Deception Island

by Brynn Kelly

  No, no, no. Holly’s vision streamed with crimson, the color melting into the yellow. She yanked against her captor. Gabriel issued an instruction and the grip relaxed. Tumbling forward, she gulped in a breath and scooped her arms around Amina, pulling the woman’s head and shoulders into her lap. Blood bubbled from the wound. She could do nothing but hold Amina’s cheeks as they paled, the liquid seeping thick and warm through Holly’s fingers and clothes.

  “You did it, Amina.” Holly’s tears dripped into the red river. “Help is coming. Hold on.”

  Amina’s eyes lost their focus. Her body fell from weak to limp, her head lolling back to reveal a yawning wound. Blood rushed out. Holly buried a yelp and wrapped her arms around Amina, kissing her forehead, cradling her head and neck. She was gone. And Gabriel was right—this was on Holly’s conscience. Tweeting had been too bold, too public. What would Gabriel do now he knew people were onto him? Kill all the women?

  A sob sounded from among the men. Holly jerked her gaze from Amina. One of the Lost Boys was crying?

  No, not a soldier. Gabriel crouched on the ground, hands sandwiching Theo’s pale cheeks, forcing him to look at the bloody scene. The boy trembled, his eyes red and haunted. Gabriel spoke in his ear in a soft, fatherly tone.

  “You made him watch?” Holly cried. “You’re even more of a psycho than I thought.”

  Gabriel stood, holding the boy firmly by his shoulders. Theo dropped his gaze to the ground. Gabriel slid a hand under his chin and jerked it up. He couldn’t see Theo had closed his eyes.

  “I told him it was your choice the whore should die,” said Gabriel, “like it was your choice to kill his father. And now it is his choice to kill you.”

  Gabriel held his palm out to one of the men. A handgun was slapped into it. Gabriel enclosed Theo’s hands around the weapon, threading the kid’s finger onto the trigger and pointing it at Holly. Theo’s eyes flew open. The gun clicked as Gabriel cocked it.

  “Do not worry, my dear. He has had some training. It should not take him more than six shots to kill you.” He stepped away from Theo, leaving the gun in the boy’s trembling hands. “Woman!” he shouted.

  Theo’s translator shuffled into the circle. She swallowed, crossing herself.

  “Tell him again that killing her will cleanse his father’s soul and send him to heaven. That if he fails, his father goes to hell.”

  “His father is alive,” shouted Holly, as the woman shakily translated. “You’re a fucked-up whacko, you know that?” She should feel fear, but her body shook with anger. “A coward.”

  Gabriel’s face darkened. “The only coward is the man who couldn’t kill you in the first place.”

  He turned to the translator. “Tell him to do it quickly, before his father’s soul descends. Tell him it will make the pain go away.”

  “No, tell him his father is alive.” The woman hesitated. A man behind her planted a kick up her ass. She lurched forward and gabbled out the translation. Theo raised the gun and aimed it at Holly’s chest, his downturned mouth trembling. Tears filled his eyes. The man behind Holly skirted out of the way. “Fire,” said Gabriel quietly.

  * * *

  Rafe navigated by tide and current to the first buoy—an empty white plastic container, with a rope trailing down to a crayfish trap. In the cage, a tangle of creatures clambered over each other, antennae waving. He turned inland, kicking for the far side of the rocks while keeping clear enough that a surge wouldn’t smash him into them. He rose to the waterline, crocodile-like, and spun in a three-sixty. Nothing but sand, rocks, trees and sky. He pulled off his mask and spat out the reg.

  Moving swiftly and silently, he stashed his wet suit and dive gear in the heart of a near-impenetrable banyan tree and stole a green T-shirt from a cabin that faced away from the others. His shorts would dry quickly enough. He stuffed pilfered bottles of water into his pockets, along with the iPhone and Makarov, still in their dry bag.

  He did a creeping recon of the lodge—half a dozen huts and a simple communal eating hall. A woman swept a veranda with a broom made from twigs lashed to a pole with homemade twine. Two men bent over a gutting table, scaling and filleting fish as they chatted in their own language. No prisoners, no guns, no Gabriel, no Theo. Rafe’s stomach tightened. If it was cover for a people-smuggling operation, it was good cover. He might yet be looking for a Windsurfer.

  He crept through the coconut palms until he found the narrow dusty road that linked the lodge with the airstrip. He eyed up a dirty van parked in a clearing. The airstrip was a good ten kilometers away, but he couldn’t risk the engine noise alerting the staff. His greatest advantage—his only advantage—was surprise. He could use a run, anyway.

  He unfolded the dry bag and checked the phone for messages. Flynn was still trying to pin down his contact. Too late, mon ami. Rafe pulled out the gun and checked it.

  Son of a bitch.

  * * *

  Holly eyeballed Rafe’s son, willing his gaze to lift from her heart—where he was aiming the gun—to her face. “No, Theo.”

  “Tell him not to listen,” said Gabriel. “Tell him she is possessed by the devil.”

  Holly talked over the woman’s translation, struggling to think of words Theo might understand. “Non, Theo. Non. Papa...ah...not mort. Papa non mort.” All wrong, dammit. What the hell was the French word for alive? The phrase vive la France sprang into her mind. Didn’t that mean long live France?

  “Tell him to do it,” hissed Gabriel. “His father descends to the devil while he waits.”

  “Papa...vive... Papa...vive.” Holly scrambled for the amulet under her T-shirt. She held it out to Theo in her bloodied hand, like a talisman. She pointed at his pendant. “Papa mi amore.” Shit, no, that was Spanish, or Italian, or something. There must be some French line she’d heard in a movie.

  Theo’s gaze fell on the amulet. He looked down at the stone on his own chest, rising and falling with his desperate breaths.

  Gabriel yelled in Theo’s ear: “Pull the trigger, you stupid rabbit.”

  Theo’s bewildered gaze linked with Holly’s. She didn’t dare blink.

  “She is the devil! Tell him!” Gabriel jerked a hand to the translator.

  “Papa mi amigo,” cried Holly. Oh, God, that really wasn’t right. Entirely different language. What was that Shakira song, with the title that was French for “my love”? One of her prison guards had sung the damn thing for a year.

  “Mon amour!” she yelled, over the woman’s translation. That was it! “Mon amour.” She pulled at the amulet, as if the words were hidden in it. “Papa est mon amour. Papa est vivant.” Vive high school French.

  Theo blinked, as Holly repeated her shouts. She’d probably bamboozled the kid, pouring mumbo-jumbo at him like the possessed nutcase Gabriel was making her out to be.

  “Mon papa est encore vivant?”

  Holly didn’t so much hear the faint words as read them on Theo’s lips, and read the hope bringing life into his eyes.

  “Si... I mean, oui... Papa est encore vivant.” God, that had better mean what she thought it did: Papa is still alive.

  Theo’s focus pulled back to the gun. He looked up at Gabriel, his hands shakily following the direction of his eyes until the barrel pointed at the warlord’s face. A goon stepped toward Theo. Gabriel held up a palm, stopping the man, but keeping his eyes fixed on Theo.

  “What did you tell him, you American bitch?”

  “I told him his father wouldn’t want him killing anyone.”

  Gabriel looked at the translator for confirmation. She nodded briskly, lips tight.

  “Tell him I am his father now.” Gabriel held his hand out for the gun, breathing heavily. “He belongs with us. He will have everything he needs here.”

  The woman spoke quietly to Theo, her focus darting between him and G
abriel. Holly got the feeling she wasn’t so much translating as giving a pep talk. She’d better be telling him not to shoot. Theo’s hands were too young to have blood on them.

  Holly’s, on the other hand...

  With all eyes focused on Theo, Holly slowly laid Amina on the ground and launched forward. Her hand closed on metal. Theo’s grip loosened and she pulled the gun away, fumbling to get her fingers in the right places. Shouts pelted around. A figure flew at her. She stumbled backward into the gap the men had left and her assailant landed at her feet. They didn’t need to know she’d never fired a gun in her life. Could she take out Gabriel? She aimed it at his chest. She just needed to pull the trigger, right? Gabriel had already cocked the thing.

  Gabriel snatched the machete from Chamuel and wrapped an arm around Theo, holding the bloody blade at the boy’s throat, shielding himself with the kid’s body. Shit. She’d hesitated and lost her chance. In her peripheral vision, she counted at least three rifles trained on her.

  “Go on, American. You want to kill him, like you killed his father? Or should I kill him for you? Your choice.”

  Theo whimpered. Scarlet blood trickled down the blade, mixing with Amina’s. Hot with fury, Holly tossed the gun at a goon’s head. Another guy shoved her to the ground. Gabriel lifted the machete from Theo’s throat and the boy ran to Holly, teeth clenched. She threw her arms over her face, bracing for a pummeling for grabbing his gun and wasting the opportunity—or would he attempt to finish her by hand? How far had his “training” gone?

  He threw his skinny body onto her, threaded his arms around her waist and...hugged her. Oh, God. She froze, then wrapped him up, her arms overlapping his narrow back. If only she could cast a spell that would transport him to safety. She took a shuddering breath, her body aching with the need to protect this kid.

  “Papa est vivant, Papa est vivant, Papa’s okay, sweetheart,” she whispered, cradling his head. This was a precious part of Rafe—the most precious part. If she could safely deliver him to his father, any price she paid would be worth it.

  Hell, if this was how protective she felt for the kid after just meeting him, she could only imagine the deep hole Rafe was in right now. He must be dying inside. No wonder he’d been wound so tight. She hugged tighter, as if she could bridge that gap between Rafe and Theo—yesterday she had been embracing the father, today the son. She felt like she had a stake in both their lives. How crazy was that?

  “We’re wasting time.” Gabriel gave orders to his men. A couple of them closed in on Holly and Theo, and yanked them apart. Theo’s fingernails almost gouged Holly’s arms as he tried to hold on. “Death is too good for you. I want you crying over that slant-eyed whore every day you’re chained up for the rest of your miserable life.”

  Gabriel relayed another order and a man began searching Amina—for the phone, no doubt. Holly yanked it out of the back of her underwear and threw it at Gabriel’s head. She couldn’t risk them searching her. It missed, dammit.

  One of the men chucked the body bag to Bandanna Guy, who stood over Amina. He tore off her clothes, ripped out her small hoop earrings—taking chunks of her ears with them—and rolled her inside. With a zip, she was gone. Holly gripped clumps of grass. Inside, she screamed with rage.

  Gabriel spoke, gesturing at the body bag. The helicopter pilot stepped up and lifted one end of the bag, shouting at another guy, who quickly took the other. How many white bags littered the ocean floor around here?

  As they staggered away, Gabriel sought out Chamuel, giving what sounded like urgent instructions. Several men entered the hut, shouting at the women. They filed out, blinking. Devi stared openmouthed at Holly’s blood-soaked T-shirt. A man shoved Holly. She took the hint and fell into line, frustration eating at her gut. What was the way out of this? At least five guns were trained on them. Would they all be executed?

  “What are you doing with us?” she shouted at Gabriel.

  “Moving my stock. Your training period is over. Time for you all to start paying your keep. If anyone comes to investigate your friend’s claims, they will find nothing more than a modest tourist resort.” He gripped Devi by the scruff of her neck. “And from now on, every time you attempt to defy my orders, my American whore, I will order my men to kill a woman. You are worth a lot of money, but they are not.”

  “Let Theo go. He’s not one of you.”

  Gabriel turned to her, smiling, as he released Devi. He looked almost...sad. “He will be, in time. We will look after him, here—orphans are my favorite kind of children.”

  Holly gritted her teeth. For now, the odds were against her. But if they were to be moved out, maybe the Lost Boys would split up. This wasn’t a federal penitentiary. Sooner or later, an opportunity would present itself.

  Within minutes, the women were crammed into the small truck Holly had seen earlier. With no room to sit, they clung on as best they could as it jolted along a sandy path. Three Lost Boys followed on a quad bike, including Chamuel and Bandanna Guy. With two more goons in the front of the truck, and at least three guns and a machete between them, Holly didn’t like the numbers.

  A small hand enclosed Holly’s and squeezed. Devi. Though Holly needed her hand for balance, with her wobbly knee and shaky hold on gravity, she squeezed back, hoping she wouldn’t fall and plow straight into the kid. She smiled. It felt fake as hell, but the girl smiled shyly back.

  Next to Devi, Theo’s translator clutched at the side of the vehicle. Damn, the kid had lost the one person in Gabriel’s camp who’d offered some comfort. The truck flew into the air, and Holly winced as her stomach muscles compensated, her belly aching from Gabriel’s punch.

  After maybe fifteen bone-rattling minutes the truck forded a stream, climbed a bank and skidded to a halt, sending Holly flying into Devi, who took out a couple of women behind her. A skull cracked into Holly’s, triggering a headache. A woman fell out with a cry, her spine smacking onto the ground. The rest were ordered out. Bandanna Guy opened a gate in a tall wire fence and they were herded through it onto an asphalt road, surrounded by trees. An airstrip? The lightening gloom of dawn revealed a waiting plane—larger than the one she and Rafe had parachuted from. Shit. They’d be untraceable.

  Chapter 25

  The truck accelerated away, leaving Chamuel, who’d grabbed the machete, Bandanna Guy and two other armed goons. The men began shoving the women toward the plane, pointing and shouting. Perhaps Holly and the women could overcome the soldiers once onboard? Surely the men wouldn’t risk shooting in midair. And then what—bring the plane down? As Holly stepped into line, a hand grabbed the neck of her T-shirt and yanked. She scrambled to avoid falling.

  “I wait long time for Miss America,” Chamuel whispered into her ear. “You come or I pick little girl. She good and tight.”

  Oh. Shit.

  Bandanna Guy shouted at Chamuel, frowning. He yelled back, gestures flying past Holly’s face. She swallowed, to settle her curdling stomach.

  “No fight me or I cut off your hands. You no need hands. Just mouth and cunt.” He pressed the blade into her back, forcing her to arch, then threw her forward. Her knee wobbled, and righted. “Walk.” He pointed to a patch of jungle fifty feet away. She walked, gingerly at first as her knee eased up, his footsteps dragging along behind. She slipped the knife out of her pocket and held it against her stomach. Pocketknife versus machete wasn’t a fair fight, so her timing would have to be perfect. Saliva flooded her mouth. She could do this—whatever it took. She swallowed, hard.

  “Stop,” he said, as they entered the canopy. He sank his fingers into her upper arm and swung her around, as she swept the knife around to her back and snapped it open. “Down.” He pointed to the ground.

  She clenched her jaw. Doing what she was told would give him a false sense of security. She lowered herself to her knees onto the damp forest floor, keeping her hands behind her,
as if she was propping herself up.

  He stood over her, thrusting his tented groin toward her mouth. Ugh. If he made her do that, she’d bite the damn thing off.

  “Down!”

  She unfolded her legs and lay back, making a point of looking as scared as she felt. The knife handle was slippery in her palm. She just had to wait until he dropped his guard—and the machete.

  “Take off.” He gave her shorts a tug.

  She couldn’t do that one-handed—the button was too stubborn. Which meant neither could he. “No.”

  He sneered. “You like man do that?”

  She turned her face to the side and whimpered, as if she were about to let him take what he wanted. He dropped to his knees and fumbled with her fly. Fighting the urge to recoil, she adjusted her grip on the knife. She wouldn’t mess this up like she had with shooting Gabriel. No hesitation. Chamuel’s life for Amina’s. He tore at the button, muttering as it refused to rip.

  Her hand shook. Wait...wait. Finally, it gave and he leaned over, ready to scoop his filthy hands into her shorts. Every muscle in her body tensed. She filled her lungs, scanning his neck and throat. He let the machete go.

  “You will like,” he said. A thread of his saliva dripped onto her T-shirt.

  Bile shot up her throat. Now. She snapped upright and punched the knife into the side of his neck, angled down. For Amina, for all of them. The blade sank up to the handle. She twisted it. Before he could react, she scooted out from under him, grabbing the machete.

  He reared back on his knees and gagged, eyes bulging. Blood gurgled from his mouth. She circled him, holding the machete with shaky hands, panting heavily. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. She’d done it. She’d goddamn done it. But now what? Fighting him off was one thing, but finishing him off with a machete...?

  His hands flailed at the knife, still stuck in his neck. He yanked it out with a sucky, squelching noise, and stumbled toward her, its bloody point aimed at her chest.