City of Saints & Thieves(91)

Trying to swallow my panic, I shake my head. “It’s not your fault.”

Nothing is going right. My last hope was that Boyboy could talk to Mr. Greyhill and he would somehow salvage things.

There’s movement at the helicopter and then I see Mr. G step out, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. I look from him back to Michael. If Mr. Greyhill knows what Omoko’s true intentions are, he doesn’t show it. He buttons his jacket, like he’s headed to a business meeting. Mr. Omoko steps out of the shade and walks toward him.

“Did you talk to Catherine?” I whisper.

“She went to try and get help.”

Boyboy doesn’t sound hopeful, and there’s no reason he should be. What sort of help can she find? The local police are probably on the militia payroll. An army unit might respond, but that’s only if she can find and convince them.

When Omoko and Greyhill are face-to-face, Omoko smiles and reaches out to shake his old boss’s hand. Mr. Greyhill doesn’t take it. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Mr. Omoko’s smile tightens. He claps Greyhill on the arm instead, and starts to lead him back toward Michael. I can see now that the militia guys have set up a small table and chairs at the edge of the forest. I count. Four militia guys and two Goondas are visible, but it wouldn’t surprise me if there were more, armed and hidden in the forest.

Michael is presented to his father and his blindfold yanked down around his neck. He blinks into the sun, and I can’t do anything but stare at his face. Mr. Greyhill reaches for him, but at a word from Omoko he stops and slowly lowers his hand. Now his emotions are obvious. Even from here, Greyhill’s barely contained fury is palpable.

Mr. Omoko gestures to the table where a laptop has been set up, and the two men sit. Michael is moved away.

I look back over my shoulder, as if by magic there might be some help coming up the road. There are only trees.

I stand. This is it. No one is coming to help us. I pull the gun out of my waistband.

“Tina, what are you doing?” Boyboy tugs at my arm, but I shake him off.

The gun is heavy, but at least it’s a handgun, not one of the AKs, or otherwise I would have ditched it to run faster. I check the magazine—six bullets, plus one in the chamber. I fix my stance like Michael taught me to when we were kids, like the Goondas reinforced when we went out to shoot beer bottles off the edge of the sea wall. I aim at Omoko. He is smiling as Mr. G brings the laptop closer and starts to type. I breathe.

But I can’t get my hands to stop shaking.

“I’m too far,” I say, and use my shoulder to wipe the sweat that is trickling into my eyes.

“Tina . . .”

“I need to get closer.”

I move sideways through the forest, keeping my eyes locked on the two men at the table. They look so odd, like a business lunch misplaced. I can hear Boyboy following behind me and turn to signal him to move back. I want him farther away, where he won’t be heard. I run through the forest on quiet feet. Feet that have been trained to be silent sneaking into houses also do pretty well running through forests, it turns out.

The field is broad, and it takes me a while to get around behind them, especially while trying not to make any noise. I creep up the hill above the militia truck, then down through the undergrowth, moving as fast as I dare, until I come to a sort of a cliff, where I can crouch and look down at them. The men stand in a line, Goondas on one end, militias on the other. Mr. Greyhill is typing something on the computer, and Mr. Omoko is engrossed in what he’s being shown. I had expected to come up on more men in the forest guarding Mr. Omoko’s flank, but there’s no one, no sign of disturbed undergrowth. It’s a lucky break, but still, what am I supposed to do now? Shoot as many of the militia and Goondas as I can, plus Mr. Omoko? Hope they don’t kill Michael? I’m closer, but still outnumbered. Desperation swells in my throat.

I hear a snap of a twig behind me and spin, heart thumping, gun raised.

Boyboy already has his hands up, grimacing. I put a finger to my lips and motion for him to get down. He crawls forward and peers over the edge with me.

I can see it on Boyboy’s face. He sees what I see. At best it’s a shootout, which will most likely end with Michael getting the worst of it. And Boyboy doesn’t even have a gun. I try to keep my breath steady. Think, Tina, think, there’s got to be a way. Why can’t this be like the movies, where I just tear down through the woods, bad guys tossed back by bullets, the captive never getting a scratch?

If I can even hit Mr. Omoko I’ll be lucky. But no other plan is coming to me. I see Mr. Greyhill pause, his finger hovering over a key. Mr. Omoko smiles like a lion that’s just brought down prey. Soon the transaction will be over, and Mr. Greyhill and Michael will be in the helicopter. I ease myself onto my belly, swallow, prop up my elbows, and raise the gun. I squint one eye closed and try to block out Boyboy’s rapid breath, try to slow my racing heart, and keep my trembling hands from shaking the sights away from my target.

I put my father’s head in the crosshairs.

I can feel the resistance of the trigger under my finger. One tug is all it takes.

Shoot him, Tina. Now.

Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak

Tak-tak-tak-tak

I start, and lift my head, so wound up that for a second I can’t loosen my grip on the gun. Boyboy and I look at each other, then at the men. They’re all talking, focused on something across the field in the direction of their camp.