The Paper Swan(73)

I put my coffee down and picked up the giraffe. It was so much bigger than the space it took up, so much heavier than it weighed. I knew what it must have taken Damian to lock up his demons, but he had done it. For me.

A distant whoomp-whoomp-whoomp mixed in with the music. I figured the song was transitioning into the next track, but the noise grew louder. It was coming from behind me now, close enough that I could recognize it. The whirring, sonic boom of helicopter blades.

Fuck.

I ran outside, barefoot in a t-shirt, knowing Damian had gone to get mangoes for me, like he did every morning. One helicopter was already on the ground, while a second was landing on the beach in a flurry of sand and grit. Armed men in camouflaged gear were everywhere, running towards the jungle.

“Miss? Miss Sedgewick?” One of the men pulled me back. “Are you all right?”

I tore free of him and ran towards the mangoes that were scattered in the shadows of the trees. They were covered in blood.

“Where is he?” I grabbed the man who was yelling something about getting me to safety. “Is he hurt? Take me to him!”

But he wouldn’t listen. He started dragging me back to one of the choppers. The sickening bratatat of machine guns came from the jungle. Another helicopter swept over us, scanning the ground below. A crackly voice issued rapid commands over the man’s radio device. The air was thick with the hunt for Damian—all these men tracking him down—but all I could see was the trail of blood that led from the mangoes.

Damian had been coming back to me when they’d ambushed him. I closed my eyes and lived the horror of it: a bullet ripping through him, mangoes rolling to the ground, his blood staining their spotted yellow-green skins; Damian picking himself up, stumbling into the trees for cover, while I poured myself a cup of coffee.

A cup of f*cking coffee.

I knew exactly where to go. I knew where Damian was—holed up in the wooden shack, as they closed in on him, with nothing to protect himself, because I’d made him give up his gun.

Oh God. What I have done?

I broke free and ran into the trees, not caring about the bullets that were zinging past me and ricocheting off the trees in flying splinters of wood and bark.

“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” someone screamed as I stormed into the shack. I knew they wouldn’t shoot as long as I was with Damian, as long as there was any chance I’d get caught in the crossfire.

I stood by the door, panting, as my eyes adjusted to the room.

He was propped up in the corner, like a trapped animal, gripping his thigh, his sweatpants soaked with blood.

“Get out of here, Skye.” He might have been hurt, but his voice was steely—calm and controlled.

“Let me have that.” I took a strip of fabric from him. It was torn off his shirt, the one that was stained with faded strawberry splotches.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” he said, as I wrapped it around his leg, my fingers shaking as I tied it into a tight knot. “You need to leave. Now.”

“Skye!” We both turned at the sound of my father’s voice.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. My father took great pride in his appearance, but today he looked like hell. There was no sharp crease in his pants; his shirt hung wrinkled and limp around his shoulders.

“I found you.” He stared at me like he couldn’t believe it, like I was an apparition that would disappear if he blinked. “Are you all right?”

I went to him, knowing he had moved heaven and earth to get here, not sleeping, not eating, not resting. “Dad.”

He gave me three gray-whiskered kisses, then three more, then three more, before engulfing me in his hug. “I didn’t know if I was ever going to see you again.”

We stayed like that for a while until his eyes settled on Damian. I felt his arms tighten around me. “You.” He spat out. “You’re going to pay for every second you’ve made her suffer.”

“Dad, no.” I shifted so we were facing away from Damian. “Listen to me. I need to expla—” I stopped mid-sentence, noticing the man who stood behind my dad for the first time. He looked oddly familiar, with a dark, menacing air that reminded me of what was waiting outside.

“Se?or Sedgewick,” he said. “My men are ready to escort you and Skye back to the chopper. Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere.” He pointed his gun at Damian.

Damian’s gaze swung from the man to my father, and back again. He was on the floor, with his injured leg stretched out before him, but his fists were clenched, his jaw clamped tight.