I forced myself to accept reality. I would die if I fought; I would die if I didn’t.

I am already dead.

I replayed Issa tracing the claw-mark scars across my chest, asking me not to take this park assignment because of the lions. I’d explained to her that I had earned those scars. I’d heard the maddened lion roaring with fury, warning me away, and still I’d foolishly stalked it.

I’d vowed to her that I would be safe because I would never ignore a warning again.

Yet now I was a dead man. Hatred for these poachers blistered me inside. I could at least take a few of them with me. “No surrender!” I leapt up, pivoting and aiming through the busted windows of my truck. Two controlled shots. I hit one poacher between the eyes. Another in the skull. I dropped back down. “Not today!”

They opened up with their machine guns, spraying bullets.

Amid the gunfire, I caught a different sound—a copter? Coming up from behind the ridge? If it was the park’s copter, I might live. If it was theirs, I would die.

A lull. I chanced another shot, hitting my third target. One bullet left.

The helicopter appeared over the rise. . . .

Not ours. Two shooters inside had me dead to rights.

A dying man’s life truly did flash before him. Mine had been filled with polarities and extremes. Fundamental forces in combat.

Old and new. Life and death. Love and hate.

Ancient Maasai tradition clashed with my modern military life. I’d hunted lions as a boy; now I protected them.

I delivered death to so many men—three this day alone—but Issa and I were trying for a baby.

My love for her left me reeling sometimes. But so did my hatred for my enemies.

Beyond the helicopter, Mount Kenya stood proud. My family had lived, warred, loved, and died on these plains for centuries. Sun struck the peak.

My instinct was to close my eyes. But I refused. I straightened my beret and prayed to my spirit guardian. Maybe my ancestors were wrong; maybe there was an afterlife.

I rose with my rifle in my outstretched hand—the posture of surrender. I stared them down, standing as proud as the mountain. But I’d be as unpredictable as a lion. I jerked my rifle to my shoulder and fired my last bullet, hitting the pilot—

Gunshots erupted from the copter.

I felt no pain. Had I died? Dozens of bullets had passed through my body. Suddenly I felt weightless—I must be leaving this world.

I only wished I could have seen Issa one last time.

As the copter plummeted into the ridge, I did shut my eyes, closing the cover on the book of my life.

I waited.

And waited.

When I opened my eyes, I stood in the bedroom of our little apartment in Nairobi. Was I already a ghost? Issa strolled out of the steamy bathroom, wrapped in a towel. Her face lit up into a smile.

She could see me?

In a delighted tone, she said, “You’re early! I wanted everything to be ready when you got here. The apartment was supposed to smell like nyama choma and biryani, and I would look like a pinup. Sawa sawa.” No worries. “I will take this surprise any day.” She hurried to give me an embrace. “Ooh, you smell like gasoline.” But she didn’t release me.

I still hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved. I must be alive. Maybe I’d had a mental breakdown.

She drew back. “Hujambo?” Everything okay?

I finally found my voice. “Sijambo.” I’m fine. I pulled my beret off. My throat was tight as I said, “I am very glad to see you, Issa.”

_______________

Later that evening, we lay in bed, sharing a warm bottle of Tusker’s.

What if this night with Issa was all a dream? If I fell asleep, it might come to an end.

The thought chilled me. I decided to remain awake as long as possible, to spend as much time with her as I could.

She had curled up against me, was again tracing the scars across my chest. The skin that should be riddled with bullet holes.

All night I’d been replaying the shootout. Those bullets had passed through me as if I’d already been a spirit.

“Don’t go back,” Issa said with a pensive look on her beautiful face.

Don’t punish my enemies? “Let us talk tomorrow.” Today had been strange enough. After returning home from the madness of the park, I’d received a bizarre package: a satellite phone with one preprogrammed number, sealed in a military-grade storage case. I’d seen these in my training. The case would withstand fire, water, even an electronic pulse.

Reading the accompanying note had brought on a wave of dizziness:

Centurion,

When the end begins, contact me.

Death

Why would a man named Death call me “Centurion”? His note had called to mind a tale I’d learned as a young moran. Among the Maasai, the morani, warriors, were distinct from the laiboni, spiritual guides and healers, but one legendary man had been both.

Kentarch of the Legion.

The namesake of every firstborn male in my line, he was said to have rescued a lost Roman legion from starvation, becoming a blood brother to a centurion.

Kentarch had been a killer and a healer, filled with polarities, just like me. He’d also possessed unique gifts, had been able to vanish into thin air and reappear on the other side of the Great Rift Valley.

Fearing his power, other tribes had tried to kill him, attacking with their marungu. But none of those throwing clubs struck him. In front of all his people, he’d become a ghost.

Had I inherited the first Kentarch’s powers? Perhaps I could become a ghost at will. The poachers would stand no chance. . . .