“My options? Explain yourself, English.”

“You’re Voltaire, right, the notorious Rebel leader?”

Above me, Voltaire must have nodded, because Hosea went on. “I’ve heard you’re looking to add weapons to your artillery. I can see why. Poison-tipped spears are nothing compared to the weapons of Hasting.”

“We do well enough,” Voltaire said.

“Perhaps,” Hosea agreed. “But we both know you can’t fight the Kongo Guard with spears. I can help you.”

Voltaire thought this over, easing the spear on my neck. With the spare inch of space, I turned to look up at him. He wore an odd mix of clothing. A dingy brown English frock over loose, worker-style britches. Polished boots, and a very fine red scarf around his waist. His foot was heavy, but his frame was slight. Except for the boy, Fly Man, he was the smallest bandit by far. No taller than me.

His eyes narrowed on Hosea. “You, help me? English, what do you know of war? My handful of men immobilized yours in seconds.” He propped one small fist on his waist.

“I’m at your mercy, but only because you grabbed her first,” Hosea said, nodding at me. “If you hadn’t, you would all be dead. By that turn, if you let her go, I will help you.”

“You still haven’t said how, English, and you’re running out of time,” Voltaire said.

“Weapons,” Hosea replied. “I have English biotech weaponry at my disposal.”

Voltaire stiffened above me.

I strained to see Hosea’s face—did he lie? I thought not. He was the Director’s son, after all, and Kumar had uninhibited access to the Kongo Technology Center, the perfect place to hide cutting-edge weaponry. Had Hosea stolen the technology from the KTC? Had the Director given it willingly? The inscription in his illicit weaponry book formed in my mind—May you also find the gift in death.

“I’m going to show you the weapon,” Hosea said. He shifted, revealing the tube at his waist. He lifted it in his palm and stepped forward.

“Don’t come any closer,” Voltaire said.

Hosea stopped and held out his hand. The weapon winked in the sun. “Do you recognize these markings on the side—here, and here?”

Voltaire puffed up his chest. “I am not ignorant, English. I have read many books and seen many such symbols.”

Before seeing the ladders etched into Hosea’s weapon, I had never seen the marks. I doubted Voltaire had either. But I kept my mouth shut.

Hosea nodded, accepting Voltaire’s answer. “May I still explain what it is, for their benefit?” He gestured toward the other members of the band.

Voltaire agreed. He lifted his chin, but his eyes fixed curiously on the ladders whipping to and fro, hypnotically.