Keep Me

by Anna Zaires

  By early afternoon, I’m literally sick from anxiety. My head is pounding, and my stomach feels like it’s eating itself, the acid burning a hole in my insides.

  “Let’s go for a swim,” Rosa offers when she finds me in the library. I can see the concern on her face, and I know Ana probably sent her to distract me. Rosa is usually too busy with her duties to take off in the middle of the day, but she’s obviously making an exception today.

  The last thing I feel like doing is swimming, but I agree. Rosa’s company is better than driving myself insane with worry.

  As we exit the library together, I see Peter walking in our direction, a grave expression on his face.

  My heart stops for a moment, then begins slamming furiously against my ribcage.

  “What is it?” My tongue can barely form the words. “Did you hear anything?”

  “The plane went down in Uzbekistan, a couple of hundred miles from the Tajikistan border,” he says quietly, stopping in front of me. “It looks like there was a miscommunication, and the Uzbekistani military shot them down.”

  Blackness creeps in at the edges of my vision. “Shot them down?” My voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance, like the words belong to someone else. I am vaguely aware of Rosa placing a supportive arm around my back, but her touch does nothing to arrest the iciness spreading through me.

  “We’re looking for the wreckage right now,” Peter says, almost gently. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Esguerra, but I doubt they could’ve survived.”

  Chapter 22

  Nora

  I’m not sure how I get to the bedroom, but I find myself there, curled up in a ball of silent agony on the bed that Julian and I shared.

  I can feel soft hands on my hair, hear voices murmuring in Spanish, and I know both Ana and Rosa are there with me. The housekeeper sounds like she’s crying. I want to cry too, but I can’t. The pain is too raw, too deep to allow the comfort of tears.

  I thought I knew what it feels like to have your heart ripped out. When I mistakenly thought that Julian was dead, I had been devastated, destroyed. Those months without him had been the worst ones of my life. I thought I knew what it was like to feel loss, to know that I would never see his smile again or feel the warmth of his embrace.

  It’s only now that I realize that there are degrees of agony. That pain can range from devastating to soul-shattering. When I lost Julian before, he had been the center of my world. Now, however, he is my entire world, and I don’t know how to exist without him.

  “Oh, Nora . . .” Ana’s voice is thick with tears as she strokes my hair. “I’m sorry, child . . . I’m so sorry . . .”

  I want to tell her that I’m sorry too, that I know Julian mattered to her as well, but I can’t. I can’t speak. Even breathing seems to require exorbitant effort, as though my lungs have forgotten how to function. One tiny breath in, one tiny breath out—that’s all I seem capable of doing at the moment.

  Just breathing. Just not dying.

  After a while, the quiet murmurs and soothing touches stop, and I realize that I’m alone. They must’ve covered me with a blanket before they left, because I can feel its soft fluffy weight on top of me. It should make me feel warm, but it doesn’t.

  All I feel is a frozen, aching void where my heart used to be.

  * * *

  “Nora, child . . . Come, drink something . . .”

  Ana and Rosa are back, their soft hands pulling me to a sitting position. A cup of hot chocolate is offered to me, and I accept it on autopilot, cradling it between my cold palms.

  “Just a sip,” Ana urges. “You haven’t eaten all day. Julian wouldn’t want this, you know that.”

  The jolt of agony at the mention of his name is so strong that the cup almost slips out of my grip. Rosa grabs for it, steadying my hands, and gently, but inexorably pushes the cup toward my lips. “Come on, Nora,” she whispers, her gaze filled with sympathy. “Just drink some.”

  I force myself to take a few sips. The rich, warm liquid trickles down my throat, the combined rush of sugar and caffeine chasing away some of my numb exhaustion. Feeling a fraction more alive, I glance at the window and realize with shock that it’s already dark—that I must’ve lain there for a few hours without registering the passage of time.

  “Any word from Peter?” I ask, looking back at Ana and Rosa. “Did they find the wreckage?”

  Rosa looks relieved that I’m talking again. “We haven’t seen him since the afternoon,” she says, and Ana nods, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

  “Okay.” I take a few more sips of the hot chocolate and then hand the cup back to Ana. “Thank you.”

  “Can I get you something to eat?” Ana asks hopefully. “A sandwich perhaps, or some fruit?”

  My stomach roils at the thought of food, but I know that I need to eat something. I can’t die alongside Julian, no matter how appealing that option seems at the moment. “Yes, please.” My voice sounds strained. “Just a piece of toast with cheese, if you don’t mind.”

  Jumping off the bed, Rosa gives me a huge, approving smile. “There we go. See, Ana, I told you she’s a fighter.” And before I can change my mind about the meal, she runs out of the room to grab the food.

  “I’m going to shower,” I tell Ana, getting up as well. All of a sudden, I have a strong urge to be alone—to be away from the smothering concern I see on Ana’s face. My body feels cold and brittle, like an icicle that might shatter at any moment, and my eyes are burning with unshed tears.

  Just focus on breathing. Just one tiny breath after another.

  “Of course, child.” Ana gives me a kind, weary smile. “You go right ahead. The food will be waiting for you when you come out.”

  And as I make my escape into the bathroom, I see her quietly slipping out of the room.

  * * *

  “Nora! Oh my God, Nora!”

  Rosa’s screams and frantic knocking on the bathroom door startle me out of my numb, almost catatonic state. I have no idea how long I’ve been standing under the hot spray, but I immediately jump out. Then, wrapping a towel around myself, I race to the door, my wet feet sliding on cold tiles.

  My heart hammering in my throat, I yank open the door. “What is it?”

  “He’s alive!” Rosa’s scream nearly deafens me with its high-pitched volume. “Nora, Julian is alive!”

  “Alive?” For a moment, I can’t process what she’s saying, my brain sluggish from hunger and grief. “Julian is alive?”

  “Yes!” she squeals, grabbing my hands and jumping up and down. “Peter just got word that they found him and a few of his men alive. They’re being taken to the hospital as we speak!”

  My knees buckle, and I sway on my feet. “To the hospital?” My voice is barely above a whisper. “He’s really alive?”

  “Yes!” Rosa pulls me into a bone-crushing hug, then releases me, stepping back with a giant grin on her face. “Isn’t that amazing?”

  “Yes, of course . . .” My head is spinning with joy and disbelief, my pulse racing a mile a minute. “You said he’s being taken to a hospital?”

  “Yes, that’s what Peter said.” Rosa’s expression sobers a bit. “He’s talking to Ana downstairs. I didn’t stay to listen—I wanted to give you the news as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, thank you!” I’m electrified all of a sudden, all traces of my mental fog and despair falling away. Julian is alive and being taken to a hospital!

  Running to the closet, I pull out the first dress I find and throw it on, dropping the towel on the floor. Then I dash to the door and fly down the stairs, with Rosa hurrying after me.

  Peter is in the kitchen next to Ana. The housekeeper’s eyes widen as she sees me barreling toward them, my feet bare and my hair dripping-wet from the shower. I probably look like a crazy woman, but I don’t give a damn. All I care about is finding out more about Julian.

  “How is he?” I pant, skidding to a stop a foot away from the two of them. “What kind of condition is he in
?”

  An expression shockingly similar to a smile flickers across Peter’s hard face as he looks at me. “They’re going to run some tests at the hospital, but right now it looks like your husband survived a plane crash with nothing worse than a broken arm, a couple of cracked ribs, and a nasty gash on his forehead. He’s unconscious, but that appears to be mostly due to blood loss from his head wound.”

  And as I stare at Peter in open-mouthed incredulity, he explains, “The plane fell in a heavily wooded area, so the trees cushioned much of the impact. The pilot’s cabin—where Esguerra and Kent were sitting—got ripped off by the force of the impact, and that seems to have saved their lives.” The smile disappears then, and his metallic eyes darken. “Most of the others died, though. The fuel was in the back, and it exploded, destroying that portion of the plane. Only three of the soldiers back there survived, and they’re badly burned. If it weren’t for the combat gear they were all wearing, they would not have survived either.”

  “Oh my God.” A wave of horror washes over me. Julian is alive, but nearly fifty of his men perished. I’ve had minimal interaction with most of the guards, but I’ve seen many of them around the estate. I know them, if only by sight. They were all strong, seemingly indestructible men. And now they’re dead. Gone—just as Julian would’ve been if he hadn’t been up front.

  “What about Lucas?” I ask, starting to shake with delayed reaction. It’s beginning to hit me that Julian was in a plane crash and survived. That, like a cat with nine lives, he beat the odds yet again.

  “Kent has a broken leg and a severe concussion. He was also unconscious when they were found.”

  Relief spirals through me, and my eyes, burning with dryness before, fill with sudden tears. Tears of gratitude, of joy so intense that it’s impossible to contain. I want to laugh and sob at the same time.

  Julian is alive, and so is the man who once saved his life.

  “Oh, Nora, child . . .” Ana’s plump arms close around me as my tears overflow. “It will be all right now . . . Everything will be all right . . .”

  Shaking with repressed sobs, I let her hold me for a moment in a motherly embrace. Then I pull away, smiling through the tears. For the first time, I believe that it will be all right. That the worst is now over.

  “How soon can we fly out?” I ask Peter, wiping at the wetness on my cheeks. “Can the plane be ready in an hour?”

  “Fly out?” He gives me a strange look. “We can’t fly out, Mrs. Esguerra. I’m under strict orders to remain on the estate and make sure that you are safe here.”

  “What?” I stare at him incredulously. “But Julian is hurt! He’s in the hospital, and I’m his wife—”

  “Yes, I understand.” Peter’s expression doesn’t change, his eyes cool and veiled as he looks at me. “But I’m afraid Esguerra will quite literally murder me if I allow you to be in danger.”

  “Are you telling me that I can’t go see my husband who was just in a plane crash?” My voice rises as a wave of sudden fury sweeps through me. “That I’m supposed to sit here and do nothing while Julian is lying injured half a world away?”

  Peter doesn’t appear impressed with my outburst. “I will do my best to arrange a secure phone call and perhaps a video connection for you,” he says calmly. “I will also keep you informed of any developments in regards to his health. Beyond that, I’m afraid there is nothing I can do at the moment. I am currently working to tighten security around the hospital where Esguerra and the others are being taken, so hopefully he will return here safe and sound, and you will see him shortly.”

  I want to scream, yell, and argue, but I know it won’t do any good. I have about as much leverage over Peter as I do over Julian—which is none at all. “Fine,” I say, taking a deep breath to calm myself. “You do that—and I want to know as soon as he regains consciousness.”

  Peter inclines his head. “Of course, Mrs. Esguerra. You will be informed right away.”

  Chapter 23

  Julian

  I first become aware of the noises. Low feminine murmurs intermingled with rhythmic beeping. A hum of electricity in the background. All of this overlaid with a throbbing pain in the front of my skull and a strong antiseptic odor in my nostrils.

  A hospital. I’m in a hospital of some kind.

  My body hurts, the pain seemingly everywhere. My first instinct is to open my eyes and seek answers, but I lie still, letting the recollections come to me.

  Nora. The mission. Flying to Tajikistan. I relive it all, the remembered sensations sharp and vivid. I see myself talking to Lucas in the cabin, feel the plane bucking underneath us. I hear the sputtering whine of the engines and experience the gut-churning sensation of falling from the sky. I endure the paralysis of fear in those last few moments as Lucas tries to level out the plane above the tree line to buy us precious seconds—and then I feel the bone-jarring impact of the crash.

  Beyond that, there is nothing else, just darkness.

  It should’ve been the permanent darkness of death, yet I’m alive. The pain in my battered body tells me so.

  Continuing to lie still, I assess my new situation. The voices around me—they’re speaking in a foreign language. It sounds like a mixture of Russian and Turkish. Likely Uzbek, given where we were flying at the time of the crash.

  It’s two women speaking, their tone casual, almost gossipy. Logic tells me they are probably nurses at this hospital. I can hear them moving about as they chat with one another, and I carefully crack open one eye to look at my surroundings.

  I’m in a drab room with pale green walls and a small window on the far wall. Fluorescent lights on the ceiling emit a low buzzing sound—the hum of electricity I’d noticed earlier. A monitor is hooked up to me, with an IV line connected to my wrist. I can see the nurses on the other side of the room. They’re changing the sheets on an empty bed that’s standing there. A thin curtain separates my area from that bed, but it’s drawn open, enabling me to see the room fully.

  Other than the two nurses, I’m alone. There’s no sign of any of my men. My pulse jumps at the realization, and I do my best to steady my breathing before they notice. I want them to continue thinking that I’m unconscious. There doesn’t seem to be any overt threat, but until I know what happened to the plane and how I ended up here, I don’t dare drop my guard.

  Cautiously flexing my fingers and toes, I close my eyes and take mental stock of my injuries. I feel weak, like I lost a lot of blood. My head throbs, and I can feel a heavy bandage over my forehead. My left arm—which aches mercilessly—is immobilized, as if it’s in a cast. My right one seems fine, however. It hurts to breathe, so I assume my ribs are damaged in some way. Beyond that, I can feel all of my appendages, and the pain in the rest of my body feels more like scrapes and bruises than broken bones.

  After a few minutes, one of the nurses leaves while the other one walks over to my bed. I remain still and quiet, feigning unconsciousness. She adjusts the sheet covering me, then checks the bandage on my head. I can hear her humming softly under her breath as she turns to leave as well, and at that moment, heavier footsteps enter the room.

  A man’s voice, deep and authoritative, asks a question in Uzbek.

  I crack open my eyes again to steal a glance at the doorway. The new arrival is a lean middle-aged man wearing a military officer’s uniform. Judging by the insignia on his chest, he must be fairly high up.

  The nurse answers him, her voice soft and uncertain, and then the man approaches my bed. I tense, prepared to defend myself if necessary despite the weakness in my muscles. However, the man doesn’t reach for a weapon or make any threatening moves. Instead he studies me, his expression oddly curious.

  Going on instinct, I open my eyes fully and look at him, my body still coiled for a potential strike. “Who are you?” I ask bluntly, figuring that the direct approach is best at this point. “Where is this place?”

  He looks startled, but recovers his composure almost right away. “I’m Col
onel Sharipov, and you are in Tashkent, Uzbekistan,” he answers, taking half a step back. “Your airplane crashed, and you were brought here.” He has a thick accent, but his English is surprisingly good. “The Russian embassy has been in contact about you. Your people are sending another plane to pick you up.”

  He knows who I am then. “Where are my men? What happened to my plane?”

  “We’re still investigating the cause of the crash,” Sharipov says, his eyes shifting slightly to the side. “It’s unclear at this point—”

  “Bullshit.” My voice is deadly quiet. I can tell when someone is lying, and this fucker is definitely trying to blow smoke up my ass. “You know what happened.”

  He hesitates. “I’m not authorized to discuss the investigation—”

  “Did your military fire a missile at us?” I use my right arm to prop myself up into a sitting position. My ribs protest the movement, but I ignore the pain. I may feel as weak as an infant, but it’s never a good idea to seem that way in front of an enemy. “You might as well tell me now because I will learn the truth one way or another.”

  His face tightens at my implied threat. “No, it was not us. Right now, it appears that one of our missile launchers was used, but nobody issued the order to shoot down your plane. We received word from Russia that you would be passing through our airspace, and we were told to let you through.”

  “You have an idea of who is responsible, though,” I observe coldly. Now that I’m sitting up, I don’t feel quite as vulnerable—though I would feel even better if I had a gun or a knife. “You know who used the launcher.”

  Sharipov hesitates again, then reluctantly admits, “It’s possible that one of our officers may have been bribed by the Ukrainian government. We’re looking into that possibility now.”

  “I see.” It all finally makes sense. Somehow Ukraine got word of my cooperation with the Russians and decided to eliminate me before I became a threat. Those fucking bastards. This is why I try not to take sides in these petty conflicts—it’s too costly, in more ways than one.