Mists of the Serengeti(66)

“Jack.” I clamped his arm. He had to go. But I held on a few seconds longer. “You have no bullets. You have nothing.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “There’s a little girl out there who needs me.”

In a thousand lives, I would die a thousand deaths to save her.

It wasn’t Lily, but Jack wasn’t about to let it happen again.

“Listen to me,” he said. “No matter what happens, you stay on the train. You get these kids to Wanza. You hear me?”

“I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

“You can. You’re my rainbow-haloed girl, and you’re freaking magical. Don’t you ever forget that.” He took my face in his hands and kissed me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever tasted.

And then I heard the crunch of gravel as he hopped off and headed for the circle of men who were kicking and hitting Bahati as he lay on the ground.

“Let him go,” he said, pointing his rifle at them. His tone left no room for argument. He knew he had no bullets, I knew he had no bullets, but as far as they were concerned, he meant business.

The men backed away from Bahati and lined up against the side of the van as Jack swung his rifle from one to the other, keeping them in check.

“Bahati, get on the train,” said Jack, as Bahati lay curled up. He was in bad shape, but he staggered to his feet. One eye was swollen shut, and he held on to his knee as he limped toward the train.

“You.” Jack tapped the driver’s window with his rifle. “Come out with your hands up and open the back door.”

At first, it seemed like the man hadn’t heard him, but he stepped out, one foot first and then the other. My heart contracted when I caught a glimpse of his face. There was a raw slash running across his forehead, splitting his eyebrow, and down to his cheek. The blood had just started to clot, a river of jagged purple against his skin. There was something wrapped around his wrist. A red bandana that flapped in the breeze. I’d seen him before.

Where?

When?

And then it hit me. At the police station. When I’d gone with Goma. He’d creeped me out. His eyes had said something completely different from his smile.

K.K. That’s what Inspector Hamisi had called him. I shuddered as I recalled the laughter I’d heard when he’d tried to run Jack over.

Keh keh keh keh. Like a hyena digging around dead bones.

I held out my hand as Bahati approached and helped him climb on board. A trickle of blood leaked from his nose.

“Open the back door,” Jack said to K.K.

K.K. walked to the rear of the van like he was taking a Sunday stroll, slowly and leisurely. “I don’t know what you think you’re—”

“Shut up.” Jack prodded him with his gun. “Let her out.”

“Let who out?” K.K. unlatched the door and stood aside.

I couldn’t see inside the van because it was angled off, but Jack didn’t look too happy.

“Where is she?” he asked. “What have you done with Scholastica?”

“Jack,” Bahati interrupted, nursing his jaw. “Scholastica’s at the farm. Goma wouldn’t let her leave until she got her glasses. I came alone.”

Jack shot him an incredulous look. “Then why are you locking horns with these fuckers?”

“Because they hurt my father. I came to get you, and I found him at the campsite instead. He wouldn’t tell them where the kids were so they tortured him and the morans. If I hadn’t got there in time . . .” Bahati squeezed his eyes shut. “Something in me just snapped, Jack. I didn’t think. I just came after them.”

“They’re scum.” Jack started retreating slowly from the men, his eyes staring down the barrel. “We’re leaving now. We don’t want any trouble. So get back in your car and turn around.”

I had to strain to hear him over the huffing of the train. It was picking up pace.

Come on, Jack. Wrap it up.

“Sure,” said K.K., his hands still up. “We don’t want any trouble either.”

He turned to get back in the van but stooped as if to tie his shoe laces. Something flashed as he straightened. By the time I realized it was the steely glint of a machete, it was hurtling toward Jack with a sickening whoosh. I gasped as he swerved to avoid it.

Two seconds later, he lurched. A blot of crimson stained his T-shirt and spread over his sleeve. Blood poured in red rivulets down his arm and dropped to the ground from his knuckles. He’d been sliced.

His knees hit the ground with a sickening thud. The rifle slipped from his hand as he clutched his shoulder, trying to stave the flow of blood.

“We don’t want any trouble either,” K.K. repeated. He walked over to Jack and picked up the rifle. Then he placed the sole of his shoe on Jack’s face and slowly, slowly, put his weight on it until Jack fell back under the mounting pressure. “What I want is to get my boots licked, for all the shit you’ve made me trudge through to find you. You see this?” He pointed to the gash across his face. “This is from that Maasai chief who stole my cargo. You know what I did to him? I broke his legs. My men asked me: ‘Why, K.K.? Why not kill the bastard?’” K.K. rubbed the spotty tufts of hair on his head, slanting his head one way, then another, as if listening to voices in his head. “See, that’s something most people don’t grasp. The intricacies of suffering. I suffer when I kill. Killing is easy, like putting out a cigarette butt.”