Startled, I look up.
There is something so fierce in Michael’s expression, but at the same time, a vulnerability that has nothing to do with his bindings. Before I can stop them, two quick tears fall down my cheeks. “Our sister,” I whisper.
My chest suddenly feels like it’s being ripped apart. I drop my eyes to the crescent moon scar I can just barely see in the dark crook of his arm. Slowly, I slide my hand up his wrist until it rests on top of the raised line. I feel him shudder under my touch. The ache in my throat is almost unbearable. When I look back up at his face I realize I finally understand what he’s thinking. I was right. He does care about me.
He bends his head toward mine. Our foreheads bump gently.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, letting my tears fall freely now.
“There’s nothing to—”
But I stop him by placing my mouth onto his. I barely know what I’m doing. For once, I don’t consider or think or weigh consequences. I just do. He kisses me back, softly at first, and then harder, hungrily. A heat travels up my spine, radiating throughout my entire body. I lift my hands to his face and breathe in his skin.
When I finally pull back, he sighs into me. “I’ve been waiting for that my whole life,” he says.
I laugh through my tears. “Sorry it had to happen here.” I want so badly to kiss him again, but I know the clock is ticking. “We have to hurry,” I say, bending to his bindings again.
“Yeah,” Michael says, sounding less convinced, and leans back to let me work.
I think I’ve almost got it when I feel him tense. “I’m sorry, I know this hurts—”
“Shh. Do you hear that?”
I stop, ears pricking. I was so intent on what I was doing that I hadn’t registered the thrumming. It’s distant now but getting closer. “A helicopter.”
“It’s Dad!” Michael says, breaking into a full smile now.
But something is wrong. “No,” I say. “It’s too close. Boyboy was supposed to tell him to keep out of sight of the camp. Maybe he never got through.”
Oh God, what if they caught Boyboy? This is all my fault. I bolt up. Shouts from the militia tell us they’ve noticed the helicopter too. And I never explained . . .
“It’s a trap, Michael!” I say. “Omoko is going to shoot the chopper down as soon as you’re airborne.”
Michael’s smile vanishes. “What? But—”
“He’s going to kill you and your father.”
“Go time, boys!” a voice crows outside, very close.
Michael’s head swivels to the front tent flaps. “Someone’s coming.”
My fingers work at his ankles frantically. “Come on, come on . . .”
“It’s the guard coming back! Hide!” Michael says.
“No! I can—”
“It’s too late, Tina! Hide! You can’t help me if you’re dead!”
I can see a shadow descending on the tent.
“Now!” he says, pulling his feet from my hands, oblivious to the pain the movement causes him.
I hesitate for a second longer, and then, hating myself for it, dart back behind the crate, yanking the blanket over me again. My heart pounds. It’s just the guard. He’s checking in again and then he’ll leave. I’ve still got time to free Michael and make a run for it.
But the familiar voice at the tent door kills my remaining hope.
“Hello, Michael,” Mr. Omoko says. “Ready to bid us all good-bye?”
FORTY-ONE
It seems Christina and her friend have abandoned you,” I hear Omoko say. “I half expected to come in and find you missing too.”
I am positive that he can hear my heart pounding in the silence and he’s just toying with me. Any second now he’s going to order the Goondas to search the tent.
“Has she been here?”
“Yes,” Michael says.
I nearly gasp out loud.
“She came and told me that you’ve got Kiki,” Michael says, “and that she couldn’t do anything to help me. She ran off.”
“Smart girl,” Mr. Omoko says, after a pause.
Does he buy it? Something in his voice sounds dubious.
“Boss,” another voice says from near the tent entrance, “the truck is ready.”
“Okay, take him out, boys. We’ll deal with looking for the other two later.”
I hear scuffling and then the sound of footsteps receding. I curse myself, wanting desperately to stand up and do something. But I know no good will come of it. I wait for the sound of the truck driving away before peeking out. The tent is empty, and I fling the blanket off. I open the back flap a sliver and check outside for prowling militia. There’s only one guy that I can see, but he has his back to me. I grab the first heavy thing I can find—a box of bullets—and creep to the flap. The guy is smoking now. I take a deep breath and rush out, landing a blow to the back of his head. He falls over with a grunt.