6. RAVEN

6

RAVEN

A WEEK AGO

Skiba scowls as he presses the gun barrel to my temple.

His words are drowned by the rain pouring against the jungle canopy. But I hear the verdict.

“You are done, Raven,” he says in a tone etched with hatred. “Last words? A message for Butcher?”

Skiba wants to see me beg before he pulls the trigger.

I won’t.

I don’t want to think about Butcher or him. All I see in my mind is her .

“Just fucking finish him already, and let’s roll,” one of the thugs hisses.

Marina Abramovi? said, “It’s important to know when to stop and how to die.”

I’ve always known I would die violently. My life was a punishment. Then God gave me her . However little time I spent with Maddy was a blessing, relieving me from guilt and hatred.

“You get what you deserve.” The cold barrel bumps against my pulsing temple soaked with blood and rain as Skiba cocks the gun.

I close my eyes, seeing only her smile.

The loud shot that pierces the air resonates with a harsh push of the gun barrel against my temple. The chain tugs me back, and I topple onto the ground.

Pain explodes through my body. The stab wound in my stomach hurts like I’ve been staked. My zipped wrists burn.

Another shot echoes above.

Something heavy hits the ground next to me.

Another shot.

Another thud.

A moan next to me makes my eyes snap open.

My body hurts everywhere. But not my head. Not where I was supposed to be shot.

I’m still here.

With effort, I lift my head. Through swollen eyes, blinded by blood, sweat, and rain, I see Skiba lying motionless beside me.

What the hell?

The rain pours over my face, cooling my burning skin. I don’t know what’s happening. The chain around my neck is loose. My hands are still tied. The thug who held my chain is on the ground, motionless, but there is not a single guard in sight.

A low rustle behind me makes me crane my neck. A shadow approaches and looms over me. The familiar cold eyes. The beard. The guard’s uniform. A sniper’s rifle in his hands.

I swallow in shocked surprise, recognizing the face that hovers over me.

“Ali Baba,” I murmur. I’m dizzy. My vision is blurred. The pain seems to have taken over my entire body. “Where is Maddy?”

“Don’t know.”

He drops to his haunches, pushes me to the side, and in a moment, my hands are loose from the restraints.

“She’s safe though,” he says. “But we have to move. Butcher’s men are around the corner.”

With practiced swiftness, he unties the chain around my neck, but the freedom doesn’t give me the strength to get up. Everything swims before my eyes.

There are shouts in the distance, but from the enemy’s side. Shots come from the depths of the jungle.

Ali lifts a sniper rifle and points it in the direction of the voices.

“Come on, get up,” he orders me sharply and, with his spare hand, starts yanking me to my feet.

I wobble, grind my teeth, and make an effort to stand despite the searing pain in my stomach.

He swings my arm around his shoulders and turns toward Ayana when a shot zooms through the air, making us duck. I almost fall to the ground, but he holds me up and sends a string of shots in that direction.

Voices come from another direction, then more shots.

“We are cut off,” Ali murmurs. “Hold still for a second.”

I can barely see anything, rain and blood dripping into my eyes. It’s getting darker because of the downpour. The rain wall all around is getting thicker.

Ali moves away from me, takes the baseball hat from one of the thugs on the ground, and puts it over my head. Then he puts one on himself.

He swings my arm over his shoulders again. “Move. Quickly. We don’t have time.”

I move by inertia, following him, leaning on him, stumbling.

When we try to move in Ayana’s direction, another shot cuts us off, so we lunge into the jungle and veer away in the opposite direction. It’s hard to see, but in five or so minutes, I can tell we are not going toward the resort. In ten, we are in the thick of the jungle.

“Where are we going?” I ask, barely able to walk, grinding my teeth through pain.

“Shh.” Ali yanks me to a halt and presses his forefinger to his mouth so that I will shut up.

Voices come from thirty or so feet away. Trucks and ATVs are approaching.

Ali motions for me to sit down, and I almost fall but fold into myself, holding my hand to my wound.

He sits on his haunches next to me, his eyes on the ground, head cocked as he listens. “Looks like right now, we don’t have many options.”

Pain sears me from the inside, and I shut my eyes, trying to breathe in shallow breaths. Just for a second. Just to collect my strength. I think that’s how long it was. But when I open my eyes again, I lie on the ground. My middle feels tight, and I see a cloth—part of Ali’s shirt—tied around it, soaked with blood.

Ali rises from the ground and checks my wound. “You are still bleeding. No good.”

My head is splitting from pain. My nose and lips are crusted with blood. My entire body is burning up. And it’s dark. And still raining.

“How long have I been out?” I ask in a whisper.

“A long time. I was waiting for a chance to slip back to Ayana. But we can’t. Butcher’s guards patrol the jungle. They have posts here, it seems. Can you walk on your own for a little bit?”

With Ali’s help, I manage to get to my feet. Like a crippled zombie, I follow him through almost complete darkness, branches whipping in my face, my feet sliding on wet foliage.

There’s a haze in my head. There are lights ahead. I’m not sure if that’s what it is or if I have a concussion. So, I keep stumbling through the rain, following Ali.

Voices start approaching us, and the sound of the engine. Ali pulls me into the bushes, and we see the blinding strobe lights of an old safari jeep riding through the jungle trail toward where we just were. Shots are fired into the air in warning.

“Head low,” Ali says. “There are no cameras on this trail. Not until farther ahead.”

“Why are we walking away from Ayana?”

“Because we can’t go there. Butcher’s men are everywhere. That’s their hard line, next to Ayana’s. We can’t fight through. Not with you like this.”

I notice he is missing his rifle. “Where’s your rifle?”

“We won’t be able to get through if we look like guards.”

“Get through where?”

“Come on. Let’s move.”

We start walking again.

My head is pounding. I can’t see anything, and I’m grateful he has a clear head.

“We could wait it out in the jungle. Overnight if needed,” Ali explains. “But you might not make it. Soon, you’ll pass out from blood loss. So, there is only one option.”

“That is?”

There are more lights ahead. More voices.

Ali stops abruptly, removes his vest and duty belt, and drops them into the bushes. He tucks a handgun under his belt and lets the dark undershirt loose over it.

“Now,” he says, “it actually works for the better that you are not stable. Maybe you’ll pass off as a drunk.”

His words pulsate in and out of my brain. I am close to passing out. But I try to focus on what he’s saying.

“You are not into praying,” he says, “but this is a good time to start. Let’s pray we manage to pass through and get in.”

“Get in where?” I ask, confused.

“Port Mrei,” he says as we step into the clearing outside the jungle that gives us a view of the town’s outskirts.

We pause to catch our breaths.

The dark shadows of the buildings loom ahead, pit-fires here and there. The rain is subsiding, letting the darkness rule. The howling and laughing in the distance sound like the slums are coming back to life after the rain.

“I grew up in a place like this,” Ali says, but without bitterness. Nostalgia, more like it, when he adds, “Welcome to hell.”