I rear my head back and slam it straight into Ketchup’s nose.
There’s a sickening crunch, followed by Ketchup howling. He pulls back, hand to his nose, and I scream at myself to keep moving, and roll to the side. Then I’m hauling my legs through the loop of my arms, kicking out at him, gasping for breath, while Ketchup is getting his bearings. He’s drunk and hurt, but he’s still fast, and it’s not long before his hands have somehow found my throat; they’re squeezing little stars into my vision.
“I’m going to kill you!” he says, spittle and blood running down his chin. “And then I’m going to find your sister—”
I haul my knee up and make contact with his groin, and as he grunts and clutches in pain, I shove him to the side.
I roll onto my knees and scramble to my feet, yanking my pants back up so I can run for the sharpened panga he’s dropped. As I’m lunging for it, I feel his arms at my calves, and I go down hard, a shock shuddering through my leg as my knee cracks on a loose rock. I grab the fist-sized stone, twist around, and bring it hard against his temple while he’s rearing up over me with the panga.
The rock cracks against his face.
“Guuh,” he says.
His eyes roll back. Then he stumbles sideways. The big knife slips from his hand. I spring up after him, get on top of his chest, and smash the rock against his head once, twice, pull back to hit him again, and suddenly see what I’m doing.
I am a picture of horror with blood and dirt and urine all over me, holding a rock, ready to pound this boy’s skull in.
Ketchup’s eyes flutter, his body contorts, and then as I hold the rock over him in a shaking hand, he goes still. A sob heaves out of me, and the stone falls out of my bloody grip.
For a few seconds I kneel there, staring at him, gasping for breath. His chest is moving, but he’s out cold. The birds around us are silent.
Move, Tina, the voice in my head is screaming, and so I do.
I button my pants. I use my bobby pin to undo the wires around my wrists. I stuff them, along with Ketchup’s phone and gun, into my pockets and waistband. There’s a half-fallen tree a few meters away, and I grab Ketchup’s wrists and drag him to it. Boyboy will help me carry him farther soon, but for now this is the best I can do. I’ll tuck him into the space under the tree and pull branches and leaves over his body. Someone can go unnoticed like that for days if they need to. I should know.
Before I cover him I take the satellite phone and snap a photo of Ketchup’s bruised face. For a second, I can’t look away. He looks fragile. Young. The impulse to be sick washes over me again, and I allow myself to heave what little is left in my stomach into the leaves next to him, out here where no one is watching. I keep staring at Ketchup until I’m sure he’s still breathing. I wonder if I’ve cracked his skull.
I hope not. I need him.
FORTY
Rule 17: Let them fall on their spears.
? ? ?
You have to know your enemies’ weaknesses, Bug Eye says. That much is obvious. What he also taught me, though, and what thieves and thugs and kings have figured out—the good ones, anyway—is that your enemies’ strengths can also be their weaknesses. Take my roof, for example. It’s a fortress. I feel safe there. Too safe. Surround it, and it becomes a cage.
So when I think about what the king of the Goondas’ strength is, well, number one, he’s got about a million thugs at his disposal.
And there is his weakness: his thugs.
Specifically, one thug in particular.
Maybe I have one more friend who’ll help me. Or if not a friend, at least someone I can trust to have his own particular weakness.
? ? ?
I don’t like how far I have to go to get a satellite connection for the phone, but the tree cover is dense. When I finally have network, I dial the number I know by heart with shaking fingers. It goes through immediately.
“Ketchup.”
“Not Ketchup,” I say.
A pause. “Tiny? Does Mr. Omoko know you’re calling me?”
“Don’t hang up.”
“I can’t talk to you, kijana.”
“Wait, Bug Eye.”
His voice sounds tired. “Look, I know why you’re calling, but there’s nothing I can do. I don’t like this either. But your sister is fine. Just . . . do what Omoko wants.”
“I can’t, Bug Eye.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“No! Listen, I want to make a deal with you.”
“You haven’t got anything I want.”
“I do.” The phone is slick in my sweating hands. It’s a strain to keep my voice from breaking, but I know I can’t let him know how shaken and frightened I am. This could all backfire if I don’t lay things out exactly right. I’m playing a long game here. I can’t put all my cards on the table at once. “Omoko’s my father. Did you know that?”
Bug Eye doesn’t answer.
“He raped my mother. Tortured her. Killed her. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to steal his crown for you.”