Do-Gooder Read online

  I yawned and curled up. “It’s too bad. If I’m gonna be screwed, I’d rather it were you and not diabetes.”

  Chapter 16

  THEY CAME for us first thing in the morning. Snake Eyes, The Slav, and a big African man I’d dubbed Mike (as in Mike Tyson—the resemblance was spooky). I stumbled along the path to the building, only staying upright because of Henry’s supporting arm.

  The rain forest lived up to its name. For the first time since our capture, it rained. Moisture built in the air, drizzling at a steady rate. Not much hit the ground. Most of the precipitation was caught in the canopy of trees. A few drops escaped, though, and I loved the splash and glide of water on my face. It was as close to a shower as I’d had in a week. I only wished I had some soap.

  Another group of guards gathered around the door to the big building. A big group, all with stony expressions and guns at the ready. What in the hell was going on?

  My head was a hazy, fuzzy place where thoughts and ideas floated in and out like wispy clouds. It took real effort, more effort than I could come up with most of the time, to focus. I forced myself to concentrate now. After five days, this was a first. Both Henry and I being brought to a location at the same time. Did that mean they were finally able to reach Chuck? Were we being ransomed?

  Hope bloomed in my chest. Was this it? Was it finally over?

  The door swung open and Shorty stepped into view. “Bring them.”

  Clearly the guards were bringing us. What, did he think we were out for an afternoon stroll? Did he expect us to run?

  “Move it,” The Slav growled, jabbing me in the back with his assault rifle.

  We followed the path Shorty had taken. It led us straight into the room where I’d first been interrogated. Ice sloshed through my guts. I really did not want to visit that room again.

  “Mrs. O!” Henry gasped and released his hold around my back.

  I slumped, but not because of the lack of support. Shock weakened my already weak muscles. Mrs. Okono slouched on the stump in the middle of the room, hands and feet wrapped in duct tape, face a mass of swelling bruises. Another strip of the silvery tape covered her mouth.

  “What’s going on?” Henry demanded. “What are you doing with her?”

  I gripped his arm to hold him back. He hadn’t moved forward, but his body tensed in preparation for some kind of action. Across the room, Mrs. Okono’s eyes widened in recognition. A strangled sound gurgled from her throat. She twisted and pulled at her bonds in jerky, panicky motions.

  “We located Claude Behgha.” Shorty stood behind Mrs. Okono and rested his hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, eyes rolling in her head like a frightened animal.

  Claude Behgha? It took me a minute to remember. Right, the clerk guy at the university. The one who had given us the boxes filled with chemical weapons. Or at least the components to make chemical weapons, if what I’d overheard the day before meant anything.

  “He has been… eliminated,” Shorty said, tightening his grip on Mrs. Okono’s shoulder. Her face contorted in pain and she tried to pull away from the punishing grip. “He had to be, you understand. He failed. His job was a simple one: ensure the canisters were brought out of the city, then contact us with the route they would take.”

  He removed his hand and glared at Henry and me. “As we all know, the canisters were not where they were supposed to be. There are two possible reasons for this. Either Behgha betrayed us”—icicles hung off his words—“or the canisters were intercepted somewhere between Yaoundé and the border.” Shorty’s hands pressed together like he was praying, the tips of his fingers rested under his chin.

  “We were very… thorough… in our questioning of Mr. Behgha. Now we are certain that the canisters he claimed to have placed in the boxes were loaded into your vehicle. Assuming you have been equally forthcoming, you did not pass these canisters on to anyone along the way. So where, then, are my canisters?”

  Images of Claude’s smiling face and his cheerful interaction with Henry the other day flashed through my head. He had seemed so nice, so normal. He’d been involved in smuggling chemical weapons? With mercenary soldiers?

  “Mr. Behgha did have much to say about the relationship between Mrs. Okono and Dr. Martin.” Shorty dropped his hand heavily on Mrs. Okono’s shoulder again.

  “Leave her alone. She doesn’t have anything to do with any of this!” Henry practically quivered next to me. I could tell he wanted desperately to go to Mrs. Okono, to help her in some way. I’d noticed at her house that he considered her a stand-in mom or doting aunt or something. His family had rejected him, but Mrs. Okono and my dad had accepted him, welcomed him. Mrs. Okono was in pretty rough shape and that would wear on Henry. His loyalty and his damn self-sacrificing tendencies could lead him—and me for that matter—into some serious shit.

  I shifted my grip until I held his hand. I squeezed it in warning, in understanding. When he returned the gesture, I knew he understood. I didn’t let go, though. I was willing to take whatever comfort I could, and if by some chance it helped him too, all the better.

  Shorty smiled, a slight twitch of lips that didn’t reach his expressionless eyes. “But that’s where you’re wrong. It’s her fault that you young men are in this predicament.” He looked down at Mrs. Okono, and she flinched under his gaze. He ripped the tape off her mouth, and she hissed in pain. “Shall I tell them or will you?” he asked.

  Her swollen eyes welled with tears, and she looked away.

  “It is to me to explain, then.” Shorty dry washed his hands. “She set you up.”

  “No!” Mrs. Okono jerked against her bonds. “I did not!”

  Shorty strolled in front of her stump and casually backhanded her. I tightened my hold on Henry even as my stomach lurched. “You had your chance to speak. Now it is my turn.”

  Weak-kneed, it was all I could do to keep standing. I felt… fuzzy. Nerves jittered, muscles shook, my stomach roiled. Like my whole body was out of focus, but my mind was sharp, hyperaware. Adrenaline was a funny thing. I wished my mind—and my vision as part of it—was a little less acute. I didn’t need to see the torn hem of Mrs. Okono’s dress or the bloody scrape along one ankle. I didn’t want to know that someone had gripped her arm hard enough to leave dark bruises on her forearms. What good did it do me to know that at least two guards pointed mean-ass guns at each of the prisoners, and each guard had a finger poised on the trigger. None of it would help, but I couldn’t stop cataloging details.

  Mrs. Okono shook her head, silent tears streaming down her face, as Shorty continued. “She arranged for the canisters to be taken from your vehicle the night you stayed with her. Not only that, she ensured that you would not interfere. How do you suppose she did that?”

  I bit my tongue and hoped Henry would do the same. I wouldn’t give Shorty the satisfaction of answering. More importantly, until I had a better idea of where he was going, I didn’t want to give anything away in case he was fishing for information.

  “She drugged you. Fed you something so you would sleep through the night.”

  “She didn’t!” The coiled spring that was Henry sprung. He pulled against my hold. “She wouldn’t.” He swung his wild gaze to Mrs. Okono. “You couldn’t have.”

  “I had to,” she whispered.

  Henry staggered back. “Why? How could you do that to us? To me? You set us up?”

  I locked my knees, both to keep myself standing upright and to brace myself enough to hopefully keep Henry from doing something stupid.

  She shook her head, unwilling or unable to answer his questions.

  “It’s your fault we’re here. Dr. Martin trusted you. I trusted you. And you betrayed us.”

  Liquid eyes, full of despair, stared at Henry. “I had to,” Mrs. Okono whispered finally. “We couldn’t let the chemicals reach the border.”

  Sharp, jagged breaths told me Henry teetered on the edge of hyperventilating. Through everything that had happened so far, Henry had been cool, calm.
Now he fell apart. Whatever ties he’d used to hold himself together over the last week were gone, shattered by the betrayal of someone he loved.

  Like his mother, Mrs. Okono apparently found Henry disposable.

  She must have found me disposable too, for that matter. The thought didn’t register quite the same to me. In that moment I was emotionally numb. It would probably hit me later, but for now I’d take it. Fuzzy, out-of-focus body, sharp mind, numb emotions. The survivor’s triad?

  Shorty leaned forward at her admission. “Who has the canisters?”

  She jerked back, mouth pressed tight.

  Shorty loomed over her. “Where. Are. The. Canisters?”

  Mrs. Okono shook her head.

  “Perhaps you need more… inducement.”

  She glared up at him. “I will die before telling you anything.” For the first time her voice was calm. She faced death and knew it. Welcomed it.

  “So be it.”

  The next minute, everything stuttered, as though filmed in stop-motion.

  Shorty gripped Mrs. Okono’s hair, pulling her head back, exposing the long line of her throat.

  Blink.

  A combat knife flashed in the muted light of the room.

  Blink.

  Blood sprayed.

  Blink.

  Mrs. Okono lay still in a crumpled heap next to the stump.

  Blink.

  Henry surged forward, crying out in anguish.

  Blink.

  Static roared in my head, drowning out all sound.

  Guards rushed at Henry.

  Blink.

  Henry lay still in a crumpled heap next to me.

  Blink.

  I fell to my knees.

  Blink.

  Mrs. Okono’s sightless eyes stared at me.

  I gasped and gagged, my empty stomach desperately trying to vomit.

  Blink.

  Next to me, blood covered Henry’s face.

  Blink. Flicker.

  Blink. Flash.

  With a whoosh and a crack, sound and movement exploded around me in fast-forward. My brain was as fuzzy as my body had been, my body weak and trembling, and my emotions were running on overdrive. Thoughts and emotions spun and spun in tighter and tighter circles, until it was too much to take and my brain finally, thankfully, clicked off.

  Chapter 17

  I DON’T remember the trip from the big building back to our hut. When I woke up, the light from the shallow window glowed orange, so the sun was setting. I scrubbed my hands over my face. Something tapped at my consciousness, a memory or idea that wasn’t very clear outside the stuffy bubble that seemed to encompass my head and thoughts. God, I hurt. Every bone, every joint, every muscle ached.

  The door to the hut flew open, and I cringed when the blinding light stabbed my retinas. I narrowed my lids and tried to shade my eyes with my hands. The piercing pain subsided, but my head—as well as the rest of my body—throbbed with every beat of my heart.

  A tall man stepped into the doorway, blocking the sun. “Good news,” Snake Eyes said through his reptilian smirk. “Your father wishes to speak with you.”

  It took a moment for the words to bore through the fuzz in my brain. “Chuck? He’s here?”

  “Of course not. But the Internet brings people together, n’est-ce pas? We have him on une vidéoconférence.”

  Two other guards stepped in. One pointed his gun at me (seriously, like I was going to do anything—I could barely think). The other pointed it across the room. I followed the barrel of that gun and saw Henry sprawled against the wall, either passed out or dead.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I really shouldn’t have demanded anything from armed mercenaries, but my brain/mouth filter seemed to be absent.

  “Move.” Snake Eyes beckoned me forward.

  I ignored him. I didn’t move closer to Henry—I may have been dumb enough to demand answers from the guards, but I wasn’t so dumb as to try and push past them. “Henry? Hank!”

  Henry didn’t open his eyes, but his brow wrinkled.

  Okay. He wasn’t dead. A knot loosened in my guts, and I could breathe again. I stepped closer, but cold steel in the form of a gun barrel was enough to stop me short.

  “Move.”

  I moved, but my mind wasn’t on where I was going. A helmet of jelly covered my head, muffling all sound and clouding my vision. I stumbled, and my legs collapsed beneath me. My knee hit a rock, and it took three seconds before the pain registered. That niggling warning in the back of my mind tried to penetrate the jelly helmet but didn’t get very far.

  “What’s going on? What are you doing with him?” A flash of white fluttered around me and cool hands gripped my arm, trying to help me up. I batted at them. Jesus, why couldn’t I focus?

  Snake Eyes said something, but I was so busy trying to regain my feet, I didn’t catch it.

  “He’s sick! Why is there a sick child here?”

  Who was this guy?

  A callused hand hauled me up by the elbow, and the cool hands disappeared. I still couldn’t focus. My knees wobbled, but I managed to keep them locked. I needed to concentrate. And if that were going to happen, I’d have to do something about the damned jelly helmet.

  “I didn’t sign on for this. I didn’t agree to kidnapping.”

  “Doctor, if you have a problem with it, take it up with Sarge.”

  Doctor? Sarge?

  Right. Shorty and Rat Man the scientist dude making chemical weapons.

  Fuck.

  Nothing like the reminder of sarin gas to clear away the jelly.

  I shook off the hands holding me. “I’m fine.” I didn’t look at Rat Man. In a lot of ways, his concern for my health aside, he was worse than the mercenaries. Sarin gas and mass murder is okay, but kidnapping is wrong?

  “You’re not okay,” Rat Man insisted. “You look like you’re strung out from drugs. Is that it? Are you going through withdrawal of some kind?” He cupped my cheek and thumbed down an eyelid. I blinked and tried to pull away.

  “Not drugs.” My head spun when I jerked back again. This time I was able to lose his touch. I scrubbed my hands over my face. No telling what could be contaminating his hands. “Diabetes plus no insulin makes for a very sick boy.” I snickered.

  He blanched. The white shade did nothing to improve his ratlike appearance. “How long—” he began.

  Snake Eyes cut him off. “Forget it, Doctor. We don’t have time for this.”

  Right. Chuck.

  Holy shit! They had my dad on some kind of video conference. Chuck would fix this. He had to.

  Of course, at the rate things were progressing, if he didn’t fix it now, I was screwed. Like in a coma, probably dying, screwed. One of these days—maybe even one of these hours—my toxic insides were going to overwhelm my brain, and I would fall asleep and probably not wake up. I was already experiencing the giddiness and flashes of delirium. Too much stress, too much adrenaline was finally kicking my ass.

  Shorty reigned behind his bank of computer monitors when I got in. He glared at Snake Eyes. “Finally.” He pointed to the chair I’d sat in when recording the message the other day. Had it only been yesterday?

  “Get his wrists.”

  Snake Eyes pushed me into the chair. He took a silver roll of duct tape from Shorty and wrapped the heavy-duty tape around my wrists a couple of times.

  Good old duct tape. A man’s tool for all occasions. Fix a pipe, make a wallet, tie up a teenager. A real multipurpose tool.

  “What are you laughing about?” Shorty glared at me from behind his desk.

  Hadn’t known I was laughing. Yep, here comes the delirium.

  I shook my head and tried to concentrate. Focus. I needed to focus.

  Shorty barked an order at the guards. They all jumped to attention, and their stiff postures and blank faces emphasized their creepy clone-like resemblance. He turned one of the monitors to me, and I saw a familiar video chat screen. Seriously? Mercenaries used Skype? Was their h
andle Guns4Hire? I pressed my lips together to keep from giggling.

  Shorty adjusted the angle of the webcam. When my picture showed in the top corner of the screen, I almost threw up. The Scientist hadn’t been kidding when he said I looked strung out. Oh my God, I was Sméagol. Drawn grayish skin, stringy hair, wide, dark eyes. I was going to crouch, screaming for my precious any minute now. Even figuring craptastic webcam imaging, I looked like a freak.

  I was so creeped out by the picture of me in the corner that I didn’t notice right away that there was someone else on the screen. A someone who looked more like what I should look like. His skin was tanned from years in the sun, and there were lines around his green eyes, but other than that, we had the same face—the same nose, the same facial structure, the same mouth. His mouth was moving, quite emphatically.

  “What?” I leaned closer.

  The man—my father, clearly—was saying something. His face, so like mine when I didn’t look like an extra from a fantasy-quest movie set, was stern and, on the surface, emotionless. Behind the emotionless mask, his green eyes were brewing up one hell of a storm. Chuck was pissed. I mean, superpissed. And maybe a little scared?

  “Isaiah, are you okay?”

  My heart gave an extra thump when I heard his voice for the first time in over a decade. All those years, and it was scratchy and staticky, not at all like I remembered it. A gazillion-dollars’ worth of electronics and the mercenaries had crappy speakers.

  Chuck’s eyebrows jerked up in surprise, and Shorty growled. Whoops. I’d said that out loud.

  I needed to keep my mind from wandering. Seriously.

  “Isaiah? Are you okay?”

  I blinked and cleared my throat. “Define okay.” My hands trembled when I brought my bound wrists up to rub at my face. My eyes burned with the need to cry, but, well, no extra moisture in my body made that tough. And a little painful. I scrubbed at my eyes anyway, trying to wipe away the ache.