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Termination Orders(32)



Zalmay stumbled to his feet, and a gasp told Morgan that he had finally become aware of where they were.

“Don’t move,” Morgan said to Zalmay. His eyes did not stray from the lion. “If you run, you’re dead.” She was reclining on a waist-high wooden platform. On the other side of it was the service access gate. It was padlocked. There was, he noticed, no place to hide in the habitat apart from tall grass, and no other way out. But there was a shallow recess in the wall at the gate that could provide them with cover from enemy fire.

They couldn’t have more than a few seconds before their pursuers caught up with them. He wasn’t about to be caught like a sitting duck. “We’re going to walk, slowly, to that door,” he said to Zalmay, and he began to take measured, deliberate, sideways strides, keeping his eyes on the lion. Zalmay followed with timorous steps. The animal’s gaze was locked on them as they moved, her muscles rippling as if she was aching to pounce. He remembered his handgun, tucked inside his khameez. How fast would he be able to draw? And how many bullets would it take to kill a lion? He decided against it. The slightest misstep, Morgan thought, and we’re dinner.

They inched their way around the wooden platform, and Morgan wondered whether a lifetime of living in a cage had made the lioness tame or even more hungry for prey. But with every step they took toward the gate, she seemed to relax and grow more accustomed to their presence. No sudden moves, and they would be fine.

They had almost made their way to the other side of the platform, only a few feet from the gate, when Morgan’s eye was drawn to the far end of the long habitat, where bars kept out visitors on another of the zoo’s paths. People had been watching them through the iron barrier and yelling, but now they weren’t pointing at him or the lioness anymore. They were looking directly above them.

Morgan had scarcely a split second to react. He lunged, pulling Zalmay with him into the recess in the wall as a round of bullets hailed down on the spot where they had just been standing. There was another burst, close to them, from what Morgan recognized as a submachine gun. But they were well protected; the bullets wouldn’t hit them, not from above.

The gunfire was not entirely without effect, however, as the sound seemed to have angered the lioness. She had leapt from the platform and now paced the ground right in front of them, looking up at the pursuers.

Morgan took a moment to examine the gate behind them. It had a rusty old padlock, holding a dead bolt in place. He knew better than to try to shoot it open; all that would accomplish would be to seal it shut permanently. He shoved his shoulder against the gate with all the momentum he could muster in the limited space he had, hoping the dead bolt, or a piece of the wall around it, might give. It didn’t budge. Time was running out.

Zalmay began shouting through the gate, into the tunnel egress; his cries for help were in an Afghan dialect—Morgan couldn’t tell which.

There was another burst of gunfire, but this time it wasn’t directed at them. Several bullets pierced the lioness’s flank; several red spots on her tawny skin erupted in blood. Her legs buckled, she collapsed to her side, and with a few last, wheezing breaths, she died.

There was only one reason, Morgan realized, that they would shoot her. He drew his Glock and listened for it. Sure enough, a few seconds later, he heard the soft thud of someone’s feet hitting the dust in the cage. The other pursuer would probably have stayed above, ready to rain bullets on them if they poked out of their little nook. They were completely cornered. But he wasn’t going to be taken down, not without a fight. He held up his Glock and motioned for Zalmay to stand back.

He heard a man’s voice, in the accent of a native English speaker, shout from just out of sight, “Drop your gun! We only want the kid. Come out peacefully, and we’ll let you go.”

Morgan looked at Zalmay, who was wild-eyed and breathing heavily. “We’re going to get out of this,” Morgan told him, but it didn’t seem to help.

The man fired a burst of bullets against the edge of the wall, spraying dust into their faces.

“You really think you can take us on?” the man continued. “Even if you survive today, what are you going to do? We found you here. If you run, we’ll find you again. Just give us the kid, and you’re free to go.”

“Go to hell!” said Morgan.

“All right, you—.”

“Ramos!” someone yelled. It was a female voice, coming from above. Accented but not Middle Eastern. Something European. It seemed strangely familiar to Morgan, and it stirred up old, long-forgotten memories. But before he could place it, he was interrupted by a scream. The man in the cage had tumbled backward into their line of sight; on top of him was an enormous male lion with a wild, orange mane, teeth bared, its claws sunk into the man’s chest, crimson with blood.