Page 56 of The Last Sanctuary
She stroked the black fur on the back of his hand. “Thank you,” she said, not sure what for. Abruptly, she felt like weeping. It was the middle of the night. She was exhausted, sore, and frightened. Her home was under attack. Three of her wolves had been killed. And her own safety was in jeopardy, her risk increasing every moment that she remained here.
And here was a captive ape, giving her a moment of reprieve, the smallest act of kindness. It almost shattered her fragile heart.
Gizmo hopped on one foot, hooted softly, and gave her that hoarse, goofy laugh of his.
Her eyes pricked. She blinked rapidly. “You’re free now. Go. Find your troop. Live a good life.”
Gizmo rose on his hind legs. His smile changed—his lip curled up, revealing his top teeth. To the untrained eye, Gizmo still looked like he was smiling. Raven knew better. He wasn’t smiling because he was happy.
It was a fear grin.
Urgency crackled through her veins. She pivoted, lifting her rifle, finger already tracking toward the trigger. Too late.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
A gunshot shattered the air.
Gizmo let out a tortured shriek.
Before she could orient herself to the danger, to find her target and squeeze the trigger, a hand clamped around her mouth.
Something knocked the rifle out of her grip. Rough hands seized her arms. Her backpack was torn from her shoulders and tossed onto the ground.
Her spine was shoved violently against something hard—a man’s chest. The cold muzzle of a gun kissed her temple.
“Don’t scream,” Rex said into her right ear. Hot breath scalded her cheek. He stank of sweat and beer. The sour stenchof him clogged her nostrils. “Or go ahead and scream. I love it when they pretend they don’t like this.”
Her heart bucked against her ribcage. Her chest filled with molten panic. She tried to wrench free. His grip was iron.
At her feet, Gizmo writhed in agony. His furry hands clutched his stomach. Blood oozed between his fingers. He looked up at Raven. His small black face contorted in pain and confusion. In his entire life, a human had never hurt him.
Hot outraged tears streamed down her cheeks. “You monster!”
“It turns me on when you whisper sweet nothings to me, you know.”
“You didn’t have to do that!” she cried in a strangled voice. “He wouldn’t have hurt anybody!”
“You got her,” a second voice said. A figure materialized out of the fog a few yards to her right, carrying a flashlight in one hand, a pistol in the other. A semi-automatic rifle was slung across his shoulder. “I knew you’d find her.”
“You bastard,” she hissed.
Damien smiled tightly, his eyes in shadow. “That’s me.”
“Shut that thing up already,” Rex ordered.
Damien glanced at the shrieking ape, aimed his gun, and shot the bonobo in the head. Gizmo’s furred body slumped and went still.
A cold fury rose within Raven. Gizmo was only here because he wanted to greet her, to perform his usual antics, to show off, to say thank you and goodbye in his way.
Instead, Rex and Damien killed him.
Rex toed the dead ape with his boot. His gun was still pressed to the side of her head. “Too bad we can’t get a pelt out of this thing.”
Somewhere to the east, invisible in the heavy fog, another bonobo wailed in grief. It was Zephyr, Gizmo’s mother. Bonobomother-son pairs were closely bonded for life. She must have seen what happened from a perch on the reptile house roof or one of the elms lining the path.
Zephyr wailed again. She knew what it meant—her son’s body lying limp and still. Raven felt the bonobo’s pain like her own. Grief stitched into her bones.
“Kill that one, too,” Rex ordered. “I can’t stand their damn screeching.”
