “I’ll tell you everything later,” I say, “but for right now, he’s the bad guy. He killed my mom.” I stick the pin back in my mouth, trying again.

Michael stares at me, as if what I’m saying will make better sense if he looks at me hard enough. “What? Why? Who is—”

“And he kidnapped my sister,” I say as I try again to wedge the pin into the bindings on his ankles. It isn’t going in right, but that might be because my hand has started trembling. “I think she’s safe now, but still . . .” I shake my head, unable to go on.

“Our sister.”

Startled, I look up.

There is something so fierce in Michael’s expression, but at the same time, a vulnerability that has nothing to do with his bindings. Before I can stop them, two quick tears fall down my cheeks. “Our sister,” I whisper.

My chest suddenly feels like it’s being ripped apart. I drop my eyes to the crescent moon scar I can just barely see in the dark crook of his arm. Slowly, I slide my hand up his wrist until it rests on top of the raised line. I feel him shudder under my touch. The ache in my throat is almost unbearable. When I look back up at his face I realize I finally understand what he’s thinking. I was right. He does care about me.

He bends his head toward mine. Our foreheads bump gently.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, letting my tears fall freely now.

“There’s nothing to—”

But I stop him by placing my mouth onto his. I barely know what I’m doing. For once, I don’t consider or think or weigh consequences. I just do. He kisses me back, softly at first, and then harder, hungrily. A heat travels up my spine, radiating throughout my entire body. I lift my hands to his face and breathe in his skin.

When I finally pull back, he sighs into me. “I’ve been waiting for that my whole life,” he says.

I laugh through my tears. “Sorry it had to happen here.” I want so badly to kiss him again, but I know the clock is ticking. “We have to hurry,” I say, bending to his bindings again.

“Yeah,” Michael says, sounding less convinced, and leans back to let me work.

I think I’ve almost got it when I feel him tense. “I’m sorry, I know this hurts—”

“Shh. Do you hear that?”

I stop, ears pricking. I was so intent on what I was doing that I hadn’t registered the thrumming. It’s distant now but getting closer. “A helicopter.”

“It’s Dad!” Michael says, breaking into a full smile now.

But something is wrong. “No,” I say. “It’s too close. Boyboy was supposed to tell him to keep out of sight of the camp. Maybe he never got through.”

Oh God, what if they caught Boyboy? This is all my fault. I bolt up. Shouts from the militia tell us they’ve noticed the helicopter too. And I never explained . . .

“It’s a trap, Michael!” I say. “Omoko is going to shoot the chopper down as soon as you’re airborne.”

Michael’s smile vanishes. “What? But—”

“He’s going to kill you and your father.”

“Go time, boys!” a voice crows outside, very close.

Michael’s head swivels to the front tent flaps. “Someone’s coming.”

My fingers work at his ankles frantically. “Come on, come on . . .”

“It’s the guard coming back! Hide!” Michael says.

“No! I can—”

“It’s too late, Tina! Hide! You can’t help me if you’re dead!”