Page 68 of Soul on Fire
He washed his hands, and then washed them again. Washed his face and his hands again, and then washed the bathroom and everything he’d touched.
He stilled. Was Elliot infected, too? Had he infected Elliot?
Ikolo stared into his reflection, his breathing short and ragged. They’d shared everything over the past several days. Their bodies, their lives. Was it even possible Elliot wasnotinfected if Ikolo was?
Ikolo wasn’t coughing or vomiting yet, which meant he wasn’t contagious yet, either. There was a chance, a hope, a whisper of a prayer, that Elliot wasn’t infected. That he’d dodged this bullet, and only Ikolo had been struck down while Elliot remained healthy.
He’d have to watch carefully. Watch himself and his symptoms. Like Majambu, he was facing his own ticking clock, the knowledge that his life was ending, his time alive running out. Based on his headache, his eyes filling with blood… he had maybe two days before he had to quarantine himself. Before the virus ravaged his body and other people would not be safe around him. Before he turned into a walking virus incubator, Ebola churning through his blood, his burning body, and shedding its viral load by the millions in every drop of his fluids.
And he’d watch Elliot, and hope, God, he’d hope, that Elliot was safe. That he hadn’t given Elliot the virus. Even if he died, Elliot had to live. He had to.
Dreams Ikolo had barely allowed himself to imagine fizzled, vaporizing like the mist of the morning. He hadn’t thought it was possible to find a man he could love, or find a man who loved him, not in this life. He’d devoted himself to his work instead.
But Elliot had appeared out of the night, suddenly in his life, suddenly filling up his life. Filling the empty places where he’d accepted the loneliness. Where there had been solitude, now there was Elliot.
He’d been stupid to dream. What would happen when this was over, even if he hadn’t been infected? Elliot had his life—his American life—and didn’t need to worry about African problems. He could fly away when this was over, move on to the next mission, the next American intervention. Ikolo would be a blip in his memories, nothing more. Everyone knew that’s how it was with Americans.
I don’t want this to end. I don’t either.Confessions, maybe, but wanting and having were two very different things. He wanted Elliot, wanted him to stay, though he’d never ask him to. He wanted to keep falling for him, all the way until he fell in love with him, until he knew Elliot like he knew himself, and the breathless blush of falling in love had left them and Elliot was simply a part of his life, inextricable and eternal. He wanted this to never end.
He wanted not to die.
But having and wanting were two separate things.
When he creeped back to the plane’s cabin, Elliot and Bai were still asleep. Instead of taking the empty seat beside Elliot, Ikolo sat alone, far away, and watched the day turn to night as they crossed the solar terminator and plunged into the darkness.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Five
Bahrain
The plane bouncedthree times on the landing before skidding to an ear-splitting halt. The engines screamed on the wing beside Rhee’s seat, whining as they throttled back hard and bit into the dry desert air.
His colleague, Pak Kyung-soo, flicked a glance his way as their Russian pilots taxied toward the far end of Bahrain’s international airport. Vodka fumes wafted from the cockpit. He hadn’t truly believed they’d make it to Bahrain.
But he’d been assured these smugglers were the best in Kisangani, in all of Africa, even. They played both sides of the UN, ferrying everything from arms and munitions to food and medicine to anyone who would pay.
It was hard to find reliable men with that kind of empty morality.
Which made what he had to do all the more frustrating.
Their pilots drove to the hangars and tie downs reserved for small planes coming into Bahrain. Their Tupolev, a Russian workhorse of an airplane, had crawled out of the 1960s and smelled like it died there. The carpets were destroyed, decades of cargo hauling and hard Russian living stripping the jet to its bare metal. The chairs were automobile seats drilled into the old supports. The eleven hour flight had not been comfortable.
At least their cargo was secure.
In the back of the plane, wearing a mask and resting on a sleeping bag, lay their cargo. Majambu was sick, that much was obvious. But he was still dedicated to the mission.
Rhee admired that dedication. It was men like that who would shape history, not be victim to it.
He waited until the pilots stopped, pulling into a slot at the farthest end of the airport. They didn’t want anyone poking into their smuggling business, it seemed, which worked perfectly for Rhee’s needs, too.
“We are—”
The pilot never got to finish. Rhee fired two shots into his forehead. He slumped sideways, his deadweight pinning the copilot in place as he scrambled to get away. Rhee put two bullets into the copilot’s chest, and he fell on top of his pilot, bleeding and unconscious. He’d die in minutes.
“Let’s go. Get him.”
Majambu was already on his feet, though he moved slowly. His eyes were red, somewhere between bloodshot and full hemorrhage. It was good they were moving up the timetable. Majambu had one good day left in him.
