City of Saints & Thieves(92)

“What’s going on?” Boyboy asks.

“I don’t know.”

Tak-tak-tak-tak

Tak-tak-tak-tak-BOOM

I hear birds screaming in the forest. The militiamen shout and point. I crane my neck to see and sniff the air. “Smoke,” I say. “It’s coming from back at their camp.”

The militia guys seem to have the same thought and turn to Mr. Omoko. An argument starts, but then Mr. Omoko yells for the Goondas to stay put while the militia guys go see what’s going on. Mr. Greyhill sits ramrod straight, eyes glued to his old Number Two. I don’t think he’s hit the key he was hesitating over. The Goondas finger their weapons and watch their boss. Michael looks at his father. Everyone is as tense as strung bows.

I look from Mr. Omoko back to the truck, where the militia men are clambering in. Did they leave their RPGs or take them? With a roar the truck is bouncing across the field, back toward the camp.

And before I can come to my senses, I swivel the gun, line up the sights, and take a shot.

I watch the Goonda holding Michael’s elbow jerk forward and fall onto the table between Mr. Omoko and Greyhill.

Then all hell breaks loose.

And I don’t let myself think, even though Boyboy is shouting and grabbing at me. I tell myself I’m that action hero charging down the hill, high with adrenaline, taking shots two, three—except it’s all happening too fast—fourth shot—and my feet are slipping, and I don’t hit the other Goonda or Mr. Omoko, and I feel little explosions in tree trunks and earth around me as bullets dance past my head. Everyone is screaming at everyone else to stop shooting—fifth shot—except for the other Goonda, who I realize is the one who was in the fistfight, Toofoh-or-Toto; he’s just rat-tat-tat-tat-tatting away, aiming with his one good eye, and then I trip over something and I’m going to land right at Toofoh-or-Toto’s feet, but then suddenly he’s flying sideways, shot by the pilot who has come out of the chopper, and who has maybe been hit too, and also falls into the grass, and then, like it never happened . . .

It all goes dead quiet.

I stagger into the light, the gun up and pointed at Mr. Omoko. I have two more bullets left. Michael is crouched over his father, who is ashen and gripping his leg. A few feet away, Omoko slowly brings his hands up from his sides. He glances at the two Greyhills.

“Stay back from them!” I scream.

I hear Boyboy come up behind me and run to Mr. G’s side. Mr. Greyhill’s leg is dark with blood. Boyboy yanks off Mr. G’s tie and begins to wrap it around his leg as a tourniquet. Michael is writhing on the ground, and my heart skips because I think he’s hurt too, but then I realize he’s pulling his legs through his tied arms to get them in front of him.

I register all of this out of the corner of my eye. I am fixed on Mr. Omoko, the gun aimed at his head.

“Christina,” he rumbles, “what are you doing?”

“Put your hands up. Up!”

“You think you’re going to shoot me, Tiny Girl?”

I keep the gun raised. The sun is beating down on me, and the gun is slippery in my hands. I can feel the rage of a thousand days spent waiting for this moment shimmering inside me. I rock from foot to foot.

“Yes,” I finally say.

A slow smile spreads over Mr. Omoko’s face. “I thought so. All right. Do it. You’ll never have a better shot.”

Michael raises his head. “Don’t, Tina.”

I keep my eyes on Mr. Omoko, trying to block out everything else. He’s right. I am too close to miss. Sweat stings the corners of my eyes, and I blink.

Mr. Omoko begins to lower his palms.

“Put your hands back up!”

But he doesn’t stop. They descend inch by inch. “You are losing your chance. What’s the matter? You are already a killer, daughter,” he says, waving a hand over the dead Goonda.

“I’m not your daughter!” I scream. I sound like a child, but I can’t stop myself.

“You are, like it or not. But the question is whether you are too much like your mother,” he says. His lip curls. “Weak.”

“My mother was not weak!”

He smiles again, and for a second I am horrified to see a twisted mirror of my face. I feel myself breaking apart, my limbs rattling and popping like an old machine. “I’m going to kill you,” I whisper.

His teeth are too big in his mouth; his gums shine. “You’d better do it, then. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To destroy your mother’s murderer?” Mr. Omoko opens his arms wide. “Here I am!”

I can’t move.

“I created you!” he shouts. “I made you who you are! You owe me everything! I made you the girl who can kill a man. So let’s see it! Let’s see how much like me you really are!”

Every word is a stone, smashing against me. You are like me. Like me. I am his daughter, just like him. There is a dead man at my feet. I have a hostage tied up in the forest. All this time, year after year, all I’ve ever wanted was revenge. Being with the Goondas has nursed this violence in me, but maybe it’s been there all along, in my bones. My fury has been boundless, my love for my mother buried underneath it. And it’s all because of him. Because I am his daughter. I am of his blood. I am his.

And then very softly, but very firmly, in the back of my mind I hear a voice. Not Mr. Omoko’s voice, though. Not my mother’s.