by Penny Reid
I saw Greg at once, a bound heap in the corner, lying on his side with a bag over his head. My stomach lurched, my eyes stung, and suddenly I wished I hadn’t been using anything so benign as Ketamine on my way in.
I quelled the rush of violent emotion and knelt beside him, moving my hands over his body. “Greg, it’s me. I’ll explain everything later. Are you hurt?”
When he spoke it was with obvious hesitation, like he didn’t trust his senses, like he expected me to disappear. “No. Well, not much. Maybe a few bruised ribs. My hands are cuffed, so are my legs.”
I nodded. Seeing this was true and that the handcuffs were standard issue, I quickly picked the lock behind his back.
As soon as my hands were on him, working his restraints, he seemed to gain more confidence that I was real and not a figment of his imagination. “They separated me from the others this morning.” His whisper was gravelly, like he wasn’t used to using his voice. “Do you have any water?”
“Yes.” I finished with his wrists and moved to his legs. “When’s the last time you had water?”
“Earlier today. They ration one cup every twenty-four hours.” He pulled the bag from his head and pushed to an upright sitting position. He began to reach for me, like he wanted to pull me into his arms, but then stopped when I placed the small canteen of water from my belt into his hands.
“Have they fed you?”
“Thank you,” he said, opening the canteen with greedy fingers.
I wanted to both laugh and cry at his ingrained politeness. Even now, starved and thirsty, he’d said thank you.
“No,” he belatedly answered between small sips, drinking slowly. “My Hausa is rusty, but I think they were starting to suspect I’m a US citizen.”
“Okay. Okay . . .” I nodded, sitting back on my heels and drinking in the sight of him. I swallowed past the mixture of relief and fear cinching my throat. Alex had been right. They hadn’t fed him or given him much water. They had no intention of releasing him, not for ransom, not ever.
“Let’s get you out of here. Do you know where the others are being kept?”
“Yes,” he responded immediately, then paused before asking, “why?”
“Because we have to get them.”
Greg abruptly pushed to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall behind him, unfolding his long form. “No. No, we don’t.”
“Yes. I have it all worked out. I came in through the east entrance and it’s clear all the way to the exit. We can get the rest of the hostages and—”
Greg’s long fingers wrapped around my shoulder, his grip much tighter than necessary. “No, Fiona. We’re leaving them. We have to get out.”
“We can’t leave them.”
“They’ll be fine.”
“Fine? Fine? Are you crazy?”
“Only EU citizens are left, I checked when we were housed together. Their countries will negotiate and pay the ransom. We leave them.”
“But you can’t know for sure they’ll all make it. I’m telling you, we can—”
“No.”
“Greg—”
“We’re not arguing about this. We need to move.”
“Greg, this place isn’t an impenetrable fortress, it’s a shoddily guarded illegal refinery. We can save—”
“You are my wife!” He cut me off with a harsh whisper. “If they capture you and dig at all they’ll find out you’re ex-CIA.”
I could only stare at his outline as I tried to rethink my strategy, find a way to maneuver around his unexpected reticence.
But before I could find the right words, he continued, “I’m not sacrificing you for strangers. I wouldn’t sacrifice you for the Dalai Lama or the Pope or Steven Hawking. Those old enlightened wankers can fend for themselves, as can the others. We’re leaving. Now.” He reached for my hand, apparently his strength returning in full force.
“You wouldn’t be sacrificing—”
Greg turned me, backed me against the wall, and placed his hand over my mouth, his voice—though still a whisper—deepened. “Fiona, nod yes or no. Is there anything I can say to change your mind about rescuing the other hostages?”
I couldn’t see his eyes, just the shadowy silhouette of his large frame and unshaven jaw hovering over me.
I shook my head no, because there was nothing he could say to change my mind. I was confident—more than confident—we had a clear shot out. I needed him to listen to reason.
His hand slipped away from my lips and his voice was angry, tight when he next spoke. “Okay. You said the east side is clear. But how do we transport eight people?”
“There’s a trail through the jungle, a straight shot north to the main road. It’s only six miles.”
He leaned back a few inches. “You have a weapon for me?”
I withdrew the SIG DAK from the back of my belt and handed it to him, hilt first, along with two additional magazines.
Greg snatched my offering and paced away from me toward the small sheath of light in the center of the room. He checked the chamber and placed the extra magazines in his back pocket. “What about you? What are you using?”
“I have a SIG X-Five and—”
“I didn’t hear any shots.”
“No, I didn’t use it. Drew lent me one of his prototype dart guns. I’ve been using that so far.”
“A dart gun?”
“Yes, it’s for subduing bears and other large game. I equipped it with livestock-grade Ketamine.”
“Where’d you get that?”
“Again, Drew. I flew out of Knoxville. Everyone thinks I’m in Tennessee visiting Ashley.”
He nodded once and stalked back to me. “So you’ve been drugging the guards?”
I shrugged, shifting on my feet, feeling antsy. This could all wait. We needed to get moving. “Knocking them out then drugging them, yes. It’s fast acting, they’ll be out for hours. But we need to—”
“Let me see it.” Greg tucked his DAK in the back of his pants and held his hand out between us.
“Greg.” What the hell was he doing this for?
“Give it to me.”
I huffed as I withdrew the petite apparatus from the holster at my thigh and handed it over, trying not to growl my impatience. “Why are you stalling?”
“How does it work?” He turned it over in his hands, angling it toward the light, giving me his profile.
“It has a chamber for three darts.” I pointed to the cylinder where the darts were housed.
“Only three?”
“Yes. Like I said, it’s a prototype. I’ve used seven and have ninety-three more rounds in my hip holster.”
“It’s safe? They’ll wake up?”
“Yes, it’s safe.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Greg. I’m sure. Now we need to get going.” I reached for the prototype and he held it away, out of my grasp.
“How do you fire the dart?”
“You have to be close, and it has to hit a major artery if you want it to work quickly. Otherwise it can take up to a minute. Like I said, I’ve been knocking them out then administering the drug after to buy us additional time, so we can all escape. The red button releases the dart.”
Greg shivered. I felt it and saw it, just before he whispered, “How close?”
“Very close. A foot or closer. It works best if you can press it against the person’s skin. But you should give it to me, I’m much faster and—”
I didn’t see him move, probably because I wasn’t expecting it. But I did feel the small sting of the needle as it entered my leg, straight into my femoral artery.
I opened my mouth in surprise, but had the wherewithal to stifle my gasp before it escaped. Greg’s hard features filled my vision. I could suddenly see him clearly, as though someone had flipped on a light. He glared at me with unrepentant resolve. He looked mean. I hardly recognized him.
“Greg? What did you—”
“I’m sorry, darling,” he said. He didn’t s
ound sorry.
Yet his arms wound around me and he brought me to his chest with infinite gentleness. I felt his hand stroke lovingly from my neck to the base of my spine before I went numb. The sound of my blood pumping filled my ears and drowned out any additional apology or words he may have offered.
By the count of ten, the room tilted.
Time slowed.
I blinked.
And everything faded away.
CHAPTER 9
Wife,
Do you know why I touch any part of you whenever I can? Walking past each other in the kitchen, while watching TV, tangling our feet together in bed? I need to make sure you are real, and you are really mine.
-Aaron
Text message
Indiana, USA
Married 18 years
~17 years ago~
*Greg*
“No one finds my jokes funny.”
“Greg . . .”
“It’s true. I told that joke about the G-spot, and my professor gave me a blank look. You could hear crickets, at noon, on a Wednesday. A dog barked in the distance. I don’t know who I should be more concerned for, him or his wife. Obviously he doesn’t know where her magic button lies.”
“Greg . . .”
“As a driller of oil, one would think he’d be spot on.” I wagged my eyebrows at her and grinned. “See what I did there? Spot on?”
She shook her head, a happy and reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “I know what you’re doing.”
“And what am I doing?”
“You’re trying to distract me.”
I studied her features, memorizing her in this moment, her bravery and strength.
This was the third time I’d driven up to visit her since moving to Texas for my last year of undergraduate studies. But instead of going out for a movie or ripping each other’s clothes off, we’d driven to Chicago. Specifically, we’d driven to the Robert H. Lurie Comprehensive Cancer Center and spent the day together, waiting.
We’d waited. And waited.
And waited.
Today was her annual oncology checkup. She’d had blood drawn and an MRI. Lots of people asked her the same questions over and over. She was poked and prodded and pushed and pulled. Each time she answered them politely, with infinite patience. She was courageous in a way I never would be. She was grace where I would have been irritable and exasperated.
Through it all, I could do nothing but hold her hand. I stifled my desire to rave like a lunatic, buried the fear and frustration under teasing remarks and terrible jokes.
So far so good.
“Is it working?”
“Yes.” Her brilliant eyes twinkled down at me from her spot on the exam table. I was entirely too far away, trying not to appear anxious where I sat in a remarkably small and uncomfortable chair.
Unable to tolerate the distance any longer, I left my jacket on the chair and moved to stand between her legs. “Good.”
“But you don’t have to.” She titled her head to the side, her dark lashes sweeping against rosy cheeks. “I’m not going to have a breakdown.”
“I didn’t think you were, darling.” I squeezed her waist and added under my breath, “But I might.”
Her grin waned, grew soft and sympathetic, and she wrapped her arms around my neck. “I feel fine.”
“Good. That’s good. You look mighty fine, too.”
Fiona’s smile was back and she laughed, scratching her nails on the back of my neck. “What do you want to do when this is over?”
“Oh, the usual. Grab sardine sandwiches, give you multiple orgasms, walk the park, get married, maybe grab a drink at that new bar on Michigan.”
“Sardine sandwiches? Again?”
I grinned wildly. “You know you liked them.”
She gagged, screwing up her face. “It’s like eating mushy, scaly salt on toast.”
“Fine. You eat your brain soup and be wrong and loathed. I’ll eat my sardine sandwiches and be delightful and admired.”
“Plus,” she added thoughtfully, “I didn’t know you made a habit of getting married when you visited Chicago.”
“I haven’t, not yet. But I’m open to adopting any new habit that forces you to move down to Austin with me.”
She glower-smirked. “For the record, I’m entirely in favor of getting married right now. But you already knew that.”
She spoke the truth. Ever since we’d become engaged she’d wanted us to elope. But I wanted to wait. I wanted a long engagement. I wanted us to take our time.
“We don’t have to get married in order for you to move to Austin.”
“I can’t move to Austin,” she replied mournfully. “But you already knew that, too.”
At the beginning of last summer, just as we’d become engaged and Fiona considered a move and transfer to Austin, she’d been tapped for a very important and impressive internship through the college of engineering. Some super, top-secret partnership with the Department of Defense.
She’d said, I’d tell you what it’s all about, but then I’d have to kill you more times than I could count, finding the phrase hilarious. Obviously her sense of humor was just as twisted and odd as mine, though wrapped in a petite and sexy package.
I adopted a glower; mine was entirely false. “I don’t see that I’m asking too much by demanding you give up your career, all your friendships, and extracurricular activities, and make me—and the chicken pot pie you’ll be cooking every night while barefoot—the center of your universe.”
“I just miss you.” The words were thought and said in unison. I didn’t want to imply she or her success were responsible for our separation, so I quickly added, “I wish I hadn’t transferred to Austin.”
“It’s just one year.” She shrugged and added offhandedly, “Plus, I like the phone sex stuff.”
An automatic growl rumbled from my chest. “I wish I could see you, though. Someone needs to invent phones with video.”
“I could always just send you pictures—”
“Yes! Do that.” I nodded enthusiastically, making her laugh again. “Do that every day. Genius. Best idea ever. You’re brilliant.”
She laughed harder, but I wasn’t joking. I wanted something tangible during the stark loneliness of her absence.
Again, I was speaking and thinking in unison, clawing fear flaring in my chest. “If something happened to you . . .” I trailed off, not quite able to complete the thought or the words.
Fiona’s merriment tapered and she blinked at me, clearly recognizing the desperation behind the words.
She sat straighter, pressed her lips against mine for a quick kiss, and then gazed at me with such open love and affection, I felt immediately unworthy and selfish.
“No one lives forever, Greg.” Her hand smoothed from my neck to cover my heart. “If something happened to me, you would be sad. In fact, you would be completely and utterly heartbroken, crying for days, unable to eat anything but sardine sandwiches.” Fiona shoved at my shoulder lightly, giving me a bright, teasing smile before adding, “But eventually, you would be fine.”
“I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t recover.” I shook my head, adoring her, loving her, and knowing my words were true as soon as I spoke them.
“You would.” She wasn’t teasing anymore, and the statement sounded like an order.
Holding her stunning gaze, I gave Fiona a bitter smile. “You don’t understand. But how could you . . .” I tilted my head back and forth, considering, trying to determine how best to confess, explain, yet ignore the pounding of fear in my veins. In the end I decided just to say it. “I’ve lost everyone, Fe. I lost my soulless father to suicide. My mother to addiction. I lost my aunt to gang violence, and my best friend to a forgotten war in Africa.”
I held her gaze for a long moment. Startled concern made her eyes wide and watchful.
My voice was as flat as my expression as I added, “Loving you, needing you, has happened quite against my will. I can’t lose you, too.”
Her stricken features spoke volumes, an echo of her impeccable heart, a testament to the intensity of her empathy. “Greg, did you . . .” She started haltingly, then stopped. Finally, as though making a decision, she said in a rush, “I wish you would tell me about your time in the Marines, how you came to have that scar.” Her cool fingers pressed against the mangled flesh of my neck, just under my ear. Where I’d been burned. It still hurt.
“I wish you would share your sorrows with me, allow me to carry your burdens. Because I want to.”
I said nothing, my vocal chords paralyzed by warring desires. In truth, I didn’t want to burden her with the details. I liked that she knew a depth of pain and suffering, and yet remained untouched by violence and war. My Fiona wasn’t naïve, yet she was paradoxically an optimist and a realist.
She made me want to believe in good because she was good.
She was a reminder that true and brilliant beauty exists in the world.
And I wasn’t ready to ruin her, expose her exquisite mind to the helplessness of brutality.
Not yet.
Not ever.
CHAPTER 10
Wife: Do you want a laptop or a desktop?
Husband: I want a divorce.
Wife: …
Husband: F*%@ing autocorrect! I want a desktop! DESKTOP!!
Husband: Hello?
Husband: I’m bringing home wine, a dozen roses, those Dove chocolate things, and please allow me to give you a foot massage. Please.
Husband: I love you.
-Henry and Gail
Text Messages
North Carolina, USA
Married 9 years (and still married)
~Present Day~
*Fiona*
My first two thoughts—as I broke through the surface to concrete consciousness—were I need to brush my teeth, and Where are my kids?
“Grace? Jack?” I croaked, struggling to open my eyes. My arms were heavy, useless.
“Shhh, slowly, my darling.” A voice shushed me, originating some distance to my left. It sounded a lot like Greg’s. A hand was at the back of my neck, rubbing it and my shoulder. “How do you feel?”
“Where’s Jack and Grace?” My words were slurred.