“Four army rebels, wearing old soldier fatigues, filed out of the truck’s canvas doors. Firing their Kalashnikovs into the air, they ordered us off the Land Cruiser. Katu calmly told us to obey, so we climbed down and put our hands in the air.
“They searched us roughly. When one groped my friend Anika, her brother Peter shouted at him. The rebel hit Peter so hard with his rifle barrel, Peter staggered into the bumper, bleeding from his ear.
“After gathering our cash and valuables, the commander lifted his Kalashnikov and shot our driver. He crumpled onto the dirt, dead. Katu aimed his hunting rifle at the rebels, shouting, ‘Let them go! They’re children!’
“Samuel, our spotter, had jumped into the driver’s seat and throttled into first … and suddenly, like that”—I snap my fingers—“the commander shot Samuel too.”
“’Stay back!’ Katu ordered, trying to stand in front of all seven of us at once. When the commander pointed his AK at Peter, Katu finally pulled the trigger … I’ll never forget that sound … click!
“Katu’s ammunition had jammed in the chamber. He looked over at me—like he knew. I reached into my boot, pulled out my 5-7, and fired twice. The commander dropped to the ground. A rebel shot Katu, so I shot him too, a double tap into his stomach …
“ ‘Go! Go! Go!’ Katu yelled. Bleeding, he knelt like a sentry in the back of the truck, firing to cover our escape … A kilometer out, I used my belt to tourniquet Katu’s leg. Samuel was barely alive. I plugged the artery in his neck with my fingers. Peter drove, blood seeping from his ruptured eardrum the whole way.
“My parents met us at Kenyatta National Hospital. A few hours later I was in Johannesburg. I never saw Katu, Peter, or Samuel again …”
Aksel watches me intently.
I look down at my fists, clenched to prevent the shaking.
“Turns out, they weren’t rebel Sudanese soldiers looking for quick cash … so that was the first time I saw them face-to-face.” I keep my voice from shaking now too.
“Saw who?” Aksel asks tentatively.
Let the memories happen so they cannot control you.
Exhaling, I look at Aksel. “Terrorists.”
CHAPTER 16
“Who are you?” Aksel says with a low whistle.
His hand hasn’t moved from the gearshift, centimeters from my bare leg; no, less than centimeters, millimeters. Aksel’s face has transformed—his shield of animosity or indifference, or whatever it was between us, has been stripped away.
“You saved them,” he states.
“Not our driver,” I say quietly.
Aksel shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked—”
“No, it’s okay. I should talk about it. It’s healthy possibly?”
Aksel’s jaw is set firmly and his expression is stoic, but his vibrant eyes watch me earnestly. My heart turns inside my chest.
Aksel drops his knee from the steering wheel and angles his body toward mine.
I feel his presence like electricity—pulsating currents pass from Aksel’s eyes into my skin, rippling through my nervous system and causing the hairs on my arms to stand on end.
“I haven’t been avoiding you—not the way you think.”
“It’s fine.” I shake my head, embarrassed I’d said it aloud earlier. “You don’t have to explain why you don’t like me, or whatever. I did pull a knife on you …”
An elusive smile passes his lips. “That’s what you think?”
All of a sudden, the Defender, surrounded by snow and ice, feels incredibly hot, like I am starting to sweat when I should be freezing.
“It’s the truth, isn’t it?” I say defensively.
Aksel appraises me with a steady, unwavering gaze. His eyes feel like they are boring right through me, trying to connect something.
Apparently, our polite interlude is over.
His full lips part over straight white teeth. He looks perplexed. “Yeah, but this has nothing to do with whether or not I … like you.”
“What other reason is there?”
Readjusting the flashlight, he drapes his left hand on the wheel as if he needs a place to put it. He watches me discerningly, carefully arranging his words. “I wondered why you came to Waterford. Not a lot of people from abroad move here.”
“So because I’m new you think I don’t belong here and expect me not to be confused, or wonder about whatever it is you’re hiding—”
“Hiding?” he interjects. His hand rattles the gearshift, startling me.
But he releases his fingers, stretching them out.
He seems genuinely confused. “I thought that’s why … I thought you knew …”
“Knew what?”
His brow is tight with frustration, like he expects me to admit something, say something. But what?
I inspect him from beneath my lashes, suddenly self-conscious of my wet, tangled hair and bandaged forehead.
All this time I’ve been wondering who Aksel is. Has he been wondering the same about me? Disjointed thoughts thread together, weaving into a recognition. Aksel’s scrutinizing looks aren’t because he is hiding something, but because he thinks I am? Forcing air into my lungs, I start talking rapidly, deliberately. “In the hallway, I saw it in your eyes, but I didn’t realize …” I stare over at Aksel, deciphering my tangled thoughts.
“You recognized me,” I conclude, “didn’t you?”
Aksel’s gaze is penetrating. I wish I could read his severe expression, but he breathes in through his nose, calming himself, concealing emotion.
I recall every place I’ve been recently: Tashkent, Vienna, Tunis … I push my memory to the brink: a night in Beirut, two days in Rabat, a weekend in Helsinki—I can’t conjure a memory of Aksel.
“We met before I moved to Waterford?” I ask.
Aksel’s vivid eyes don’t leave mine. “Not exactly.” He props his arm on the back of my headrest.
“So, we haven’t met?”
Aksel’s face smolders underneath an impassive expression, as if he’s pleading with me to get it.
Aksel shakes his head. “You don’t remember?”
“No,” I say, “and I remember things—faces.”
He eyes me guardedly. “So do I,” he says quietly, “and I remember yours.”
“From where?” I practically shout.
His eyes pierce mine. It seems like a battle is raging within him, like a part of him wants to answer and another part of him doesn’t—I can’t tell which will win out.
He seems to be constructing a response.
“I saw you a little over eighteen months ago,” Aksel finally discloses, “at the US Embassy. In Berlin.”
CHAPTER 17
Berlin.
Everything around me spins. My heart beats like a bass drum; blood throbs in my ears.
Anxiety and dread pulse inside me, radiating through my veins, from my heart to my fingertips.
Foggy images shift into focus.
Closing my eyes, I fight to block them: Fluorescent light … people in suits … a microphone … a typewriter …
I desperately want to recall seeing Aksel: where he was and what he was doing, but remembering that day will sweep me up in a tsunami of memories I won’t survive.
“Wh-what were you doing there?” I stammer. “When did you see me? How?”
Earlier, curiosity eclipsed my intuition. Now, my instincts take over.
My world is simple: someone is either a threat, or not.
I must assess Aksel, immediately. He is left-handed. If I want to hurt him, I have to go for his right side. I examine the sunroof. Can I escape? I reach inside the tiny key pouch in the lining of my shorts and slide my forefinger around my Ladybug.
With my thumb, I discreetly unfold the blade from the handle and lock it into place.
Aksel notices my movements. He leans subtly away from me, distancing himself; is he assessing me too?
The crevasse between us is both widening and narrowing at once.
“Where did you see me?” I demand.
He eyes me hesitantly. “Outside the Bubble.”
The Bubble.
Such an innocent name. Soundproofed in every way, a bubble is the only unmonitored location inside an embassy for a secure conversation. It often does resemble a bubble; the walls are made up of rippling waves of partially transparent glass; the room usually contains only a table, several chairs, and, occasionally, a typewriter.
“I … I don’t understand,” I falter. “What were you doing there?”
The muscles across Aksel’s shoulders flex. “I was visiting relatives in Germany when I got an invitation to meet with an official at the embassy.” He drags a hand through his hair. “So, I went.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t see you—I would have remembered …” Somebody who looked like you, I refrain from saying.
“Look, maybe you didn’t see me,” he finally says. “But I saw you, and I never forgot.”
Now, I understand.
I didn’t recognize Aksel—I recognized Aksel recognizing me.
Aksel sits forward, agitated. His high cheekbones and furrowed brow don’t conceal his frustration.
“At first, you just looked familiar,” he explains, “but you said you had just moved here, so I brushed it off. Then at school, it was something about your profile, the fluorescent lights, I knew I’d seen you before. When you asked me in class where I was born”—he shrugs—“I remembered instantly.”
I know there is more—much more—but memories are thundering toward me and I have to focus. I can’t be triggered. Not here. Not now. Not with Aksel.
I put my palms against my thighs, grinding my teeth. I have to block it. I have to make it stop.
Remembering Berlin is like remembering Tunisia; if I let that memory in, I let them all in.
I fold the knife blade back into its handle but keep holding it tight.
For several minutes we sit in heady silence.
Then, a deep rumbling sounds outside our cave, breaking it.
A fresh speckling of snowflakes dots the windshield.
Our eyes lock.
“Now we climb?” I ask.
For the first time, Aksel looks worried.
Aksel opens the sunroof and swiftly hoists himself through it. “Wait here,” he mutters.
I don’t wait.
Though my shoelaces are a frozen, tangled knot, I manage to slide my sneakers halfway on. Aksel has scaled the wall four meters before I scramble onto the roof.
As soon as I am out of the Defender, my teeth start to chatter.
Swirling gusts of wind pile snow onto our tomb.
“The w-w-winds changed?” I call up to him.
Aksel leaps backward and lands on the hood of the car.
He scowls. “If the drift blows through the snowbank it will collapse and—”
“Bury us,” I finish.
Placing his hand on my back, he urges me inside.
I take my sneakers off and pound the shoes harshly on the dashboard to loosen the laces.
“Here.” Aksel takes one shoe and unlaces it. With quick even movements, he guides my foot into it and ties the laces. He then does the same with the other.
When he finishes, he pulls the ski socks up over my calves as high as they can go; when his fingers touch my bare calves, a wave of heat passes from him to me.
Kneeling in front of me, with the flashlight propped on the dashboard, shining on his face, I can see how within the green of his eyes are flecks of gold, azure, and cerulean all blending together, pure and calming, like the Ionian Sea at sunrise.
Aksel takes my hands in his, forming a heated cocoon. His fingers are thick and muscular, calloused along the edges. He must rock climb—often. I should have noticed earlier.
“You’re an icicle,” he remarks, massaging my palms to keep the blood flowing.
“You’re a furnace,” I say.
Chuckling, Aksel releases my hands and crawls into the back of the Defender. Rummaging around the gear, he retrieves a rope and tucks it into his backcountry pack; he attaches the snowshoes to the pack and pulls the straps over his shoulders.
As we exit, I look over my shoulder, certain we missed something. Instinctively, I stretch between the seats, grab a solitary avalanche flare, and stuff it into my woolly sock.
Back on the roof, Aksel wraps the rope in a loose ring between his shoulder and hand; it slides smoothly along his palm.
“We’ll go up through the middle,” he tells me. “It’s the easiest route—”
“But that’s only because of the slope,” I interrupt. “We’d have to climb to the top to get out, and you said that top half is all ice. If we take this route”—I point over Aksel’s shoulder—“we’ll reach that ledge sooner. It’s flush with the top of the snowpack; we can traverse to the far side and then climb down, right?”
Aksel makes a smaller loop, runs the end through it, then makes a second loop and attaches it to the first.
He glances between me and Eagle Peak, a hint of a smile on his face. “Right.”
“Though we’ll have to stay—”
“Together,” Aksel finishes.
He lowers the rope to my knees. I look down to see what he’s been tying. A harness. Of course.
Uncertain, I step into it.
His strong hands slide the harness around my waist, tightening the rope. I can feel his broad chest hovering over my back as he checks the knot.
Goose bumps rise up my spine.
“How’s that fit?” His breath tingles the skin on the back of my neck. His hand skims over the knot, checking it. My heart races.
“Good,” I say in a dazed voice. “Where’s your rope?”
“Here.” Aksel points at the tail end of the rope.
“No way,” I say furiously, struggling out of the harness. “You’re not climbing attached to me—”
Aksel pulls the rope taut and knots it so tightly around my waist it nearly cuts off my circulation. “You’re wearing the rope,” he says in a low voice. His hand lingers on my arm, on the skin of my wrist between my shirt and the gloves.
Our breath rises up in a misty vapor from our mouths before vanishing into the air.
“Like you said, we have to stay connected. Besides, unattached, I have no way of lifting you.”
“You’re not,” I struggle to say the words, “lifting me.”
Aksel runs his fingers through the rope, catching the end. His eyes settle onto mine, bright and daring. “I’m also not letting you fall.”
As he secures his own harness, the rope moves swiftly through his fingers like fishing line. His actions are cool. Natural. Confident.
Gathering my hair back into a loose bun, I follow him down onto the hood.
Aksel walks over to the granite wall. “Stay close enough to see my route—”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s easier going up than coming down, right?”
Aksel tilts his head; the corner of his mouth twitches. Then his calloused fingers roam over the rock and slide into a fissure high above his head, and he begins to climb.
Aksel ascends the wall methodically. With the abrasive wind and snow, it’s slow progress. When he reaches five meters, I tuck my mittens into my shorts and blow on my hands.
My turn. Reaching up, I slide my fingers into a jagged crevice, and follow.
After a few treacherous minutes, I look down—the Defender is blanketed in snow.
Funneled in the cavern, snow whistles around me like a whirlpool, making it difficult to secure my fingers around the protrusions and cracks in the icy wall.
Spiraling gusts lash my cheeks. Snow pelts my face. Temporarily blinded, I fumble for a split in the rock, using my feet to propel me upward, but I find nothing.
Keeping my toes taut in the crevices, I stretch my arm.
I reach for a crag, even a narrow cleft.
Desperately, I claw at the rock.
Slipping, my fingertips slide along the smoot
h granite surface—
Got it.
I exhale.
Sliding my thumb securely into a chink, I reposition and continue.
But as I pass the triangular declivity, I hear a shrill screeeeeech!
I’m hit by a sheet of sliding snowpack. My body is knocked off the wall.
I’m falling …
The harness fastens around me like a snare. I’m suspended in midair. The rope swings, propelling me toward the granite.
I regrip onto the rock.
Adrenaline courses through my veins and I continue my ascent. Seconds later, I near the ledge.
Through the blurry white mass of snow and wind, Aksel’s silhouette emerges.
Keeping both feet propped against the rock, anchoring himself, Aksel hauls the rope adeptly toward him, one hand smoothly over the other. He’s knotted the end around a protrusion of granite—leveraging it to stabilize the rope.
As I summit, Aksel lunges for me, pulling me onto the ledge. His chest heaves as he drags me even farther back.
Clamping his arm around my waist, Aksel holds me against his side in a steel grasp as we scramble off the ledge and onto the unstable ridge cresting the snowpack.
Suddenly, a gust of wind lashes our backs.
Aksel’s arms lock behind my spine. Together we dive. We slide down the snowpack, landing in a tangled, rolling motion—then all of a sudden, I am lying on top of him, and then he is on top of me and then we are still.
Crack!
I whip my head to the right to see the ridge splinter loose.
In a rumbling wave, the entire snowpack collapses, burying the Defender.
When I look back at Aksel, his eyes are trained on me. Even in the opaque white of the storm, I can see every shade of green in his eyes. Flawless skin. Full lips. Arms so sculpted they look like they were carved from granite too.
In a low, husky voice in my ear, Aksel says, “Easy, right?”
CHAPTER 18
I am intently aware of Aksel’s arms knotted behind me, blocking my back from the ice and snow; his upper body shielding me from the wind. Aksel’s eyes move from my eyes to my lips.
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