You Don't Know My Name

by Kristen Orlando

  I gasp new air into my scorching lungs. The anger in his eyes is now replaced with shock and pain. Blood pours from his neck and drips down onto my face. His hands leave my neck and slowly lift up to his own. He touches the serrated blade in his throat. I push him off my stomach and his heavy body rolls onto the floor.

  I jump to my feet and stand over him. His body has started to convulse and his limbs are shaking. His chest rises and falls with quick, panicked breaths. I watch as crimson blood pours down the side of his neck, soaking the white area rug.

  As he looks up at me, his eyes fill with the type of fear you must feel when you know you’re about to die, when you know there is no way you can possibly fight back or live through this. A tear runs down his cheek and his mouth trembles. The shaking grows more violent. The blood pours faster, heavier. His eyes stay locked on mine, glassy and pleading for help.

  I thought I’d feel some sort of pleasure as I watched a man who wanted to murder my parents die in front of me. I thought I’d get some sort of satisfaction watching the light fade from his eyes. But I don’t. I don’t feel pity or sadness either. I feel nothing, and as I watch him shake, I just want it to be over. I just want this to end. I reach around my waist and pull my pistol out from the back of my pants. I wrap my finger around the metal. I’ve held this type of gun a thousand times, but it somehow seems heavier in my hands now. Maybe because I’m light-headed—weakened from the fight—or maybe it’s because I know that once I pull the trigger, I will always be a killer. I will always have someone else’s blood on my hands.

  Bang. The shot forces my body back. The bullet strikes him in the temple. The shaking stops. The hand he held at his neck falls to the ground. I stand there, my arms stretched in front of my body, my pistol still pointed straight ahead. I watch as blood streaks down his cheek from the bullet hole in his skull. His shallow breaths have ceased and I know he is dead.

  My fingertips cautiously reach for the skin on my neck where his strong hands used to be. It stings. I pull my hands away, tuck my pistol into the back of my pants, step over the dead body, and pick my M4 up off the floor. I stand at the open door, lean my body against the door frame and listen.

  I hear a struggle down the hall, and then someone yelling in pain.

  Luke. I sidestep down the hall, my gun pointed in front of me, and follow the sound. Another grunt, a strike, someone loses their breath, a body falls.

  I peer around the wall and Luke is down on the ground, a man straddling him on either side. Luke’s fist makes contact with the man’s jaw. Tiny droplets of blood splatter from his busted lip, dotting the cream walls.

  “Te voy a matar, hijo de puta,” he yells in Spanish. I’ll kill you, bastard. He pulls a gun out of his pocket and unlocks the safety. Without even thinking, I raise my gun and fire.

  The stifled pop of my M4 fills the hallway. My bullet strikes him in the back of his head. The gun in his hand drops to the ground as his body falls forward, on top of Luke.

  My feet pound down the hallway. No need to be quiet anymore. They know we’re here.

  Luke pushes the man off of him, rolling him onto his back. The man’s mouth is open. His eyes stare. Blank. Dead. I reach for Luke’s hand, pulling him off the floor.

  “Are you okay?” I brush Luke’s bruised cheek with my fingertips. He winces and pulls away. Embarrassed, I return my hand to my side. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s all right. I’m okay,” he says, taking my face in his hands and pulling it toward his until our foreheads touch. “Thank you for saving me.”

  “You would have done the same,” I say and break out of our embrace. “Come on. They know we’re here. We don’t have much time.”

  Broken glass from fallen picture frames crunches under our feet. The only bit of color in the entire hallway hangs at the other end. The sight of it makes my chest tighten. A large ornate cross covered in gold with large gemstones and diamonds in the center. Inscribed in a gold plate above the cross are the words Sigue a Dios. The fire inside me rages hotter. Beat, torture, murder … then hide behind the cross.

  Luke stops and stares at the plaque next to me. “Follow God,” I say, reading the inscription again. I grab the cross off the wall and slam it down with so much force, it shatters. Pieces of gold and rubies and diamonds scatter across the hardwood floor. I tear the plaque off the wall and throw it as far as I can. It lands near the guest room with a clang and slides toward the pool of blood near the dead guard’s head.

  I point my gun down the dark hallway toward the basement door. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I can feel his presence, sense his evil. I know he’s on the other side of that door. I just pray my mother is with him and still alive.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The basement is dark and quiet. It feels fifteen degrees colder than the rest of the house and the sudden change in temperature makes my skin throb.

  Luke and I creep through the massive media room with plush leather chairs, a popcorn machine in the corner, and movie posters on the wall. Scarface hangs in the center. Way to be a walking cliché, Torres.

  Luke points to an open door ahead. We both push our backs up against the wall and the textured gray wallpaper rubs against our gear with each step. We pause once our feet touch the door frame and listen for any sound on the other side. Nothing. I whip my body around the door and point my gun inside. A wine cellar. Thousands of bottles line the walls and a large table sits in the center with three wineglasses at every seat. This man lives very well. Running a drug enterprise is certainly more lucrative than being a Black Angel.

  I give Luke the all clear and wave him forward, and that’s when I see it. A closed door at the south end of the basement. According to the house plans, this is an unfinished storage space. A million pins prick my skin. I know she’s in there, I can feel her. I nod toward the door and Luke’s blue eyes widen.

  The door feels cold and thick as I press my ear to it, hoping to hear something on the other side. There’s a rustling and the clanging of metal, then a man speaking in Spanish followed by a woman’s voice.

  “Stop,” she says. “Please, stop.”

  My heart is beating so loud now it drowns out the sounds on the other side. But I know that voice.

  “It’s her,” I mouth to Luke. I gently test the doorknob. Locked. “Kick it in.”

  He takes two steps back as I ready my weapon, waiting to fire at Torres on the other side.

  Luke counts down with his fingers. Five, four, three, two, one. I suck in a breath.

  Boom. The door frame cracks as Luke smashes his foot against it, sending it crashing against the storage room wall.

  I run into the room, my gun pointed in front of me, my trigger finger ready to shoot. And there in the corner, with a long, rusty chain wrapped around her wrist, is my nearly unrecognizable mother. Her cheek is purple, her arms slashed, blood dripping from her broken nose. Her white tank top and underwear are crusted with old blood as she lies on a dirty mattress on the floor. Behind her, with his back pressed up against the cinder-block wall is Torres, salt-and-pepper goatee, dark eyes, and thick, graying hair, holding a shiny pistol to my mother’s head.

  Mom looks at me, half terrified and half numb as she yanks at the choke hold Torres has on her neck. I point my weapon straight at his head. I want to pull the trigger but I don’t have a clear shot. He’s so close to Mom and they’re both thrashing around. A half an inch off, and she’ll meet the end of my bullet. It’s too risky.

  “It’s over, Torres,” I say, my voice fighting to stay steady. “Let her go.”

  “No, Reagan, don’t,” my mother pleads, her voice thin and her eyes panicked, screaming at me to run.

  “I finally get to meet the famous Reagan Hillis,” Torres says, his voice low and husky, his accent thick. “The chosen one, yes? So glad you could join us.”

  “Reagan, no! Leave now,” Mom begs, her feet scraping against the gray concrete floor just beyond the mattress. She moves her body left, then right, tryin
g to twist out of Torres’s grasp. The metal chains around her arm clang against the wall as he pulls her body tighter.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Torres hisses in her ear. Mom closes her eyes and pulls down on his arm. He doesn’t budge. “I’m not done with you.”

  “All your men are dead,” I say, my voice rising. “And I’ll kill you too if you don’t drop your weapon and let her go.”

  Torres throws his head back, a laugh bubbling up his throat. I shiver at the sound of it. “I’m not stupid. I was trained by the best too, you know. You don’t have a good shot. You don’t want to be responsible for killing your own mother. So I’ll make it easy on you. I’ll kill her for you.”

  Torres clicks the safety off of his pistol and points it at my mother’s head, pushing the barrel into her temple.

  “Reagan, run. Get out of here,” she screams. My entire body stings. I cannot feel my legs or hands or feet. I try to control the shaking that I know will soon follow, but my fingers have already started to tremble. I couldn’t get a good shot off now even if I tried.

  “Don’t hurt her,” I yell and lower my weapon. I take my finger off the trigger and hold the gun at my waist. “Take me instead.”

  “Reagan, don’t,” Luke says, keeping his weapon pointed squarely on Torres.

  Torres’s eyes turn away from my mother and focus on me. “Lay your weapon down and I’ll think about it.”

  I bend my knees and place the gun on the ground. With my foot, I slide it toward him and his lips curl into a malicious grin.

  “Reagan, no,” my mother pleads. “Please, don’t do this.”

  But it’s too late. I raise my arms in the air.

  “You wanted me, right?” I say, my voice stronger than I thought it would be. “I’m your revenge killing. So take me. Let her go.”

  “We tried to grab you at school,” Torres says, licking his bottom lip. “But you were too smart for us. But your parents … your parents were stupid. Stupid and slow. They always were that way. When they were trainees, I could take them down with one move. But you … you are the strong one.”

  “Please, baby. Don’t trade your life for mine,” my mother whispers, her voice shaking, her hands still pulling down on Torres’s arm. The long chains clang against the wall they are attached to, but she’s too weak, too beaten and broken to fight him off. I look down at Mom’s exposed legs. Black-and-blue swollen welts run across her shins as if someone had beaten her with a baseball bat. And all the emotions I’ve been fighting to keep in their little box start to spill out.

  “What a beautiful daughter you have.” Torres speaks slowly into my mother’s ear and laughs again. His words are thick and sticky and make me nauseous. He looks back up at me. “What a lovely gesture, trading your life for hers.”

  “Don’t you touch my daughter,” my mother screams and thrashes with the most strength I’ve seen since walking into the room. She pushes her feet against the ground and throws their bodies backward, slamming Torres’s head into the cinder-block wall behind him.

  “You little bitch,” Torres booms, lifting his pistol into the air and striking her across the face with so much force, her lip splits open. Dazed, she lowers her head and blood spills from her full bottom lip.

  “Mom,” I wail and take another step closer to them. Luke puts his arm out in front of me, holding me back. Hot tears sting my eyes, blurring my vision. I bite my tongue and push them away. I will not let him see me weak. “Leave her alone. You’ve got what you wanted. Let her go.”

  Bright red blood drips down my mother’s chin, dotting her white tank top. Her blond hair, matted with sweat, hangs over her left eye. Torres takes the barrel of his gun and slides it across her forehead. Her body shakes as Torres uses the tip of his pistol to move her hair away from her eye.

  “There, there, my princess,” Torres says, kissing her forehead, watching my expression with each move he makes. I trap the scream in my throat. “You never expected to see your mother so weak, did you?”

  “She’s a strong woman,” I say as I watch my mother trying to regain her sense of focus and control. Her hands slowly creep back up to Torres’s left arm, still wrapped tightly around her neck. “You haven’t fought fair, Torres. You’ve tied her up and let your hired hitmen beat the hell out of her. If you actually let her fight you, you know she’d break your neck in ten seconds.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Torres says, returning the barrel of the gun to the right side of Mom’s head.

  “Let her go. Unchain her and let her walk out the door with him,” I say and nod toward Luke. “Then you can have me, the one you came for. Then you get even.”

  I take another step and hold out my hands. My legs are shaking, but my mind is clear. She could save more people than I ever could. She’ll do more good in the world than me. This is the way it should be.

  “No!” my mother cries as I step closer. Tiny pellets of blood shoot from her mouth with every word. “Reagan, I love you. I won’t let you die for me.”

  “Let her go, Torres,” I say, taking another step. His cold eyes lock with mine. I hold out my hands and feel calm, at peace. Ready to die in her place. Tears stream down her face and I know she’s not crying for herself, but for me, for the choice I’m making. “My life for her life. Let my mother go.”

  “It’s an intriguing offer,” Torres says and tightens his grip on my mother’s neck. “But you see, my only son is dead. He was four years old, killed by your mother. And a year ago, your parents killed my cousin. He was like a brother to me. So as much as I appreciate your offer, it’s not enough.”

  “What more do you want?”

  Please let her go. Please let her go. Dear God, help me. Please let her go.

  But God doesn’t hear me. God won’t answer my prayer. I know it the second Torres’s crooked smile rises up his face, buckling my knees.

  “She has the blood of two of my loved ones on her hands. I want an eye for an eye.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

  Torres stares at me and digs the gun deeper into my mother’s temple. “That means … I kill you both.”

  My heart stops beating. I lock eyes with Mom just before he pulls the trigger. There’s terror and regret and love. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to stop time. But the clock still ticks. The world still spins.

  Bang. The sound of the shot rattles off the cinder-block walls and concrete floors. When I open my eyes, everything is blurry around the edges, like the world has fallen off of its axis. I look at my mother, blood pouring from her head, eyes closed. Her hair falls over her face as her body slumps and tumbles onto the dirty, stained mattress.

  “No!” someone yells. A bloodcurdling scream follows and rings in my ears. It consumes the room and knocks any trace of air that remains in my lungs. It takes me a moment to realize the person screaming is me.

  Pop. Pop. Pop. Luke opens fire on Torres, striking him in the shoulder. Torres takes a shot at me. It hits my bulletproof vest, knocking me backward. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Luke fires from his M4 again, hitting Torres in the right side of his chest. Torres grabs his wound, takes one more shot, misses, and runs for a door in the back of the room. He slips through and disappears.

  “Mom,” I scream and sprint toward her. She’s not moving. Please, God. Please, God. Please, God. It takes forever to reach her, the seconds feel like hours. I drop to my knees next to her, flip her onto her back, and grab her face, the blood from the bullet wound soaking into my hands. “Mom, please! Mommy!”

  Pow. Pow. Pow. There are gunshots from somewhere else in the house. I don’t care. I hold my mother’s face, pull it toward me, and cradle her in my arms. “Mommy, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Please wake up. Mommy, please wake up!”

  “Reagan, we have to go,” Luke says, grabbing me by the arm. “I hear more guards.”

  “We have to help her, Luke,” I shriek and push him away. I kiss the top of her forehead. “She’s hurt. She’s real
ly hurt. We have to stay and help her.”

  “We stay and we’ll be dead too—come on,” Luke says, pulling me up off the ground. I watch as my mother’s head slips out of my hands and down onto the blood-soaked mattress.

  “No! I won’t leave her,” I shout and try to kneel back down. My fingertips touch her cheek for a second before Luke picks me up by my waist and drags me toward the door.

  “Let me go,” I cry, trying to twist out of Luke’s grip. “I have to help her.”

  “We have to get out of here or everyone is going to die,” Luke yells at me, pulling me out of the storage room.

  “No, Luke, no,” I scream. I stare at my mother’s face as he lifts me up and pulls me out of the room. She gets smaller and smaller and smaller. And then, she’s gone.

  “Reagan, stop,” Luke yells as I flail in his arms.

  “Put me down,” I scream and pull at his fingers, struggling to get out of his firm grip.

  “No, I won’t let you die. We have to get back to the truck,” Luke says and pulls me into the media room. He unlocks the door to the walk-out lower level and we’re back outside.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Shots ring out from somewhere in the field.

  “There they are,” Luke says and points to the waiting truck, one hundred yards away. “Come on, Reagan. Run.”

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Luke pushes me up the hill from the basement and the two of us sprint to the truck. Maybe the others can help my mother, I think. They’ll come inside and save her.

  “Go, go, go,” Luke yells to Eduardo and bangs on the side of the truck as we reach the back. Cooper and Laz grab my arms and pull me inside. Sam grabs ahold of Luke and pulls him in.

  “We’re in,” Luke says into his earpiece and slams the truck door. The crashing metal makes me jump. “Go, Eduardo. Go.”