by Tawny Weber
Maybe they hadn't gotten out of Buhkai.
Maybe everything to this point had been a dream, and she'd never made it home safely. Maybe they were still there, and Will was still trying to save her. And the men who had stormed into the school, the man who'd raped her, was still nearby. Maybe that's why her body hurt so much. Maybe that's why it felt like everything had just happened.
She cried out, her hand coming too late to stifle the sound.
Oh, God. Please don't let us still be back there.
"Hey, hey, hey." Will sat up, and then slid to the floor on his knees by her bed, so that they were on the same level, his face a few inches from hers. "It's okay. It's me. You're fine. You're safe."
"Promise?" she whispered.
"I promise."
"Where are we?"
He looked a little scared at that. "We're in your bedroom, in your father's house."
"Not in Buhkai?"
"No. That was almost a year ago. You got out. You're safe. I promise."
"You got me out," she said, because she was still trying to convince herself he was real, that all of this was real.
"Yes, I got you out."
Thank God.
Thank you, God.
She couldn't imagine what else might have happened to her, if he hadn't gotten her out of there.
"I keep dreaming that I'm back there," she said.
"You're not. You're right here, safe, in your father's house."
"And you're here?" She had to ask, had to know.
"Yes, I'm here. I told you I would be."
She nodded, remembering. The phone call must have been real. "I told you not to come."
"You did. I didn't listen."
No, he hadn't. She couldn't be sorry about that right now. "Why are you sleeping in the chair?"
The ends of his mouth curled up the tiniest bit, and he stopped looking so grim and tired. "Does that mean I can climb into that bed and hold you?"
"If you want to."
"I want to."
She scooted over on the bed, making room for him. He pulled off his boots and socks and dropped his cargo pants but left his underwear on. He peeled off two layers of T-shirts, and then, moving slowly, carefully, climbed into the bed and stretched out on his back, holding an arm out to her in invitation.
She rolled into that spot against his side, her head on his shoulder, one hand on his chest. His arm came loosely around her. He never held her tightly. He knew better, was so careful with her.
Perfect, she thought.
The man was perfect.
Except for the annoying way he kept promising to leave her eventually.
She couldn't think about that now. Later, she would. Not now.
She was too relieved he was here, too busy soaking up the heat of his body, the way she felt so safe against his bulk and strength.
"I'm sorry, honey. I'm so sorry I was so far away when you needed me."
Tears filled her eyes. The thing was, she'd always need him.
"Do you want to hear about it? What happened that day at the school?"
"If you want to tell me."
"No. Not really. But I think I need to say it to somebody." Him or Emma, at least. And he was the one who was here. He was the one who'd saved her. He should know. "I wasn't brave."
"I don't believe that," he whispered, his hand lightly stroking up and down her arm.
"No, I wasn't. I was so scared."
Buhkai, Africa
January 16th
Amanda Warren's class of five-year-olds were just settling into their seats for the start of their day when she heard the first inklings of trouble.
Doors banging. Shouts. Heavy footsteps.
She tried not to look scared, though she was, because she didn't want to frighten her students. She went to the classroom door and looked into the main hallway. She was far from the front of the school, so she probably had some time.
At least, she'd always thought she would, if trouble came from the main entrance.
And there it was, a glimpse of men rushing inside, guns drawn.
Oh, God.
To be a teacher, these days, was to have a plan. The sweet, gentle woman under whom Amanda had done her student teaching in the U.S. had explained it quite matter-of-factly before Amanda's first day in the classroom in Massachusetts.
A teacher had to know what she was going to do if a gunman walked into her school. She had to know the best places for her students to hide. Teachers arranged their rooms to provide places to hide in the back. They knew how much room they needed for all their students to fit.
They knew the fastest way out, hopefully multiple ways out. Did the classroom door lock? From the inside?
A teacher also needed something big and heavy near the door, perhaps a desk or a bookcase, to help hold the door closed a few extra seconds for students to hide or get away.
She kept something solid near the door to use as a weapon—a heavy glass vase or a baseball bat.
Amanda ran through her plan in her head every time the school held a fire drill. She wanted her plan to be automatic, no matter how surprised or scared she was, if she ever needed it.
With gunmen heading her way, she locked her classroom door. There wasn't a second door out, but she'd made sure she could get one of the big windows at the back of the room open, and she knew her students would fit through it.
"Naaji," she called out, because he was the natural leader of the group. He was the grandson of her father's good friend Aalam Haddad. She'd known Naaji since he was born, when his grandfather and Amanda's father were posted in Saudi Arabia.
Naaji stood in front of her, looking scared himself, a beautiful, dark-haired, dark-eyed boy, as sweet and loving as could be. She tried to look confident in what she was about to ask him to do.
"Someone's here, Naaji, and we need to get away. I want you to go out the window, and then I'm going to start helping everyone else out. You be on the other side to help from there. We need to be fast, okay?"
"Yes, Miss Amanda," he said solemnly.
"Everyone, line up behind Naaji. Hurry."
She opened the window, and he went out head first, diving almost, but they were on the ground floor. It wasn't far. He wasn't hurt. In a moment, he was on his feet, ready to help.
She started pushing children out as fast as she could. "I want you to follow Naaji. Do what he says, all right? Naaji, cross the courtyard to the canteen, and run to the other side of that room and out the door to the loading dock and the street. Then go home. Everybody go home and stay there."
Some of them started to sob softly, little faces breaking her heart, they looked so scared, as the noises from the front of the school got louder and scarier. Screaming. Gunfire, she feared. Banging. Running feet. Chaos. She hoped it meant some of the students and staff members were getting away.
"Aren't you coming?" Naaji asked.
She hoped so. She could get through the window, too. If she had time. "I will if I can."
Then it was done. They were all out, gathered around the window watching her, so much trust in their eyes. They had faith in her to keep them safe.
"Listen, all of you. I want you to know that I love you all very much," she said, in case they didn't make it across the courtyard or through the canteen or home safely. If they heard only one more thing in their lives, she wanted it to be that they were loved.
"We love you, Miss Amanda," they said, and some of the girls closest to the window reached out to hug her. "No. Go. Go now, Naaji. Run."
She looked back at her classroom to make sure no one had been left behind. Little Lena, a tiny, solemn-eyed thing and probably Amanda's favorite of the girls, tended to hide when she got scared. She'd make herself into a little ball and sink down to the floor in any dark corner she could find.
Had she helped Lena out the window? Amanda couldn't be sure.
She was looking in the corner near the window when she heard someone at her door, trying the knob, realizing it
was locked and rattling it hard in an attempt to get in. She hadn't had time to push the bookcase in front of the door yet.
Amanda glanced out the window.
The kids hadn't gotten far.
A few more moments, and they'd be across the courtyard, into the canteen.
They just needed a few more moments.
She thought of her father. He hadn't wanted her to come here. He'd been so worried, and then he'd just wanted her to come home. She'd refused, not wanting to leave her students mid-year and thinking she was safe, that the new democracy in Buhkai would hold. And maybe just wanting to make him proud of her.
I'm so sorry, Daddy.
She closed the window, fastened it, and made herself walk slowly toward the door.
It burst open, banging against the far wall, and a man burst in, a big, wicked-looking assault weapon drawn. He grabbed Amanda roughly by her upper arm, looking big and strong and so menacing. In French, the most prevalent language spoken in the country, he yelled, "Where are your students?"
"They... they have music instruction this morning," she lied in French herself, hoping nervously that she was hiding any hint of an American accent. Her father had drilled her, early and often, about not looking or sounding like an American in certain countries.
The man crushing her arm looked as if he didn't believe her. His grip tightened. She whimpered and tried to back away, but couldn't escape his hold.
"Aalam Haddad's grandson? He is in your classroom?"
Naaji?
They wanted Naaji?
The grandson of a man high in the current government.
Which told her the man in front of her was likely a rebel, from one of the many factions trying to seize control of the country.
And he planned to use a five-year-old to help him do that?
"Haddad's grandson?" the man repeated, more harshly than before, and then his weapon came up. He held it with the end of the barrel pressed against Amanda's head. It was hot to the touch, burning hot, so she knew it had been fired recently.
"Naaji?" she said.
"Yes, Naaji."
"He's absent today. Or... maybe he's tardy. School just started. He's... late. So many days, he's late to school. He's not a very responsible boy," she lied, about a boy so brave he was now leading his classmates to safety, she hoped.
The man leaned over her, his angry, dark eyes studying her intently, his hand tightening on the trigger of the gun. "Absent?"
Amanda nodded, feeling nothing but the hot metal of the gun against her forehead and his brutal grip on her arm.
"I don't believe you."
"Well, maybe he knew he was late, and he had music first thing today. Maybe he went straight to the auditorium for music class."
"We will see." The man started dragging Amanda along into the hallway, which was engulfed in pure chaos.
Adults and children, looking terrified, pressed up against the walls and froze as she and the gunman appeared. He paid no attention to them, and they took off running. She saw flashes of guilty, pitying looks, as a few of the adults met her gaze, but she motioned them on, to get out if they could and get the children to safety. Besides, she was afraid the man, who was dragging her down the hallway so fast she was almost running to keep up, would shoot anyone who tried to help her.
He wanted Naaji, and she'd let him know that she was Naaji's teacher, that she could identify him, even lead this man to Naaji.
How stupid of her.
But her kids were safe.
They'd have made it. They were on the street now, running home, such good kids. They'd do what she had told them to do.
Please, please, please. Let them be safe.
Chapter 24
Baxter, Ohio
"He dragged me to the auditorium, and when my students weren't there, he got so mad because he knew I'd lied to him, and Naaji had gotten away. Then he started hitting me, and I fell to the floor. He kicked me in my ribs, then dragged me back to my classroom. I thought he was going to kill me. I didn't even try to fight him after a while when he... when he.... He grabbed me and held onto me by my hair, and he was so strong. I don't think I even screamed anymore. I thought it didn't matter because I'd be dead anyway."
Will had been rock still as she told him what happened, barely even seeming to breathe. Now, he eased his way down and rolled up on his side, so they were nearly nose to nose.
Taking her face in his hands, he said, "The thing that matters is that you're alive. Nothing else. It's over, you're alive and you're here. Those kids are all alive. That matters."
"The thing I saw on TV? That made me remember? That was real? Someone was shooting in a school in the U.S.?"
Will nodded.
"Little kids? There are little kids who died?"
"And teachers," he said, his gaze steady. "The teachers managed to save a lot of their students that day, and a few of the teachers died doing it."
"It's just... crazy. That's crazy."
"I know, honey."
"The whole world is crazy. It doesn't make sense. Kids in a school? They should be safe."
"I know. They should be."
"If they're not safe in a school—"
"Amanda, there's nothing you can do about that—"
"Somebody has to do something."
"You're right. But not you right now. Just try to go to sleep, please? Just sleep."
And she did.
She slept well for the first time since her memories came back, and she woke up hours later in her bed with Will.
He was really there.
She felt ridiculously grateful.
He looked so tired. She was, too. Exhausted, still. She wouldn't have moved, but she desperately had to go to the bathroom. Once there, she realized it had been days since she felt clean, since she cared about anything like being clean. Even now, it sounded like it would take tremendous effort to accomplish that, so she compromised by getting into the shower and sitting on the floor. She just let the water roll over her, until she found the strength to stand up and wash her hair, and finally to wash her whole body.
Stepping out of the shower, she felt halfway alive for the first time in days. Reaching for a towel, she saw out of the corner of her eye that the door was open a few inches. She hadn't left it that way. She walked over to the door, and there was Will, sitting on the floor just outside, nearly asleep.
"I know I locked this door."
"Honey, that's not a lock."
Not against him, apparently.
"What are you doing?" But she was afraid she knew exactly what he was doing. He and everyone else weren't leaving her alone. "I can't be trusted in the bathroom alone?"
It came off sounding mean, she realized, and he looked... afraid. He looked so afraid.
"Will, I'm not going to hurt myself. I promised you that, and I meant it."
But he still looked so afraid. She thought she had to tell him everything, that nothing less would do.
"Okay, before, I couldn't think of anything but what happened. For a while, it was like I was paralyzed by the memories, like I was in a trance. I couldn't see anything but what happened in Buhkai, over and over again. Emma and my father were trying to help me. I knew that. But I didn't think anything would help. I didn't think about actually hurting myself, but I could see, if I stayed there, stuck in all those memories, that one day... I might. To make it stop. I could see a day coming when all I might care about was making all the bad stuff stop."
There. She'd gotten it out. The worst part.
Will looked like it had hurt him just as much to hear it as it had hurt her to admit it. He had tears in his eyes. He was afraid, too. This big, tough man, capable of anything, was terrified for her.
She wrapped her towel around her more securely and sat on the floor facing him, pulled his head down to her shoulder and wrapped her arms around him, so she could hold him for a minute. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for scaring you."
"Just tell me you really are better, that yo
u're really going to be okay."
"I am. I promise."
They sat there for a few minutes, and she could tell it took a real effort for him to breathe slowly and evenly. He finally got to his feet and pulled her up to hers. He looked her over from head to toe, held her face in his hands, traced a few of the freckles across her cheek and gave her a sad, serious smile.
"I'm going to be okay," she said again.
"You'd better be." He kissed her forehead. "I came straight off a mission, and then I was traveling for nearly forty-eight hours. Can I borrow your shower?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
"Have you eaten anything lately?"
She shook her head.
"Put some clothes on. I'll be ready in a minute, and then we're going to find you some food, and you're going to eat."
When he got out of the shower, he took over, and she let him, because she was still tired and somewhere in a fog. Her father was downstairs, looking so relieved to see her. She hugged him and let him fuss over her while Joyce made breakfast.
Amanda drank some ginger tea, which had always helped soothe her stomach when it was in knots. At the moment, it was just rumbling and empty, but she wanted to be careful with it. So she stuck to tea and a banana muffin. Will ate enough for three people, and coaxed her into having a bit of his scrambled eggs and toast.
She was tired already, but he convinced her to go outside. The fresh air would feel good, and it was sunny and unseasonably warm for December.
She curled up in a blanket on a lounge chair, her legs drawn up to make room for him. He was right. The sun, the fresh air, the sky did feel good. She felt more normal than she had since all her memories came storming back into her head.
Will was here, even though she'd told him not to come.
She'd have to do something about that eventually—him being here.
But not now. For now, she was going to let him take care of her.
After Amanda fell asleep, Will sat there and let himself drink in the sight of her. He needed to calm down, to accept that she was truly safe and whole.
It felt like it had taken years to get to her, years of terror and feeling powerless. Then he'd spent hours sitting by her bedside, begging the universe to let her wake up and speak to him, say something that let him know she hadn't shattered inside, that she was still herself, or that she would be one day.