by CJ Lyons
She didn’t this time either. The pilot staggered back against the helicopter. Lucy checked her perimeter, no one coming yet, and raced over to his body, kicking his weapon out of his hand. No need to worry. Not with the fist-sized hole ripped through his chest.
Chapter 40
Someone–Zapata, Andre assumed–shouted down the hallway in Spanish. The guards left. Didn’t even wait for Darius’ permission. Well, now. That said a lot about the pecking order around here. Darius may have thought he was trading up, but it was pretty damn obvious he was low man on the Zapata totem pole.
Andre almost made a break for it when Giselle arrived, but Darius had the gate shut behind her too fast. She staggered under the weight of a three-gallon can of gasoline she carried with both hands. Darius held his .357 Magnum on Andre, motioned to him to turn to face the outside wall. The blood steamed down Andre’s belly thick enough that it left a stain on the plexiglass window.
“Unlock the gate,” Darius ordered. He meant the animal gate that took up the lower half of the wall below the observation window. Andre had a feeling he knew what was coming and tried to decide which option would be worse: fire or dog meat.
But an exit was an exit. Andre pulled the latch open. The metal gate swung free in both directions, the only thing holding it shut was Andre’s foot braced against it. It was a three-foot square—he could easily make a break for it. Had a feeling Darius hoped that he would.
The wild dogs weren’t far; he could hear their snuffling and chittering in the enclosure beyond the gate. Excited by the scent of fresh blood.
"Giselle, get the lights," Darius ordered.
The fenced in area beyond the window lit up as overhead spotlights came to life. Three dogs were caught in the beam. They must have been used to it, because they didn't run to hide in the shadows. Instead, they raised their snouts, their strange over-sized ears cocked at attention, and strolled forward. Four more dogs emerged from the darkness to join them, chirping and calling to each other as they created a perimeter, ready for an ambush.
"I checked them out," Darius told Andre. "These dogs have an eighty percent kill success. Lions only have a thirty percent. Eighty percent, that's gotta be a helluvalot higher than any damn Marine's."
Damn impressive, Andre thought, studying his opponents. In profile the dogs' heads looked a lot like German Shepherds, if you ignored the over-sized saucer-shaped ears and the curious markings that did indeed look like they'd been painted on. Their bodies resembled greyhounds, lean and hungry looking, like the dogs he'd encountered in Afghanistan, although he was certain the Pittsburgh zookeepers kept this pack well fed. In fact, he was counting on that.
A wire fence about twenty feet away separated this enclosure from the main dog exhibit. Which meant that his fastest escape route would be by moving to the front of the building and getting over the fence there. He could do that. Absolutely.
Andre turned to face Darius. One last chance to see if there was another way out of this. If he could get the gun away from Darius… but, no, Darius stayed just far enough away that it would be suicide even trying.
“Gonna give you a choice, dawg.” Darius let out a weird choked-down giggle. Like he was drunk or high or something. Enjoying this that much. He grabbed the gasoline from Giselle, almost knocking her over. She clung to the gate behind Darius, staring at Andre as if expecting him to save her.
Darius kept the pistol trained on Andre as he swung the gasoline around, dousing the straw bales that stood between him and Andre. He set the gas can down. Took a silver-plated lighter from his pocket. “You can choose the fire or take your chances with the dogs.”
Giselle edged out through the gate but didn’t shut it. Was she holding it open for Darius? Or Andre?
Andre decided he’d rather face a pack of wild dogs than gamble on a crack whore. “Already beat fire once,” he taunted Darius. “Reckon I'll try the dogs this time.”
Giselle's expression turned from pleading to anger. Her eyes went so wide he could see the whites around them. She shook the cage door hard. What did she want from him? Not like his burning to death could save her from Darius.
“I was hoping you’d say that." Darius stood poised to strike the lighter if Andre reneged. "Go on. Let's see what you got."
Andre didn't wait. He crouched down, his muscles stretching, and lunged through the dog-door. He slapped his hands against the ground, pushing himself to his feet as quickly as possible once he'd cleared the opening.
The dogs didn't growl. Just that strange chirping that could have been crickets. But they were obviously communicating, re-arranging themselves as if they each had their own job. Kind of like his squad. You had your 203 gunner with his SAW, your guys with M4s, your point man, your Sergeant.
He stared at the dogs, picked out the one who seemed to be their leader as he scanned the area for possible weapons. There were no rocks or sticks in sight. He kept his back to the wall, edging past the observation window.
Darius thumped on the window, obviously disappointed with the action. "Get in there and fight them, Andre," he shouted. "You don't, she's dead."
Andre swiveled his gaze to see what Darius was talking about. Darius stood at the window but held his gun aimed at Giselle who still stood at the door. She looked around her, realized there was no escape. Even if she locked Darius inside the cage, he could shoot her through the holes in the wire. Plus, Zapata's men controlled the building.
"Come here and watch your boyfriend fight for you, bitch," Darius called to Giselle, gesturing with his free hand. "Get your ass over here now or I'll kneecap you. Won't be no great loss. You're no good for anything unless you're flat on your back anyway."
"Wait," Andre shouted. The dogs' ears swiveled at the noise. Their leader took a step forward, chest pushed out. "Don't hurt her. I'll do it."
He stepped away from the wall. The dogs moved to circle him, but they kept a wary distance. Andre looked over his shoulder to check Darius' reaction. He had his face pressed against the window, motioning with his pistol for Andre to keep going.
Giselle backed away from Darius. Tears streamed down her face, ruining her makeup. As soon as she got to the other side of the gasoline-soaked bales of straw, she took her rhinestone encrusted lighter from the pocket of her trench coat.
"No!" Andre lunged towards the window. Darius realized something was wrong and turned to look just as Giselle closed the gate. She thumbed down the striker. The lighter flared to life. She threw it through the wire, into the cage. Flames engulfed the small room.
The dogs fled. Darius' screams filled the night. Andre flung the dog door open, got down on his hands and knees and tried to reach Darius. God, the smell. How could he have ever forgotten that smell? The heat coming from inside the cage made the sweat on Andre’s torso sizzle and pop like oil in a skillet.
Darius grabbed onto Andre's arm. But instead of letting Andre pull him free of the inferno, he tried to yank Andre inside with him. Giselle shrieked. Andre could barely hear her over the roar of the fire.
The cage had become a mass of blazing red flames and black smoke. Flames traveled around the wire mesh door. Andre pulled away from Darius, had to slap out flames that had found his sweatpants. Black smoke billowed from the small opening. The heat was unbearable. Finally he rolled away.
That’s when he heard the other screaming. From the front of the building. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, it was choked off too fast.
Andre climbed to his feet. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to run, follow the dogs to safety. But Giselle was still in there. She'd just saved his life. He couldn't leave her.
He stumbled around the corner to the rear door. It was unlocked. The knob was warm but not so hot that he couldn't hold it. He braced himself against the wall, knowing the sudden increase in oxygen would feed the flames. This was suicide, the tiny sane portion of his brain whimpered. He was going to die in there, eaten by flames.
He remembered the pain, remembered ho
w it felt when he couldn't save his men. Then he opened the door.
<><><>
Lucy kept the helicopter at her back as she edged towards its nose, scanning the area for a second pilot. She checked on Fatima’s position. The mother and child had made it to the top of the steps leading into the building. Footsteps came from behind Lucy. She whirled.
Rashid Raziq emerged from the trees. “Fatima,” he called. “Stop! Where are you going?”
Fatima yanked the door open and vanished inside the Primate Habitat.
"No, it's me," Raziq shouted. "Bring Ali back. Come here."
Lucy registered several things at once. Raziq was alone. No guards. And he had a semi-automatic pistol in his hand.
“It's Special Agent Guardino, Mr. Raziq. Lower your weapon,” she shouted, stepping out into the open.
Raziq stopped, staring at her in surprise. He could have shot her, he could have turned and escaped into the trees. But instead, he cut across the clearing, racing up the steps after Fatima and his son.
The helicopter blocked her path. She ran around it, following Raziq. “Stop,” she shouted. He didn’t even look back as he ran into the Primate Habitat.
Lucy clattered up the steps after him. She grabbed her radio. “Taylor, I’m pursuing Raziq into the Primate Habitat. He’s armed.”
“Armed? I thought he was our hostage.”
“We thought wrong.” All those contradictory impressions Lucy had about the man... damn, she should have listened to her instincts. Who else but Raziq would have targeted the hockey tournament where his daughter's illicit boyfriend was playing? Although he could just be in shock after escaping from Zapata. Either way, she needed to find him. “Give me a location on Fatima, she has my cell.”
“Hang on. She's moving to the west, northwest. I can give you GPS coordinates—”
“Not going to help.” She had no map. Lucy remembered that the primate exhibit featured a spiral walkway around the perimeter, climbing higher and higher into the jungle canopy allowing visitors to view the animals through glass walls. West meant Fatima was climbing it clockwise. “Keep an eye on her. I’m going in.”
She pushed the glass doors open. A pneumatic sliding door was on the other side. Beyond it an eerie darkness. The doors swished shut behind her and she could smell the ozone and pungent plant life of the jungle habitat. Birds and insects called to each other, mixed in with the chatter of chimps and monkeys.
Strangely shaped shadows crowded the path that twisted and turned so you wouldn’t realize you were on a simple curved ramp climbing into the heart of the jungle. The only lighting came from tiny red lights lining each side of the path.
She stepped into the shadows, pushing a large palm frond aside. This was madness. Raziq could be hiding anywhere and she’d never see him or hear him from the path. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, adjusting to the strange environment. What would she do if she were him? What did he want?
What he’d wanted all along. Same as she did: Fatima and the baby.
He wouldn’t hurt them. No, he’d eliminate the competition: Lucy.
She opened her eyes and instead of searching for Fatima, she scouted for the best place for an ambush.
<><><>
Morgan stood beneath the roof overhang of the cinderblock building the men had taken Jenna to. There was an opening above—not even a window, more for ventilation than anything else. But it was large enough to allow her to hear Jenna’s screams.
Not that Morgan cared. Not in the traditional sense. She knew that. In fact, part of her brain was busy trying to figure out what techniques they might be using, anticipating when the next scream would come. But that didn’t mean Jenna didn’t matter to her, that she wasn’t concerned.
After all, Jenna was hers. It was as if these men had stolen from Morgan.
She didn’t like that. Not at all.
She was about to make her move on the two men guarding the door when a shotgun blast in the distance got their attention. They took off at a run and the coast was clear.
Morgan entered the building, quickly oriented herself. It was some kind of animal kennel, caged enclosures on either side of a long hallway. Jenna was inside a room at the front, behind a solid wooden door.
No more guards inside although there was a woman at the far end of the corridor near another exit. She was watching something inside one of the cages and didn’t even notice Morgan.
Morgan held her knife at the ready and knocked on the door. A man answered in Spanish. She knocked again, this time more urgently.
The door opened and a large Hispanic man looked out, his focus on the space above Morgan’s head. By the time he looked down, her blade had already pierced his heart.
Tall men were the easiest; her short stature put her at the perfect angle to stab up below their ribcage, give the blade a little wig-wag to slice the ventricle, and pull it back out, releasing only the tiniest drop of blood on the surface.
He blinked, dropped something to the floor behind the door, and staggered back a step. Morgan shoved him the rest of the way inside the room. He fell to the floor. The other man in the room, a man in a suit, leapt to his feet, swearing in Spanish, reaching for a gun inside his jacket.
Too little, too slow. Morgan used the stun gun on the man. He slumped back into the chair. She took his pistol, stunned him again for good measure, then used her wire to tie him to his chair.
She closed the door, picked up the item the big guy had dropped—a small blowtorch—and finally turned to Jenna.
“You look a mess,” she told Jenna as she cut through the zipties holding Jenna to the chair. It wasn’t a lie. Jenna’s one eye was swollen shut and already turning purple. Her nose was bleeding and more blood came from her mouth.
But that was the least of her injuries. They’d used the blowtorch. Not on Jenna’s skin, no, that would be too predictable.
They’d burned off Jenna’s hair—the shoulder length, thick, auburn hair that Morgan had always envied. The stench of burnt hair saturated the room and blackened locks curled around Jenna’s feet and clung to her clothing.
They hadn’t done more than to raise a few blisters on Jenna’s scalp. Morgan tried to imagine what it would have been like: painful and terrifying, fire so close to your face yet out of sight, unable to anticipate when they’d put it out, where they’d start it next. For a woman, a most effective technique, she decided.
“Morgan,” Jenna opened her good eye and gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to save you.” Morgan surprised herself, the pride that came with those words. She had to admit, it did feel good. Felt right, somehow. Better than she’d ever felt with her father.
She sliced through the final ziptie restraining Jenna. “Can you walk?”
Jenna bobbed her head in a nod. She raised a hand to her scalp, grimaced in pain as it touched a particularly angry red area. “Is it bad?”
“Better than being dead.”
“Why’d you let him live?” Jenna stared at the man in the suit who was starting to stir.
“We might need a bargaining chip. Who is he?”
“Victor Zapata.”
Morgan had thought as much.
Jenna pushed herself out of the chair and stood wobbling. “Give me your knife.”
“We need him alive to get out of here.” This was how emotions got you in trouble.
“Give me the knife, Morgan. Make sure the coast is clear,” Jenna ordered. Morgan glared at her, but handed her the switchblade.
Morgan turned and cracked the door open. Black smoke billowed in. “Jenna, we've got to go.”
A man’s shriek, high-pitched like an animal’s, cut her off. Morgan whirled to see Jenna pulling the knife blade from Victor Zapata’s left eye. Blood and fluid gushed from it and he kept screaming and screaming.
Morgan felt torn between approval—the man deserved everything he got—and disapproval—Jenna was supposed to be one of the good guys, not someone like Morgan.
More smoke pushed into the room. Morgan coughed. Jenna raised the knife, considering her next target.
“The place is on fire, Jenna.” Morgan grabbed Jenna’s arm. Why was it that Morgan always had to be the sensible one?
Together they made it out the door and to the hallway. The temperature had risen dramatically in the few minutes since Morgan had entered. The whole building was like one big brick oven.
They’d only staggered a few feet when Jenna collapsed, gasping for air. Morgan dropped to the ground as well, hoping there’d be fresh air down low.
“Giselle,” a man called, his voice bouncing off the cinderblock walls.
“Help,” Morgan shouted. “Help us.”
She pushed Jenna along the floor, trying to crawl to the door. Were they going in the right direction? How far was it?
Just as she was sure they were hopelessly lost in the thick smoke, a man reached down and grabbed her.
“Jenna,” she gasped, surprising even herself. Being a hero didn’t mean going all soft and sentimental, did it? “Help Jenna.”
Chapter 41
Nick hoped the Gangsta was making an empty threat when he said he’d shoot the children first, but Tee-Bo’s body language and expression appeared truthful.
The people who hadn’t made it into the van gathered around Sister Patrice as if she had an invisible shield activated by the rosary beads in her hand. The van was filled with the youngest children and their mothers. Even Patrice’s seat was taken up by two little girls, faces pressed against the front window, crying, pointing to an elderly man in the crowd.
More Terrace residents had come to their doors, watching warily. Nick turned to the people, seeking out the two teenagers. “You all know what he wants and where it is. We don’t have much time.”