Mists of the Serengeti(67)

Jack flinched as K.K. rubbed his heel back and forth on his face.

“But to prolong it . . . ah. To transform it. That’s art. I made art out of that chief. A statement piece. What good is a nomad who can’t wander?” He broke into a spine-chilling gaggle. His men joined in. They stood in a semi-circle over Jack, laughing as they recalled what they’d done to Olonana.

“Fuck you,” Jack spat at K.K. A pool of blood was starting to stain the ground under him.

Get up, Jack. Run! Every fiber of my being screamed. It’s now or never. But I didn’t know if he could get up, or if he could run. All I knew was that with every second that ticked by, we were moving farther and farther away from him.

“Oh my,” said K.K. “There’s no need for that kind of language. You don’t want to lick my shoes? That’s okay.” He dropped the sinister mask of amusement he’d been wearing. He looked like the vulture he was, inside and out. “I’ll just cut your tongue out and polish my shoes with it while you watch. But right now, my goods are leaving, and it’s pissing me off. You—” he snapped at one of his team “—stop the driver. And you two, get the kids. Take the machete. Do it on the train. Slaughter them like the goats they’re hiding out with. The girl too.”

“You touch them and I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” K.K. ground his shoe into Jack’s wound and watched him writhe in the dust. “You can’t even get up.” He patted Jack down and retrieved his wallet. “You’re no good to anyone, Jack Warden.” He read the name off Jack’s driver’s license before throwing it back in his face. “You know why? Because you’re dead, motherfucker.” He pulled the trigger.

For a second, he just stood there, blinking, when nothing happened—no splash of red on his shoes. “Your cock,” he said, pointing the gun at Jack, “has no balls.” He laughed deliriously. “All decoration, no bullets. And you . . . you walked up to us like you owned us. Keh keh keh keh.”

He was still laughing when Jack grabbed the barrel and hit him with the butt of the rifle. K.K. staggered back, holding his nose. Jack shouted something I couldn’t hear, the words eaten up by the growing distance between us.

He surged forward to hit K.K. again when one of his men clamped Jack in a chokehold. It was the guy K.K. had sent to stop the driver.

Fuck. He’d backtracked and come to K.K.’s aid.

Something caught the edge of my eye, and I swore again. I had been so concerned about Jack, I hadn’t noticed that the other two men K.K. dispatched to get the children had climbed on board the moving train. They were hanging on the rungs, a few cars down, and making their way toward us.

Everything was moving way too quickly to process. On the one hand, Jack was being pounded by K.K. while his accomplice held him up. On the other, death was coming for the children, shirts flapping in the wind, machete in hand. My heart raced like it was going to explode. I gripped the edges of the doorframe, my knuckles turning white as I tried to figure out what to do.

“Bahati.” I shook him. He was lying slumped against one of the pens, his body lurching with the motion of the train. “Shit.” He had passed out, and I had no idea if he was going to be okay.

I ran to the open hatch and looked out again. The men were clinging to the sides of the train, proceeding when they had secured a sure footing. Jack was slipping from view. There was something wild and tempestuous in his punches now. He wasn’t just fighting two men, he was fighting the monsters that had taken Lily away from him. He was pouring all his rage and hurt and pain into it. But he was injured, and he held his wounded arm stiffly as they came at him from all sides.

No matter what happens, you stay on the train. You get these kids to Wanza.

I choked back a sob. I had to shut the door and lock it. I had to stop those men from getting to the children.

I slipped my backpack off and pulled on the hatch. It didn’t budge. I put all my muscle into it and tried again.

Nothing. It weighed a ton.

The kids watched me, eyes wide and overly bright. One of them had his hands jammed into his armpits and was hugging himself.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re going to be all right.” I was a liar. A dirty, filthy liar. “Come on. Give me a hand,” I asked them. “We can do this!”

I held on to the latch and pulled, tendons sticking out in my neck, while the kids pushed from the other end. It held for a while, and then it slid out of its rut with a great big jerk. The goats bleated as the carriage turned dark. The only light streaming in now was through the louvered sides.

“Good job!” I said to the kids, even though a part of me was dying to fling it wide open again, in the desperate hope that Jack would make it on, somehow, some way.

I looked for a way to secure the door, to keep it from sliding back, but there was nothing.

Shit. It locks from the outside. It’s a livestock car.

I wanted to pound my head against the door. My arms were shaking. I didn’t know how long I could hold on. I peered through the louvers. I couldn’t see the men, but I knew they’d be upon us soon. Sweat beaded on my lip.

Think! There’s got to be something.

A light bulb went off in my head. It was a long shot, but it was all I had. I let the door go. It slid open with a grating thump. I looked out. I couldn’t see Jack anymore. We had left him far behind. But I could see the men. And there was now only one car left between us.