Coiled Snake (The Windstorm Series Book 2) (28 page)

“Oh my gosh,” I breathe. “It’s the Yakone.”

Several Yakone grays, accompanied by more Kaana greens, leave the trucks to join the group surrounding Mokai. One of the soldiers yells something, his words muted by the dense forest.

Throat dry, I watch as Mokai crawls out from under the Jeep. He kneels in the mud, hands on his head.
Are they going to kill him?
I dig my nails into my palms, heart thundering.

The Kaana in charge gives another order, and several warriors force Kai to his feet. They strip him down and then walk him over toward one of the armored vehicles, shoving him inside.

“What are they going to do with him?” I whisper.

Hana bites her lip, her jaw knotted. “He’s the only survivor, so they’re taking him in for questioning.”

“To the prison?”

“Most likely.”

“And when they’re done questioning him?”

She shakes her head.

“So what do we do?” I ask, panicked.

Hana exhales unsteadily and sits down in the mud, taking off her helmet. Water drips from the leaves above onto her shaved head and down her cheek, but she doesn’t bother to wipe it away. “The way I see it, we’ve got two choices: follow Julian and get out of here or go after Mokai.”

She doesn’t have to say what that choice really means. If we leave now, we can make it back to the ship. If we go to the prison, there’s almost no chance we’re coming back out. There are too many of them.

Now that I’m here, now that I’ve seen what we’re up against, watched almost our entire squad get killed, I realize just how absurd my earlier proposal to Mokai was. It will be absolutely impossible for only two people to accomplish anything. Going to that prison and attempting to rescue my brother will be suicide.

Is it worth it?
What will killing ourselves accomplish?

Maybe Julian was right. I can’t help Mokai by dying, but if I stay alive, I can do something later, help someone else.

And what about Jack and Maisy?

I can’t help them, I realize, my tears slipping in with the rain. I can’t help them. My plans have been vain, born of my pride. I’m just as bad as Julian with his audiobooks—I’ve treated this like a game, assumed I could just whisk them out like it was nothing. I’ve been the worst kind of fool. And now people are dead, people I was walking beside just hours ago.

And my siblings are next.

Up till now, I’ve told myself that everything I’ve done was for them. I ran away from home to help them. I became a warrior to help them. But it’s not really true. I ran away to help myself, so I could escape Williams. I became a warrior so I wouldn’t be stuck in the
Wakemaunga
while everyone left. They’ve just been my excuse. And now when I really have a chance to save them, I’m too afraid.

I’m afraid, and I’ve failed. Just when we were on the verge of being whole again, of being a family.

As I open my mouth to tell Hana we should leave, I suddenly see my life spread out in a long tunnel of whirling images. See myself getting older, waking each morning to worry about the trivial things of a mundane world, while this moment—this muddy, hopeless moment riddled with weakness and fear and so much hurt—grows fainter and more distant, faded like a locked up photograph. But I see too, in a flash of clarity, how this moment will spread its shadow over that mundane existence, reminding me every time I feel a hint of happiness of what happened here, in the mud and rain, when I chose myself over them.

The words that were spoken at my
hirimoko
ceremony drift back to me.
With this cut, you carry the deeds of your ancestors. With this cut, you add your story to theirs.

For the first time, I think I understand why the Rangi preserve the memories of their family members on their skin, what they mean when they invoke Rangiātea.
I will not be lost.
There’s no such thing as a lone breeze. I am a part of my family, and they are a part of me. To live without them is to not live at all. And that means there’s really no choice to be made.

“We have to go to the prison,” I say.

Hana nods. “I have a plan.”

We wait until the Kaana have climbed into their trucks and driven into the jungle before we crawl out of our hiding spot and step carefully down toward the road. There are bodies everywhere, and I hear Hana muttering about the Kaana’s barbarism, leaving their dead unburied. She looks regretfully at our fallen comrades, and I know she wants to give them a proper funeral, but we don’t have the time. She does stop, however, to take something from Mafia’s pack: a staying stone.

“Never know,” she grunts.

I keep my tongue in the back of my throat as we examine the Kaana warriors, searching for uniforms that aren’t too bloody or torn. I don’t allow myself to think about the corpses as people. Instead, I focus on their armor, seeing only clothing to be used or rejected.

I’m bending over a Kaana woman who looks about my size when a glint of green, only just visible in the mud, catches my attention. I dig into the wet dirt and pull up something the size of my fist. When I rub the mud away, I discover I’m holding a small tiki figure. It takes me only a moment to recognize it as Mokai’s. This must be what he threw into the bushes before he was captured. The stone is still warm from sitting against his chest.

I show the pendant to Hana. “Why would he toss it?” I ask her.

“So the Kaana wouldn’t get it,” she explains. “He wouldn’t want them to have any of his personal possessions to use against him when they, well, you know … ”

“Oh.”

She looks at the pendant longingly, as if she wants to ask to keep it, but she doesn’t, and I slip it into the pouch that holds my
hiri
and the metal disc.

When we’ve each found outfits that will fit us, we set to work binding up fake wounds to correspond to the gashes in the armor. Hana wraps a bloody strip of cloth around my ears and bicep, and I wrap her thigh and shoulder. Then we find green packs and transfer our belongings; I hide my
patu
in the bag, replacing it with a Kaana utility belt, and dump my Rangi issue in the bushes.

Hana finds a Kaana’s HK33 in the undergrowth, but we can’t find one for me, so I hide my F88 next to my
patu
in the large rucksack.

Next, I hunt for four rocks of approximate size and weight. I attach two rocks together with bungee cords from our supply kits then do the same with the other two, making a pair of
kiipooyaqs
—my contribution to the plan. When they’re done, I hand them to Hana. She does a few practice throws, hitting her target almost every time—much better than I was the first time I tried to use one, back at the Yakone camp.

When she feels comfortable using the
kiipooyaqs
, Hana takes some C4 from her pack and molds it around the rocks then places them in her bag.

“What about this?” I ask, holding up an object that was on the Kaana’s wrist—a type of communication device that resembles, in a cruder way, the Yakone’s Quil.

“Toss it,” Hana says. “Don’t want anyone asking why we didn’t phone in.”

I hurl the device into the jungle while she takes the one that belongs to her uniform and smashes it with a rock. She slides the broken device onto her arm and jams a green helmet with a tinted visor over her head to hide her
moko
, which has started to show under the paint.

Our finishing touches in place, we look each other over, and Hana grunts her approval. “We better get going. Remember, we have to time this perfectly.”

We set off down the road, the thick mud slurping at our boots. But the Kaana’s armor seems better equipped for this type of weather and keeps more of the rain at bay. My back, at least, doesn’t feel as wet and sore as it did before, though maybe I’m simply too terrified to notice.

Thanks to the downpour, which forces the trucks ahead of us to slow to a crawl, we’re able to catch up to the convoy after only thirty minutes. We adjust our pace to match their speed, keeping them in our sights but hanging back to avoid being seen. We walk as quietly as possible, but the slurping mud seems to broadcast our every movement. I tell myself it would be impossible for them to hear us over the loud engines and driving rain. Still, I keep a tight grip on Stephen’s Beretta.

We travel for about another kilometer before we finally reach our destination. And when I see it, I gasp.

Maya ruins rise out of the jungle like a lost Atlantis, much larger and finer than the humble village that sheltered us last night. Numerous pyramids and temples, once the pride of an ancient people, now serve as home to the monkeys and parrots that puncture the air with their shrieks. But even in its dilapidated condition, the grandeur persists, impressing its history upon me like a physical weight. And in the center of the ruins is the prison itself—an underground maze whose only entrance is through the mouth of a giant stone snake.

As I stare at the snake, I know with absolute certainty that I’ve seen it before. I must have come here with Dad, like Kai speculated. But why would we have come to a prison? A familiar dread leaches into my chest.

The snake’s body, which wraps around the perimeter of the prison, is augmented with the electric fences and mine field Monkey and Ostrich told us about. Already overgrown with dense jungle, a camouflaged net is stretched across the rooftop to ensure further concealment.

Near the snake’s head are two guard towers, each with mounted machine guns. I look at Hana for reassurance, but she doesn’t offer any.

We wait at the edge of the ruins, watching the vehicles park in front of the prison. The warriors dismount from the trucks, but still we don’t move. Getting the timing right is crucial.

Soon all of the Kaana soldiers have entered the prison, followed by a handful of Yakone warriors. The remaining Yakone line up before the entrance, as if waiting for something. Now’s our chance.

Hana gives me the signal. We stand up, and she leans on me. Together, we leave the shelter of the trees and limp, in plain sight, toward the entrance. My heart is pumping so fast, I can hardly breathe, and I have to shut off the part of my mind that’s screaming for me to turn back.

It doesn’t take long for one of the tower guards to see us. To my relief, he doesn’t send for someone inside the prison. Instead, he shouts something to the Yakone below, and one of the gray-clad soldiers comes running toward us. I exhale slowly. She won’t be able to tell that we’re imposters. We’ve bought ourselves a little more time.

As the warrior gets closer, Hana speaks to her in Kohangaere, explaining that we were wounded during the ambush.

The Yakone nods, scanning the jungle behind us. “Let’s get you inside,” she says.

When I hear her voice, my heart nearly stops.

The warrior puts an arm under Hana and helps her hobble forward. I force myself to walk alongside them, keeping my gaze straight ahead, cursing myself for not considering the possibility that I might know one of the Yakone. Now our risk of being caught is even greater.

Don’t let her recognize me
,
I pray, grateful a thousand times over that Hana and I had already decided she should do the talking, since I don’t speak Kohangaere or Spanish. But the paint on my face and the bandage on my ears only offers so much by way of disguise. All it would take is one hard look …

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s not her.

Please don’t be her.

By now we’ve reached the other warriors, and I force myself to act like I belong here, while inside I’m a mess of fear and panic.

“These guys were shot back on the road,” the warrior escorting us explains to her companions.

“Need help?” someone asks.

“Nah—but wait, take my helmet, will ya?”

The warrior asks Hana to stop walking then pulls off her helmet, releasing a cascade of damp brown curls down her back. And now there’s no denying who she is.

“Ga, it’s hot!” Lila says. “You’d think this rain would cool things down. Okay, let’s go.”

While Hana keeps up her act, limping forward convincingly, I’m physically shaking as we make our way past the other Yakone. I can only hope that if they notice they’ll chalk it up to shock. I continue to pray that Lila won’t recognize me.

Then we’re standing before the enormous snake’s head. Its pointed fangs frame a flight of stone steps that descends into the dark earth; dirty water drips from the fangs like blood, and my shaking goes up another notch. I notice that cameras have been set all over the entrance, including the snake’s hollow eyes, and I make a renewed effort to steady myself. Luckily, the doors are still open from the Kaana warriors’ return, and we walk right past the biometrics scanner. So far, the plan is working. I just don’t know if that’s a good thing.

As we descend into the prison, I feel like I’m walking into my tomb. The air, though cooler than above ground, is decayed and heavy, as if it houses the dead.
It probably does
.

A few more steps, and we’re standing on the stone floor. Four hallways open up before us, and I realize with sickening dread that this really is a labyrinth. How will we know which way to go?

As I stare at the four passageways, another memory is suddenly triggered in the recesses of my brain. I’ve stood here before. I know I have.

“Which way is the medical station?” Lila asks us.

Hana doesn’t respond, and I feel my blood pressure shoot through my head. But Lila just says, “Oh, I forgot,” and repeats herself in Kohangaere. In response, Hana points down the second tunnel.

No
, I think as we move forward.
This isn’t the way I went last time.
But at the moment I have more important things to worry about—like how long we have before we run into some real Kaana and what Hana’s going to do to get away from Lila. We didn’t think we’d have to deal with an escort.

But when we turn the next bend, Hana makes her plan clear. She pretends to stumble, and when Lila reaches out to help her, she quickly rips off her helmet and backhands her. Lila hits the wall hard, smacking her head a second time, and slumps to the ground. She lies still.

“Is she dead?” I ask, not sure how I feel about the sight of my former friend’s body sprawled on the cold stone.

“Dunno,” Hana says. “C’mon, lend me a hand.”

We drag Lila into a dark alcove where she’ll hopefully stay concealed long enough for us to carry out the rest of our plan.

“I didn’t see any cameras,” Hana says, tearing off her bandages, “but we can’t know for sure, so we better hurry. You find Mokai. I’ll take care of my part.”

I nod, wondering again how I’ll ever hope to find him in this place. But when I think about what Hana’s about to do, I don’t know which job is harder.

“Remember,” she adds, “if anyone tries to talk to you, pretend that your hearing’s been buggered.”

“I know,” I say.

Hana replaces her helmet and hurries back toward the entrance. When she’s gone, I stand frozen for several heartbeats, not knowing which way to go. Then I recall the memory I had and decide to return to the main entrance. I feel certain that the last time I was here I went down the fourth passage. I don’t know if that will take me to Mokai or not, but at least it’s a starting point.

As I go back to the fourth tunnel, I resist the impulse to hug the wall. I have to look like I know what I’m doing.

Just then, a group of Kaana warriors appears in the hallway in front of me. My legs feel like they’re filled with lead, but I make myself stride purposefully forward.
Don’t talk to me
, I beg.
Don’t talk to me.

But my luck doesn’t hold. As I pass the group, one of the warriors pauses and calls to me in Spanish. As planned, I point to the bandage on my ears and mime that I can’t hear him. He frowns and studies me. I hold my breath, preparing to launch into a run at the first sign of trouble.

The next second stretches out slowly, like I’m watching a glass vase fall to the ground that I won’t be able to catch in time, but then the Kaana just nods and keeps walking.

Exhaling heavily, I make myself move forward.

Follow the tunnel. Turn right.

Camera. Don’t look!

Right again. Eyes straight.

Don’t hug the wall.

Fork—which way? Keep right.

But just as I’m about to turn, I hear voices coming from the passage on the left—one of which sounded like it was speaking English. Hesitating only a fraction of a second, I move toward them.

When I turn the next corner, I have to immediately stop and duck back. Two Kaana warriors are posted in front of a doorway on the right side of the hall; the voices are coming from inside it. I lean into the wall and listen, hoping to hear Mokai. Instead, a nasally voice snaps a command in Spanish.

I peek around the corner in time to see one of the Kaana guards step inside the room. He returns a moment later and motions for the second guard to follow him. They walk quickly down the hall away from me. Seizing the opportunity, I creep toward the now unguarded doorway.

Pressing my cheek to the rough stone, I steal a glance inside. To my disappointment, I don’t see Mokai. Instead, there are about a dozen people—half of them Kaana; half, Yakone—and the Kaana man who’s talking is speaking in Kohangaere.