by Anna Zaires
Eight minutes.
Seven minutes.
I can do it.
I can make it.
Headlights from an oncoming car blind me, sending my adrenaline levels surging. Is it Kent? His guards?
The car passes by without stopping, and I exhale in relief, lifting my foot off the gas pedal as the road curves sharply in front of me. The last thing I need is to lose control of the car and go through the guardrail, like George did that terrible night. As is, even with reduced speed, I’m going 110 kilometers an hour. If the gas station is seven kilometers away, I should make it with time to spare.
Another minute passes before the road curves again, and I see it.
More headlights, this time behind me.
Gripping the wheel tighter, I floor the gas pedal again.
The car behind me accelerates as well.
My stomach climbs into my throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a speed limit sign. It’s 50kmh—over sixty, no, seventy kilometers less than my current speed. And if that car is catching up to me, it’s going even faster.
It’s official.
I’m being pursued.
The road twists again, and I hold back a shriek as another oncoming car whooshes by, its headlights blinding me for a crucial second. The side of my car scrapes against the guardrail, sparks flying as metal screeches against metal. Gasping, I take my foot off the gas and veer away from the rail, getting the car closer to the middle of the winding road.
The pursuing headlights gain on me, and as the road curves again, I see two cars behind me, each one large and dark. Two SUVs. My pulse is now a thunderous roar in my ears, my hands so sweaty they slide around on the wheel. Fighting my panic, I press the gas pedal again, but the cars behind me accelerate faster, and as the road curves right, one flanks me on my side while the other one pulls in front of me.
Despair grips me with an icy fist.
It’s over.
They got me.
Shaking, I take my foot off the gas.
My one chance at escape, and I blew it.
The SUV in front of me reduces speed as well, and the one on my side moves behind me. They know I have no choice but to comply.
It’s officially over.
I’ve lost.
The SUV in front of me slows further, forcing me to brake. My speedometer shows forty kilometers an hour, then thirty-five… then thirty. I’m practically crawling now, and I realize they’re making me stop.
They’re going to get me out of this car and drag me back to Kent’s house, where I will stay locked up until Peter comes for me.
The future stretches out in front of me, as dark and dangerous as this winding road. Without hope for escape, without choices, I will be Peter’s property, and so will our child. I will never see my friends and family again, never help women deliver their babies. As my parents grow older, I won’t be there for them, and they’ll never know their grandchildren.
All I will have is Peter, and the scariest thing of all is that this doesn’t seem unappealing.
I can see it so clearly: the way he’ll care for me, the tenderness in his eyes when he’ll hold our baby. He’ll love me with an intensity that will scorch my soul, and eventually, my own twisted love will grow from its ashes. And after a while, it will all seem normal, from my lack of freedom to the violence of his profession.
We’ll be a family, the way he wants, and as I watch the speedometer drop below fifteen, I know I can’t let it happen.
I can’t give in to the sickest part of me, the one that wants that twisted future.
Another bend in the road, more headlights coming our way. My frantic heartbeat steadies, a strange calm settling over me as I reach over and buckle my seatbelt. I’ll have less than a second to act, so I have to make it count.
Easing my foot off the brake, I clutch the wheel as hard as I can, and as the oncoming car whooshes by, its headlights blinding me and my pursuers alike, I yank the wheel all the way to the right, pulling out into the opposite lane as I floor the gas.
The car rips forward, zooming past the SUV blocking me in the front. I can practically hear my pursuers swear as I leave them in the dust again, my sleek Mercedes gaining speed with the throaty roar of a V8 engine. The speedometer jumps to 100… 110… 120… 130…
Sparks fly, metal scraping against metal as I sideswipe the guardrail again, but this time, I don’t slow down. I keep my foot steady, correcting just enough to maintain control.
It’s a video game, I tell myself. Just a racing video game where I’m driving on the wrong side of the road.
Having recovered from the shock of my sudden maneuver, my pursuers are on my tail again, but I have no intention of making it easy for them. Each time they get close, I veer into the middle of the road, preventing them from going around me. And I maintain my breakneck speed, keeping my foot on the gas even through the steepest turns. Pretending it’s a video game helps—I was always good at those as a kid.
One more minute on the road.
Two.
Three.
I can do it.
I can make it.
In the distance, I see lights, and my pulse jumps anew.
It’s the gas station. It has to be.
My plan is simple: screech to a stop in front of whatever store is there, jump out, and run in, screaming at the top of my lungs for a phone. With any luck, Kent’s people will be too worried about the authorities to grab me in public, but even if they’re not, someone—a gas station attendant, other drivers—will see what’s happening and call the police.
It’s not much of a plan, but it’s all I’ve got.
The gas station looms closer with each second. To my relief, despite the early hour and the wilderness feel of the area, I see a well-lit store with a few people inside, and some cars in the parking lot.
My hope is that Kent won’t want to cause trouble so close to his home, and sure enough, the SUVs behind me reduce their speed, allowing me to pull ahead as we approach the gas station.
Triumph floods my veins as I take my foot off the gas, preparing to execute my stop-and-run maneuver.
I’m there.
Even if they catch me before I make it to a phone, my capture won’t go unnoticed.
I’m less than two hundred feet from the gas station when it happens.
A dog darts onto the road in front of me.
I react instinctively, swerving as I hit the brakes, and as my car spins into the guardrail, I have one last illogical thought.
I hope Peter and his men return from their job unscathed.
49
Peter
“Now,” I bark into the headset, and Yan fires the RPG as Arslan’s bodyguards herd their boss into his car.
Boom!
For a moment, there’s nothing but the blinding flash of the missile exploding and the ringing in my ears, but then I see it.
The surviving bodyguards scattering like roaches, with more running out of the guardhouse to confront the threat.
“Do it,” I tell Anton, and he starts picking them off one by one, his semi-automatic sniper’s rifle firing with deadly efficiency. I join him, and before long, a dozen bodies litter the ground, their heads blown open by our bullets.
“Two o’clock,” Yan shouts in the headset, and I spot movement on the ground. A guard is crouched low, using the burning car as a cover. His arm is around a man’s back, protecting him.
Fury spikes through me as I recognize the man.
Deniz Arslan.
Our target is still alive.
He’s bloodied and covered with dirt, but he’s walking—which means his bodyguards are even better than we thought.
“It’s Arslan,” I snarl into the headset, shifting my position to angle my scope around the obstruction of the burning car.
I have to get this fucker.
He has to die today.
In the distance, sirens wail, and more bodyguards rush into Arslan’s yard. We have minutes,
if not seconds, to complete our task.
Shutting out the noise and the pounding of my heartbeat in my temples, I concentrate and squeeze the trigger.
Arslan’s protector falls, his brains exploding all over the politician as I fire off a second shot.
“Fuck!”
Through training or dumb luck, my target falls and rolls—at the exact right time.
Swearing under my breath, I shoot again, and I hear the staccato roar of Anton’s weapon next to mine.
With grim satisfaction, I watch as two of our bullets rip through Arslan’s skull, exploding his brain on the way.
It’s done.
The corrupt politician is dead.
“Incoming,” Yan yells, and I jump to my feet, hearing a helicopter in the distance.
As expected, we’re going to have pursuit.
It takes mere seconds for Anton and myself to shimmy down from the neighbor’s roof and join Yan below on the street. It’s only a few blocks to the community fence from here, and we run as fast as we can as the sirens’ wail grows louder. The helicopter is approaching quickly, too.
“Ilya? Tell me you’re there,” I order, out of breath as I sprint down the street.
“Ready and waiting,” he reports. “You guys better hurry. It’s about to be a madhouse over here.”
Clenching my teeth, I pick up speed, and Yan and Anton do the same as a vehicle squeals out onto the street a block behind us.
Arslan’s remaining bodyguards are catching up.
The ten-foot fence looms ahead, with community guards pouring onto the road, armed to the teeth.
“Now,” I shout at Yan, and he pulls out a grenade, ripping the pin off with his teeth without slowing down.
The guards scatter as Yan throws the grenade, and Anton and I pull out our guns, firing indiscriminately.
We don’t need to kill them all, just get them out of our way.
We’re now at the fence, so I jump up, grabbing onto a tree branch to lever myself up. This, here, is why we train so hard, why we have to be stronger than most athletes. My muscles scream as I dangle by one hand, lowering the other arm to pull up Anton, and when Anton scales the top of the fence, he pulls me up before reaching down for Yan as I provide the cover fire.
Another grenade from Yan explodes in a deafening flash, chasing away the guards as we jump down from the fence, and then we’re off again, running at top speed.
We need to get to our rendezvous point.
That’s the only way we’ll make it out.
The helicopter roar intensifies above us, the police sirens screaming ever louder.
“Now, Ilya,” I shout into the headset, and his car screeches around the bend, slowing down just enough for us to jump in.
We peel away from Arslan’s community, taking the back roads toward a tunnel, and when the sounds of pursuit fade, we switch vehicles and drive directly to our plane.
We made it.
Our target’s dead, and no one got hurt.
Elated, I call Lucas as soon as our plane lifts off the ground.
“It’s over,” I say when he picks up the phone. “We’re on our way back, so you can tell Sara to get ready. We’re going to pick her up before we make a little detour to New Zealand.”
For a moment, all there is silence. Then Lucas speaks.
“Peter…” His tone is grave. “About Sara… I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
50
Peter
My heart turns into a block of ice, my lungs calcifying at Lucas’s words. Sara, in an accident—it’s impossible, unthinkable.
It’s my worst nightmare come true.
Lucas is speaking, telling me something about a car and a dog, but I’m not processing. There is a dull roaring in my ears, and all I can think about is the other time someone gave me news over the phone in that tone.
The stench of death, Tamila’s long lashes singed and glued with blood, Pasha’s tiny hand curled around a toy car… My vision darkens, all awareness fading as anguish tears through me, decimating everything inside.
Sorting through a pile of bodies, hearing the buzzing of the flies, knowing I wasn’t there to save them…
I can’t breathe, can’t feel anything but gut-wrenching horror.
A car accident. Sara. Her body crushed in crumpled heaps of metal.
The agony is too intense to bear. I can’t picture her dead, can’t imagine her vital spark extinguished.
Something red and hot trickles down my forearm. Dimly, I realize my fingers are digging into the phone so hard I’ve torn off a nail. The pain doesn’t register, though. Nothing registers except the hollow agony spreading through my chest.
I can’t lose Sara.
I won’t survive it.
“—so she might have a concussion, but the doctors don’t think that—”
“A concussion?” I latch on to the one word that doesn’t make sense. My thoughts are disjointed and slow, paralyzed by shock and growing grief. “What are you talking about?”
“The doctors don’t think it’s too severe,” Lucas says, his voice taking on an exasperated edge. “Haven’t you been listening? It’s a nasty gash on her forehead, but they’ll make sure it doesn’t leave a scar. And obviously, I’ll cover all the bills—it’s the least I can do under the circumstances.”
“A scar?” It doesn’t click for a moment, the despair encasing me too thick, too absolute, but then my synapses start to fire. Dragging in a long-overdue breath, I rasp out, “She’s… alive?”
“What?” Lucas sounds confused. “Yes, of course. I told you, she has a dislocated shoulder and a possible concussion. Do you have bad reception there or something? Yes, Sara is obviously alive. Her car slammed into the guardrail, and she cut open her head and hurt her shoulder. We brought her to the clinic in Switzerland—the one Esguerra likes to use, remember? Peter, are you listening?”
I am, but I can’t tell him that. My throat muscles have spasmodically locked up, and so has my entire body. The relief is so intense it tears through me like shrapnel from a mine, as painful in its own way as the anguish that choked me before. I don’t remember crying when I lost my son, but now I feel that agonizing moisture on my face, the tears leaving scorching trails on what remains of my heart.
I didn’t lose Sara.
She’s alive.
Injured in my absence but alive.
“Peter? Can you hear me?” Lucas’s voice grows in volume. “Fuck, man, can you hear me?”
“I’m on my way,” I say thickly, and hanging up, I order Anton to change course for Switzerland.
51
Sara
I drift in and out of floating darkness, my senses alternating between groggy awareness and total blankness. When I’m coherent enough to think, I’m cognizant of the pain, but I can also latch on to other stimuli… like voices.
“How could you do this? Do you not realize what he’s going to do when he returns? We were supposed to keep her safe.” It’s a male voice, harsh and chiding. I know the man the voice belongs to, but the throbbing pain in my temples becomes unbearable whenever I try to think of the name.
“It was your guards who chased her. You could’ve let her go,” a female voice objects. The woman sounds upset. I know her name is something foreign and exotic, but I’m too fuzzy to remember what it is. “He was abusing her, Lucas—“
Yes, Lucas, that’s it, I recall with relief. Lucas Kent, the arms dealer who lives in Cyprus.
“Abusing her? He fucking worships the ground she stands on. Did you not see the way he looks at her?” Kent sounds like he’s on the verge of killing someone. “And I told you—he called about her every day, wanting to know if she’s eating, sleeping… if she’s fucking content. Does that sound like a man who’s torturing a woman? And she has been asking about him. Would a woman who hates her kidnapper worry about his safety?”
“No, but—”
“But nothing! Even if he waterboards her every night, it’s none of our fuc
king business. I was doing him a favor, and now we’ll be lucky if we don’t end up on his list.”
“Lucas, please.” The exotically named woman—Kent’s wife, the beautiful blonde, I now recall—sounds even more upset. “It was a freak accident, nothing more. He’ll understand. Let me talk to him, explain what happened—”
“No.” Kent’s voice is grimly resolute. “I don’t want him to know you were in any way involved. You’re flying back home before he gets here. And I’m going to borrow a few dozen guards from Esguerra until we can hire more of our own.”
“But what about you?” Kent’s wife asks, her worried tone intensifying the nauseating pain in my head. Wincing, I try to shift into a more comfortable position—and have to choke back a cry as agony explodes in my left shoulder.
“I’m going to stay here until he lands,” Kent says as I take shallow breaths to manage the blaze of pain. I want to open my eyes, but something is preventing it, and I don’t dare move my arms again to find out what it is.
“What if he tries to kill you?” Kent’s wife argues. “If you’re right and he won’t listen—”
“I’m keeping a dozen guards with me, and besides, he’ll have her to worry about.” I can feel his attention shift to me, and then Kent says, “I think I just saw her move. The painkillers must be wearing off. Get the nurses in here, quickly.”
I hear rapid footsteps, and a minute later, I’m floating in fuzzy nothingness again.
The next time I resurface, it’s to a soft feminine hand stroking my hair. It feels good, especially since my head feels like a concrete-filled balloon.
“I’m so sorry, Sara,” a woman murmurs, and this time, her name comes to me. Yulia—that’s what Kent’s wife is called. “I have to leave now, but I want you to know how sorry I am. I thought you’d have more time to get away, but Lucas suspected I might try to help you and he set up some additional perimeter alarms. I’m so sorry. I never intended this to happen. I hope you believe me.”