Keep Me
Page 75
My lack of empathy disturbs me on some level, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. Whether Julian intended to create a distraction or not, the end result is that nobody is paying attention to me at the moment—and as soon as I realize it, I spring into action.
Jumping to my feet, I cast a frantic glance around the room. My gaze lands on a small knife on a table near the wall, and I leap toward it, my pulse racing. The terrorists are all gathered around Julian on the other side of the room, and I hear grunts, curses, and the sickening sound of fists hitting flesh.
They’re punishing Julian for this murder—and, for now, ignoring me.
Turning my back to the table, I manage to palm the knife and wedge the blade underneath the duct tape they wrapped around my wrists. My hands are trembling, causing the sharp blade to nick my skin, but I ignore the pain, trying to saw through the thick tape before they realize what’s happening. My grip is slippery with sweat and blood, but I persist, and finally, my hands are free.
Shaking, I survey the room again, and spot an assault rifle leaning negligently against the wall. One of the terrorists must’ve left it there in the confusion resulting from Julian’s unexpected attack.
My heart throbbing in my throat, I inch along the wall toward the weapon, desperately hoping that the terrorists won’t glance in my direction. I have no idea what I’m going to do with one gun against a roomful of men armed to their teeth, but I have to do something.
I can’t stand by and watch them beat Julian to death.
My hands close around the weapon before anyone notices anything, and I suck in a shaking breath of relief. It’s an AK-47, one of the assault rifles I practiced with during my training with Julian. Gripping the heavy weapon, I lift it and point in the direction of the terrorists, trying to control the adrenaline-induced trembling in my arms. I’ve never shot at a person before—only at beer cans and paper targets—and I don’t know if I have what it takes to pull the trigger.
And as I’m trying to work up the courage to act, a blinding explosion rocks the room, knocking me off my feet and onto the floor.
* * *
I don’t know if I hit my head or was merely dazed by the explosion, but the next thing I’m aware of is the sound of gunfire outside the walls. The entire room is filled with smoke, and I cough as I instinctively attempt to get to my feet.
“Nora! Stay down!” It’s Julian, his voice hoarse from the smoke. “Stay down, baby, do you hear me?”
“Yes!” I yell back, intense joy filling every cell of my body as I realize that he’s alive—and in a good enough condition to speak. Keeping low to the ground, I peer out from behind the table that fell next to me, and see Julian lying on his side on the other end of the room, still tied to the metal chair.
I also see that the smoke is coming in from the vent in the ceiling, and that the room is empty except for the two of us. The battle, or whatever is happening, is taking place outside.
Peter and the guards must have arrived.
Almost crying with relief, I grab the AK-47 lying next to me, lower myself onto my stomach, and begin to belly-crawl toward Julian, holding my breath to avoid inhaling too much smoke.
At that moment, the door swings open, and a familiar figure steps into the room.
It’s Majid—and in his right hand, he’s holding a gun.
He must’ve realized that Al-Quadar were losing and came back to kill Julian.
A surge of hatred rises in my throat, choking me with bitter bile. This is the man who murdered Beth . . . who tortured Julian and would’ve done the same thing to me. A vicious, psychotic terrorist who had undoubtedly murdered dozens of innocent people.
He doesn’t see me there, all his attention on Julian as he lifts his gun and points it at my husband. “Goodbye, Esguerra,” he says quietly . . . and I squeeze the trigger of my own weapon.
Despite my prone position, my aim is accurate. Julian had me practice shooting sitting, lying down, and even running at some point. The assault rifle bucks in my shaking arms, slamming painfully against my shoulder, but the two bullets hit Majid exactly where I intended—in his right wrist and elbow.
The shots throw him back against the wall and knock the gun out of his grasp. Screaming, he clutches at his bleeding arm, and I get up, heedless of the danger posed by the bullets flying outside. I can hear Julian yelling something at me, but his exact words don’t register through the ringing in my ears.
In this moment, it’s as though the entire world fades away, leaving me alone with Majid.
Our eyes meet, and for the first time, I see fear in his dark, reptilian gaze. He knows that I am the one who shot him, and he can read the cold intent on my face.
“Please, don’t—” he begins saying, and I squeeze the trigger again, discharging five more bullets into his stomach and chest.
In the brief silence that follows, I watch as Majid’s body slides down the wall, almost in slow motion. His face is slack with shock, blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, and his eyes are open, staring at me with a kind of numb disbelief. He moves his lips, as though to say something, and a rattling gurgle escapes his throat as more blood bubbles up out of his mouth.
Lowering the gun, I step closer to him, drawn by a strange compulsion to see what I have wrought. Majid’s eyes plead with mine, begging for mercy without words. I hold his gaze, stretching out the moment . . . and then I aim the AK-47 at his forehead and pull the trigger again.
The back of his head explodes, blood and bits of brain tissue splattering against the wall. His eyes glaze over, the whites around the irises turning crimson as blood vessels burst in his eyes. His body goes limp, and the smell of death, sharp and pungent, permeates the room for the second time today.
Jumping to my feet, I cast a frantic glance around the room. My gaze lands on a small knife on a table near the wall, and I leap toward it, my pulse racing. The terrorists are all gathered around Julian on the other side of the room, and I hear grunts, curses, and the sickening sound of fists hitting flesh.
They’re punishing Julian for this murder—and, for now, ignoring me.
Turning my back to the table, I manage to palm the knife and wedge the blade underneath the duct tape they wrapped around my wrists. My hands are trembling, causing the sharp blade to nick my skin, but I ignore the pain, trying to saw through the thick tape before they realize what’s happening. My grip is slippery with sweat and blood, but I persist, and finally, my hands are free.
Shaking, I survey the room again, and spot an assault rifle leaning negligently against the wall. One of the terrorists must’ve left it there in the confusion resulting from Julian’s unexpected attack.
My heart throbbing in my throat, I inch along the wall toward the weapon, desperately hoping that the terrorists won’t glance in my direction. I have no idea what I’m going to do with one gun against a roomful of men armed to their teeth, but I have to do something.
I can’t stand by and watch them beat Julian to death.
My hands close around the weapon before anyone notices anything, and I suck in a shaking breath of relief. It’s an AK-47, one of the assault rifles I practiced with during my training with Julian. Gripping the heavy weapon, I lift it and point in the direction of the terrorists, trying to control the adrenaline-induced trembling in my arms. I’ve never shot at a person before—only at beer cans and paper targets—and I don’t know if I have what it takes to pull the trigger.
And as I’m trying to work up the courage to act, a blinding explosion rocks the room, knocking me off my feet and onto the floor.
* * *
I don’t know if I hit my head or was merely dazed by the explosion, but the next thing I’m aware of is the sound of gunfire outside the walls. The entire room is filled with smoke, and I cough as I instinctively attempt to get to my feet.
“Nora! Stay down!” It’s Julian, his voice hoarse from the smoke. “Stay down, baby, do you hear me?”
“Yes!” I yell back, intense joy filling every cell of my body as I realize that he’s alive—and in a good enough condition to speak. Keeping low to the ground, I peer out from behind the table that fell next to me, and see Julian lying on his side on the other end of the room, still tied to the metal chair.
I also see that the smoke is coming in from the vent in the ceiling, and that the room is empty except for the two of us. The battle, or whatever is happening, is taking place outside.
Peter and the guards must have arrived.
Almost crying with relief, I grab the AK-47 lying next to me, lower myself onto my stomach, and begin to belly-crawl toward Julian, holding my breath to avoid inhaling too much smoke.
At that moment, the door swings open, and a familiar figure steps into the room.
It’s Majid—and in his right hand, he’s holding a gun.
He must’ve realized that Al-Quadar were losing and came back to kill Julian.
A surge of hatred rises in my throat, choking me with bitter bile. This is the man who murdered Beth . . . who tortured Julian and would’ve done the same thing to me. A vicious, psychotic terrorist who had undoubtedly murdered dozens of innocent people.
He doesn’t see me there, all his attention on Julian as he lifts his gun and points it at my husband. “Goodbye, Esguerra,” he says quietly . . . and I squeeze the trigger of my own weapon.
Despite my prone position, my aim is accurate. Julian had me practice shooting sitting, lying down, and even running at some point. The assault rifle bucks in my shaking arms, slamming painfully against my shoulder, but the two bullets hit Majid exactly where I intended—in his right wrist and elbow.
The shots throw him back against the wall and knock the gun out of his grasp. Screaming, he clutches at his bleeding arm, and I get up, heedless of the danger posed by the bullets flying outside. I can hear Julian yelling something at me, but his exact words don’t register through the ringing in my ears.
In this moment, it’s as though the entire world fades away, leaving me alone with Majid.
Our eyes meet, and for the first time, I see fear in his dark, reptilian gaze. He knows that I am the one who shot him, and he can read the cold intent on my face.
“Please, don’t—” he begins saying, and I squeeze the trigger again, discharging five more bullets into his stomach and chest.
In the brief silence that follows, I watch as Majid’s body slides down the wall, almost in slow motion. His face is slack with shock, blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, and his eyes are open, staring at me with a kind of numb disbelief. He moves his lips, as though to say something, and a rattling gurgle escapes his throat as more blood bubbles up out of his mouth.
Lowering the gun, I step closer to him, drawn by a strange compulsion to see what I have wrought. Majid’s eyes plead with mine, begging for mercy without words. I hold his gaze, stretching out the moment . . . and then I aim the AK-47 at his forehead and pull the trigger again.
The back of his head explodes, blood and bits of brain tissue splattering against the wall. His eyes glaze over, the whites around the irises turning crimson as blood vessels burst in his eyes. His body goes limp, and the smell of death, sharp and pungent, permeates the room for the second time today.
