Falling For The Forbidden

by Hawkins, Jessica

  No. I can’t think about it now. Not until I know for sure.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. Daryevo is nowhere near the known hotspots in Dagestan. It’s a small, peaceful settlement with no ties to any insurgent groups. They were supposed to be safe there, far away from my violent world.

  Please let him be alive. Please let him be alive.

  The ride seems to take forever, but finally, we break through the cloud cover, and I see the village. My throat closes up, cutting off my breath.

  Smoke is rising from several buildings in the center, and armed soldiers are milling around.

  I jump out of the helicopter the second it touches the ground.

  “Peter, wait. You need clearance,” the pilot shouts, but I’m already running, shoving people aside. A young soldier tries to block my path, but I rip his M16 out of his hands and point it at him.

  “Take me to the bodies. Now.”

  I don’t know if it’s the weapon or the lethal edge in my voice, but the soldier obeys, hurrying toward a shed on the far end of the street. I follow him, the adrenaline like toxic sludge in my veins.

  Please let him be alive. Please let him be alive.

  I see the bodies behind the shed, some neatly laid out, others piled together on snow-speckled grass. There’s nobody around them; the soldiers must be keeping the villagers away for now. I recognize some of the dead right away—the village elder Tamila was engaged to, the baker’s wife, the man I once bought goat milk from—but others I can’t identify, both because of the extent of their wounds and because I haven’t spent much time in the village.

  I’ve barely spent any time here, and now my wife is dead.

  Steeling myself, I kneel next to a slender female body, lay the M16 on the grass, and move her headscarf off her face. A chunk of her head has been blown off by a bullet, but I can make out enough of her features to know it’s not Tamila.

  I move on to the next woman’s body, this one with several bullet wounds through her chest. It’s Tamila’s aunt, a shy woman in her fifties who’d spoken less than five words to me in the last three years. To her and the rest of Tamila’s family, I’ve always been a foreigner, a frightening stranger from a different world. They didn’t understand Tamila’s decision to marry me, condemned it even, but Tamila didn’t care.

  She’d always been independent like that.

  Another female body draws my attention. The woman is lying on her side, but the gentle curve of her shoulder is achingly familiar. My hand shakes as I turn her over, and white-hot pain pierces me as I see her face.

  Tamila’s mouth is just as slack as I imagined, but her eyes aren’t vacant. They’re closed, her long eyelashes singed and her eyelids glued together with blood. More blood covers her chest and arms, turning her gray dress nearly black.

  My wife, the beautiful young woman who had the courage to choose her own fate, is dead. She died without ever leaving her village, without seeing Moscow like she dreamed. Her life was snuffed out before she had a chance to live, and it’s all my fault. I should’ve been here, should’ve protected her and Pasha. Hell, I should’ve known about this fucking operation; nobody should’ve been here without informing my team.

  Rage rises inside me, mixing with agonizing grief and guilt, but I shove it aside and force myself to keep looking. There are only adult bodies laid out in the rows, but there’s still that pile.

  Please let him be alive. I’ll do anything as long as he’s alive.

  My legs feel like burned matches as I approach the pile. There are detached limbs there, and bodies damaged beyond recognition. These must’ve been the victims of the explosions. I move each body part aside, sorting through them. The smell of stale blood and charred flesh is thick in the air. A normal man would’ve thrown up by now, but I’ve never been normal.

  Please let him be alive.

  “Peter, wait. There’s a special task force on the way, and they don’t want us touching the bodies.” It’s the pilot, Anton Rezov, approaching from behind the shed. We’ve worked together for years and he’s a close friend, but if he tries to stop me, I will kill him.

  Without replying, I continue my gruesome task, methodically looking over each limb and burned torso before laying it aside. Most of the body parts seem to belong to adults, though I come across some child-sized ones too. They’re too big to be Pasha’s, though, and I’m selfish enough to feel relief over that.

  Then I see it.

  “Peter, did you hear me? You can’t do this yet.” Anton reaches for my arm, but before he can touch me, I spin around, my hand curling automatically. My fist crashes into his jaw, and he reels back from the blow, his eyes rolling back in his head. I don’t watch him fall; I’m already moving, tearing through the remaining pile of bodies to reach the little hand I saw earlier.

  A little hand that’s curled around a broken toy car.

  Please, please, please. Please let there be a mistake. Please let him be alive. Please let him be alive.

  I work like a man possessed, all my being focused on one goal: to get to that hand. Some of the bodies on top of the pile are nearly whole, but I don’t feel their weight as I throw them aside. I don’t feel the burn of exertion in my muscles or smell the sickening stench of violent death. I just bend and lift and throw until body parts are strewn all around me, and I’m drenched in blood.

  I don’t stop until the small body is uncovered in its entirety, and there’s no longer any doubt.

  Trembling, I sink to my knees, my legs unable to hold me.

  By some miracle, the right half of Pasha’s face is undamaged, his smooth baby skin unmarred by so much as a scratch. One of his eyes is closed, his little mouth parted, and if he were lying on his side like Tamila was, he could’ve been mistaken for a sleeping child. But he’s not lying on his side, and I see the gaping hole where the explosion ripped away half of his skull. His left arm is missing too, as is his left leg below the knee. His right arm, however, is unscathed, its fingers curled convulsively around the toy car.

  In the distance, I hear a howl, a mad, broken sound of inhuman rage. It’s only when I find myself clutching the little body to my chest that I realize the sound is coming from me. I fall silent then, but I can’t stop rocking back and forth.

  I can’t stop hugging him.

  I don’t know how long I stay like that, holding my son’s remains, but it’s dark by the time the task force soldiers come. I don’t fight them. There’s no point. My son is gone, his bright light extinguished before it had a chance to shine.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper as they drag me away. With each meter of distance between us, the cold inside me grows, the remnants of my humanity bleeding out of my soul. There’s no more pleading, no more bargaining with anyone or anything. I’m empty of hope, devoid of warmth and love. I can’t turn back the clock and hold my son longer, can’t stay behind like he asked me to. Can’t take Tamila to Moscow next year, like I promised her I would.

  There’s only one thing I can do for my wife and son, and that’s the reason I’ll keep on living.

  I will make their killers pay.

  Each and every single one of them.

  They will answer for this massacre with their lives.

  Chapter 2

  United States, Present Day

  Sara

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come out for drinks with me and the girls?” Marsha asks, approaching my locker. She’s already changed out of her nurse’s scrubs and put on a sexy dress. With her bright red lipstick and flamboyant blond curls, she looks like an older version of Marilyn Monroe and likes to party just as much.

  “No, thank you. I can’t.” I soften my refusal with a smile. “It’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Of course you are. You’re always exhausted these days.”

  “Work will do that to you.”

  “Yeah, if you work ninety hours a week. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to work yourself to de
ath. You’re no longer a resident, you know? You don’t have to put up with this bullshit.”

  I sigh and pick up my bag. “Someone has to be on call.”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t have to be you all the time. It’s Friday night, and you’ve worked every weekend for the past month, plus all those nightshifts. I know you’re the newest doctor in your practice and all that, but—”

  “I don’t mind the nightshifts,” I interrupt, walking over to the mirror. The mascara I put on this morning has left dark smudges under my eyes, and I use a wet paper towel to wipe them away. It doesn’t improve my haggard appearance much, but I suppose it doesn’t matter, since I’m heading straight home.

  “Right, because you don’t sleep,” Marsha says, coming to stand behind me, and I brace myself, knowing she’s about to get on her favorite topic. Though she has a good fifteen years on me, Marsha is my best friend at the hospital, and she’s been increasingly vocal about her concerns.

  “Marsha, please. I’m too tired for this,” I say, pulling my unruly waves into a ponytail. I don’t need a lecture to know I’m running myself ragged. My hazel eyes look red and bleary in the mirror, and I feel like I’m sixty instead of twenty-eight.

  “Yeah, because you’re overworked and sleep-deprived.” She folds her arms across her chest. “I know you need a distraction after George and all, but—”

  “But nothing.” Spinning around, I glare at her. “I don’t want to talk about George.”

  “Sara…” Her forehead furrows. “You have to stop punishing yourself for that. It wasn’t your fault. He chose to get behind the wheel; it was his decision.”

  My throat closes, and my eyes prickle. To my horror, I realize I’m on the verge of crying, and I turn away in an effort to control myself. Only there’s nowhere to turn; the mirror is in front of me, and it reflects everything I’m feeling.

  “I’m sorry, hon. I’m an insensitive ass. I shouldn’t have said that.” Marsha looks genuinely regretful as she reaches over and squeezes my arm lightly.

  I take a deep breath and turn around to face her again. I am exhausted, which doesn’t help the emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

  “It’s all right.” I force a smile to my lips. “It’s no big deal. You should get going; the girls are probably waiting for you.” And I have to get home before I break down and cry in public, which would be the height of humiliation.

  “All right, hon.” Marsha smiles back at me, but I see the pity lurking in her gaze. “You just get some sleep this weekend, okay? Promise me you’ll do that.”

  “Yes, I will—Mom.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I get the hint. I’ll see you Monday.” She walks out of the locker room, and I wait a minute before following her to avoid running into her group of girlfriends in the elevators.

  I’ve had about as much pity as I can handle.

  * * *

  As I enter the hospital parking lot, I check my phone out of habit, and my heart skips a beat when I see a text from a blocked number.

  Stopping, I swipe across the screen with an unsteady finger.

  All is well, but have to postpone this weekend’s visit, the message says. Scheduling conflict.

  My breath whooshes out in relief, and right away, the familiar guilt bites at me. I shouldn’t feel relieved. These visits should be something I want to do, instead of an unpleasant obligation. Only I can’t help the way I feel. Every time I visit George, it brings back memories of that night, and I don’t sleep for days afterward.

  If Marsha thinks I’m sleep-deprived now, she should see me after one of those visits.

  Slipping the phone back into my bag, I approach my car. It’s a Toyota Camry, the same one I’ve had for the past five years. Now that I’ve paid off my med school loans and accumulated some savings, I can afford better, but I don’t see the point.

  George was the one into cars, not me.

  The pain grabs at me, familiar and sharp, and I know it’s because of that text. Well, that and the conversation with Marsha. Lately, I’ve had days when I don’t think about the accident at all, going about my routine without the crushing pressure of guilt, but today is not one of those days.

  He was an adult, I remind myself, repeating what everyone always says. It was his decision to get behind the wheel that day.

  Rationally, I know the truth of those words, but no matter how often I hear them, they don’t sink in. My mind is stuck on a loop, replaying that evening over and over again, and as hard as I try, I can’t stop the ugly reel from spinning.

  Enough, Sara. Concentrate on the road.

  Taking a steadying breath, I pull out of the parking lot and head toward my house. It’s about a forty-minute drive from the hospital, which is about forty minutes too long right now. My stomach is beginning to cramp, and I realize part of the reason I’m so emotional today is that I’m about to start my period. As an OB-GYN, I know better than anyone how powerful the effect of hormones can be, and when PMS is combined with long hours and reminders about George… Well, it’s a miracle I’m not a blubbering mess already.

  Yes, that’s it. I’m just hormonal and tired. I need to get home, and all will be well.

  Determined to get a handle on myself, I turn on the radio, tune in to a late-nineties pop station, and begin singing along with Britney Spears. It might not be the most serious music, but it’s upbeat, and that’s exactly what I need.

  I won’t let myself fall apart. Tonight, I will sleep, even if I have to take an Ambien to make that happen.

  * * *

  My house is on a tree-lined cul-de-sac, just off a two-lane road that winds through farmland. Like many others in the upscale area of Homer Glen, Illinois, it’s huge—five bedrooms and four baths, plus a fully finished basement. There’s an enormous back yard, and so many oaks surround the house it’s as if it’s sitting in the middle of a forest.

  It’s perfect for that big family George wanted and horribly lonely for me.

  After the accident, I considered selling the house and moving closer to the hospital, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I still can’t. George and I renovated the house together, modernizing the kitchen and the bathrooms, painstakingly decorating each room to give it a cozy, welcoming vibe. A family vibe. I know the odds of us having that family are nonexistent now, but a part of me clings to the old dream, to the perfect life we were supposed to have.

  “Three kids, at least,” George told me on our fifth date. “Two boys and a girl.”

  “Why not two girls and a boy?” I asked, grinning. “What happened to gender equality and all that?”

  “How is two against one equal? Everybody knows girls twist you around their pretty little fingers, and when you have two of them…” He shuddered theatrically. “No, we need two boys, so there’s balance in the family. Otherwise, Daddy is screwed.”

  I laughed and punched him in the shoulder, but secretly, I liked the idea of two boys running around raising hell and protecting their little sister. I’m an only child, but I’ve always wanted a big brother, and it was easy to adopt George’s dream as my own.

  No. Don’t go there. With effort, I push away the memories, because good or bad, they lead to that evening, and I can’t cope with that now. The cramps have gotten worse, and it’s all I can do to keep my hands on the wheel as I pull into my three-car garage. I need Advil, a heating pad, and my bed, in that order, and if I’m really lucky, I’ll pass out right away, no Ambien required.

  Holding back a groan, I close the garage door, punch in the code for the alarm, and drag myself into the house. The cramps are so bad I can’t walk without bending, so I head straight for the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. I don’t even bother turning on the lights; the light switch is inconveniently far from the garage entrance, plus I know the kitchen well enough to navigate around it in the dark.

  Opening the cabinet, I find the Advil bottle by feel, extract two pills, and throw them in my mouth. Then I go to the sink, fill my hand with water, a
nd swallow the pills. Panting, I grip the kitchen counter and wait for the medicine to kick in a little before I attempt to do something as ambitious as going to the master bedroom on the second floor.

  I feel him only a second before it happens. It’s subtle, just a displacement of air behind me, a whiff of something foreign… a sense of sudden danger.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rise, but it’s too late. One moment, I’m standing by the sink, and the next, a big hand is covering my mouth as a large, hard body traps me against the counter from the back.

  “Don’t scream,” a deep male voice whispers in my ear, and something cold and sharp presses against my throat. “You don’t want my blade to slip.”

  Chapter 3

  Sara

  I don’t scream. Not because it’s the smart thing to do, but because I can’t make a sound. I’m frozen by terror, utterly and completely paralyzed. All my muscles have locked up, including my vocal cords, and my lungs have ceased functioning.

  “I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth,” he murmurs into my ear, his breath warm on my clammy skin. “And you’re going to stay silent. Got it?”

  I can’t so much as whimper, but I somehow manage a faint nod.

  He lowers his hand, his arm looping around my ribcage instead, and my lungs choose that moment to resume working. Without meaning to, I pull in a wheezing breath. Immediately, the blade presses deeper into my skin, and I freeze again as I feel hot blood trickling down my neck.

  I’m going to die. Oh God, I’m going to die here, in my own kitchen. The terror is a monstrous thing inside me, piercing me with icy needles. I’ve never been so close to death before. Just an inch to the right and—

  “I need you to listen to me, Sara.” The intruder’s voice is soft, belying the knife digging into my throat. “If you cooperate, you’ll walk out of here alive. If you don’t, you’ll leave in a body bag. It’s your choice.”