by Anna Zaires
Our best chance of survival lies in getting everyone to that plane. Even with my help, my parents are barely functioning as is.
So I suppress the urge to rush back toward the limo and instead yell, “Hurry!” to Rosa, who’s nearly caught up with us. Then the four of us are running again, my dad towing my mom along. He’s deathly pale and his eyes look wild, but he’s putting one foot in front of another, and that’s all I need him to do at the moment. If we get through this, I’ll worry about the impact on my parents’ psyche and agonize about my role in all this.
For now, our only task is survival.
Still, even knowing this, I can’t stop myself from casting frantic glances behind us as we run. Fear for Julian is a giant knot in my stomach. I can’t imagine losing him again. I don’t think I’d survive it.
The first time I glance back, I see that Julian and Lucas took shelter behind the limo and are exchanging fire with men hiding behind the SUV. There are already two corpses on the ground, and a bloody hole in the SUV’s windshield.
Even in my panic, I feel a flash of pride. My husband and his right-hand man know what they’re doing when it comes to taking lives.
The second glance I steal reveals an even better situation. Four enemy corpses and Lucas making his way around the limo to get at the remaining shooter while Julian provides cover fire.
By the third glance, the final shooter is eliminated, and the gunfire stops, the hangar oddly silent after all the racket. I see Lucas and Julian on their feet, apparently uninjured, and tears of joy start rolling down my cheeks.
We did it. We survived.
We’re already by the plane, and I see Thomas, the driver from my hair appointment, standing by the open door. “Please get them inside,” I tell him in a shaking voice, and he nods, shepherding my parents and Rosa up the stairs. “I’ll be with you in a second,” I tell my dad when he tries to get me to join them. “I just need a moment.” Liberating myself from his grip, I turn back toward the limo.
“Julian!” Raising the AK-47 above my head, I wave at him with the weapon. “Over here! Come, let’s go!”
He looks at me, and I see a huge smile light up his face.
Half-laughing, half-crying, I begin to run toward him, cognizant of nothing but my joy—and then the wall next to the limo explodes, sending him and Lucas flying.
Chapter 36
Julian
Pain. Darkness.
For a second, I’m back in that windowless room, with Majid’s knife slicing through my face. My stomach heaves, vomit rising in my throat. Then my mind clears, and I become cognizant of a dull ringing in my ears.
That didn’t happen in Tajikistan.
I didn’t feel this hot there, either.
Too hot. So hot I’m burning.
Fuck! A spurt of adrenaline chases away all traces of mental fog. Moving with lightning speed, I roll several times, putting out the flames eating at my vest. Nausea grips at my insides, my head throbbing with agony, but when I stop, the fire is gone.
Panting furiously, I lie still and try to regain my senses. What the fuck just happened?
The ringing in my head eases slightly, and I pry open my eyelids to see burning pieces of rubble all around me.
An explosion. It must’ve been an explosion.
As soon as the realization comes to me, I hear it.
A burst of gunfire, followed by answering shots.
My heart stops beating. Nora!
The jolt of panic is so intense, it supersedes everything. No longer cognizant of pain, I surge to my feet, stumbling as my knees buckle for a second before stiffening to support my weight.
Whipping my head from side to side, I look for the source of gunshots, and then I see it.
A small figure darting behind a large plane after letting loose another volley of shots. Behind her is a group of four armed men, all dressed in SWAT gear.
In a split second, I take in the rest of the scene. The hangar wall near the limo is gone, blown into pieces, and through the opening, I see the police chopper sitting on the grass, its blades now still and silent.
My men in that last SUV must’ve lost the fight, leaving us exposed to Sullivan’s remaining forces.
Before that thought is fully formed in my mind, I’m already on the move. The limo is burning next to me, but the fire is in the front, not the back, so I still have a few seconds. Leaping toward the car, I wrench open one of the doors and climb inside. The weapons are still in the stash, so I grab two machine guns and jump out, knowing the car could blow up at any moment. As I do so, I notice Lucas struggling to get to his feet a dozen yards away. He’s alive; I register that with a distant sense of relief.
I don’t have time to dwell on it more. A hundred yards away, Nora is weaving around the planes, exchanging shots with her pursuers. My tiny pet against four armed men—the thought fills me with sickening terror and rage.
Gripping both weapons, one in each hand, I begin running. The second I have a clear line of sight at Sullivan’s men, I open fire.
Rat-tat-tat! One man’s head explodes. Rat-tat-tat! Another man goes down.
Realizing what’s happening, the two surviving men turn around and begin firing at me. Ignoring the bullets whizzing around me, I continue running and shooting, doing my best to zig-zag around the planes. Even with the vest protecting my chest, I’m far from immune to gunfire.
Rat-tat-tat! Something slices across my left shoulder, leaving a burning trail in its wake. Cursing, I grip the guns tighter and return fire, causing one of the men to jump behind a small service truck. The second one continues shooting at me, and as I run, I see Nora step out from behind one of the planes and take aim, her eyes dark and enormous in her pale face.
Pop! The shooter’s head explodes with a bang. Her bullet hit its target. Twisting, she turns and fires at the one hiding behind the truck.
Using the distraction she’s providing, I change my course, snaking around the truck where the remaining man is taking shelter. As I come up behind him, I see him aiming at Nora—and with a bellow of rage, I squeeze the trigger, peppering him with bullets.
He slides down the side of the truck, a bloody mass of lifeless meat.
There are no more shots, the resulting silence almost startling.
Panting, I lower my guns and step out from behind the truck.
Chapter 37
Nora
As Julian emerges from behind the truck, bloodied but alive, I drop the AK-47, my fingers no longer able to hold on to the heavy weapon. The emotion filling my chest goes beyond happiness, beyond relief.
It’s elation. Stunning, savage elation that we killed our enemies and survived.
When the wall exploded and armed men ran into the hangar, I thought that Julian had been killed. Gripped by blinding fury, I opened fire on them, and when they began shooting at me, I ran mindlessly, operating on pure instinct.
I knew I wouldn’t last more than a couple of minutes, and I didn’t care. All I wanted was to live long enough to kill as many as I could.
But now Julian is here, in front of me, as alive and vital as ever.
I don’t know if I run toward him, or if he runs toward me, but somehow I end up in his embrace, held so tightly that I can barely breathe. He’s raining hot, burning kisses all over my face and neck, his hands roaming over my body in search of injuries, and all the horror of the past hour disappears, pushed away by wild joy.
We survived, we’re together, and nothing will ever tear us apart again.
* * *
“These two were near the chopper,” Lucas says when we come out of the hangar in search of him. Like Julian, he’s bloodied and unsteady on his feet, but no less deadly for that—as evidenced by the state of the two men lying on the grass. They’re both groaning and crying, one clutching his bleeding arm and the other attempting to contain blood spurting out of his leg.
“Is that who I think it is?” Julian asks hoarsely, nodding toward the older man, and Lucas smiles savage
ly.
“Yes. Patrick Sullivan himself, along with his favorite—and last remaining—son Sean.”
I gaze at the younger man, now recognizing his contorted features. It’s Rosa’s assailant, the one who got away.
“I’m guessing they came in the chopper to observe the action and swoop in at the right time,” Lucas continues, grimacing as he holds his ribs. “Except the right time never came. They must’ve learned who you were and called in all the cops who owed them favors.”
“The men we killed were cops?” I ask, beginning to shake as my adrenaline-fueled high starts to fade. “The ones in the Hummers and the SUVs, too?”
“Judging by their gear, many of them were,” Julian replies, wrapping his right arm around my waist. I’m grateful for his support, as my legs are beginning to feel like cooked noodles. “Some were probably dirty, but others just blindly following orders from their higher-ups. I have no doubt they were told we were highly dangerous criminals. Maybe even terrorists.”
“Oh.” My head starts hurting at the thought, and I suddenly become aware of all my aches and bruises. The pain hits me like a tidal wave, followed by an exhaustion so intense that I lean against Julian, my vision going gray.
“Fuck.” With that muttered expletive, my world tilts, turning horizontal, and I realize that Julian picked me up, lifting me against his chest. “I’m going to take her to the plane,” I hear him saying, and I use all of my remaining strength to shake my head.
“No, I’m fine. Please let me down,” I request, pushing at his shoulders, and to my surprise, Julian complies, carefully setting me on my feet. He keeps one arm around my back, but lets me stand on my own.
“What is it, baby?” he asks, looking down at me.
I gesture toward the two bleeding men. “What are you going to do with them? Are you going to kill them?”
“Yes,” Julian says. His blue eyes gleam coldly. “I will.”
I take a slow breath and release it. The girl Julian brought to the island would’ve objected, offered him some reason to spare them, but I’m not that girl anymore. These men’s suffering doesn’t touch me. I’ve felt more sympathy for a beetle turned onto its back than for these people, and I’m glad Julian is about to take care of the threat they present.
“I think Rosa should be here for this,” Lucas says. “She’ll want to see justice served.”
Julian glances at me, and I nod in agreement. It may be wrong, but in this moment, it seems right for her to be here, to see the one who hurt her come to this end.
“Bring her here,” Julian orders, and Lucas heads back into the hangar, leaving Julian and me alone with the Sullivans.
We watch our captives in grim silence, neither one of us feeling like speaking. The older man is already unconscious, having passed out from heavy bleeding, but Rosa’s attacker is quite vocal in his pleas for mercy. Sobbing and writhing on the ground, he promises us money, political favors, introduction to all the US cartels . . . whatever we want if only we would let him go. He swears he won’t touch any woman again, says it was a mistake—he didn’t know, didn’t realize who Rosa was . . . When neither Julian nor I react, his bargaining attempts turn into threats, and I tune him out, knowing nothing he says will change either of our minds. The anger within me is ice-cold, leaving no room for pity.
For what he’s done to Rosa and for the child we lost, Sean Sullivan deserves nothing less than death.
A minute later, Lucas comes back, leading a shaky-looking Rosa out of the hangar. The second she lays eyes on the two men, however, her face regains color and her gaze hardens. Approaching her attacker, she stares down at him for a couple of seconds before raising her eyes to us.
“May I?” she asks, holding out her hand, and Lucas smiles coldly, handing her his rifle. Her hands steady, she aims at her assailant.
“Do it,” Julian says, and I watch yet another man die as his face is blown apart. Before the echo from Rosa’s shot fades, Julian steps toward unconscious Patrick Sullivan and releases a round of bullets into his chest.
“We’re done here,” he says, turning away from the corpse, and the four of us walk back to the plane.
* * *
On the way home, Thomas pilots the plane while Lucas rests in the main cabin with Julian, myself, and Rosa. Upon seeing all of us alive, my mom breaks down in hysterical sobs, so Julian leads my parents into the plane’s bedroom, telling them to take a shower and relax there. I want to go see how they are, but the combination of exhaustion and post-adrenaline slump finally catches up to me.
As soon as we’re in the air, I pass out in my seat, my hand held tightly in Julian’s grip.
I don’t remember landing or getting to the house. The next time I open my eyes, we’re already in our bedroom at home, and Dr. Goldberg is cleaning and bandaging my scrapes. I vaguely recall Julian washing the blood off me on the plane, but the rest of the trip is a blur in my mind.
“Where are my parents?” I ask as the doctor uses tweezers to get a small piece of glass out of my arm. “How are they feeling? And what about Rosa and Lucas?”
“They’re all sleeping,” Julian says, watching the procedure. His face is gray with exhaustion, his voice as weary as I’ve ever heard it. “Don’t worry. They’re fine.”
“I examined them upon arrival,” Dr. Goldberg says, bandaging the sullenly bleeding wound on my arm. “Your father bruised his elbow pretty badly, but he didn’t break anything. Your mother was in shock, but other than a few scratches from the broken glass and a bit of whiplash, she’s fine, as is Ms. Martinez. Lucas Kent has a couple of cracked ribs and a few burns, but he’ll recover.”
“And Julian?” I ask, glancing at my husband. He’s already clean and bandaged, so I know the doctor must’ve seen to him while I was sleeping.
“A mild concussion, same as you, along with first-degree burns on his back, a few stitches in the arm where a bullet grazed him, and some bruising. And, of course, these little wounds from the flying glass.” Taking another piece of glass out of my arm, the doctor pauses, looking at us both as if trying to decide how to proceed. Finally, he says quietly, “I heard about the miscarriage. I’m so sorry.”
I nod, fighting to contain a sudden swell of tears. The pity in Dr. Goldberg’s gaze hurts more than any shard of glass, reminding me of what we lost. The agonizing grief I’d buried during our fight for survival is back, sharper and stronger than ever.
We might’ve survived, but we didn’t emerge unscathed.
“Thank you,” Julian says thickly, getting up and walking over to stand by the window. His movements are stiff and jerky, his posture radiating tension. Apparently realizing his blunder, the doctor finishes treating me in silence and departs with a murmured “good night,” leaving us alone with our pain.
As soon as Dr. Goldberg is gone, Julian returns to the bed. I’ve never seen him this tired. He’s all but swaying as he walks.
“Did you sleep at all on the plane?” I ask, watching as Julian pulls off the T-shirt and sweatpants he must’ve changed into when we got home. My chest aches at the sight of his injuries. “Some bruising” is a serious understatement. He’s black and blue all over, with much of his muscular back and torso wrapped in white gauze.
“No, I wanted to keep an eye on you,” he replies wearily, climbing onto the bed next to me. Lying down facing me, he drapes one arm over my side and draws me closer. “I guessed you might be concussed from that tumble you took in the car,” he murmurs, his face mere inches from mine.
“Oh, I see.” I can’t look away from the intense blue of his gaze. “But you also have a concussion, from the explosion.”
He nods. “Yes, I figured as much. Another reason for me to stay awake earlier.”
I stare at him, my ribcage tightening around my lungs. I feel like I’m drowning in his eyes, getting sucked deeper into those hypnotic blue pools. Unbidden, recollections of the explosion slither into my mind, bringing with them the full horror of these recent events. Julian flying from
the blast, Rosa’s rape, the miscarriage, my parents’ terrified faces as we speed down the highway amidst a hail of bullets . . . The horrible scenes jumble together in my brain, filling me with suffocating grief and guilt.
Because I dragged us to that club, in a span of two short days I lost my baby and nearly lost everyone else who matters to me.
The tears that come feel like blood squeezed out of my soul. Each drop burns through my tear ducts, the sounds bursting out of my throat hoarse and ugly. My new world isn’t just dark; it’s black, utterly without hope.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I attempt to curl into a ball, to make myself as small as possible to keep the pain from exploding outward, but Julian doesn’t let me. Wrapping his arms around me, he holds me as I break apart, his big body warming me as he strokes my back and whispers into my hair that we survived, that everything will be all right and we’ll soon go back to normal . . . The low, deep sound of his voice surrounds me, filling my ears until I can’t help but listen, the words providing comfort despite my awareness of their falseness.
I don’t know how long I cry like this, but eventually the worst of the pain ebbs, and I become cognizant of Julian’s touch, of his enormous strength. His embrace, once my prison, is now my salvation, keeping me from drowning in despair.
As my tears ease, I become aware that I’m holding him just as tightly as he’s gripping me, and that he also seems to derive comfort from my touch. He’s consoling me, but I’m consoling him in return—and somehow that fact lessens my agony, lifting some of the dark fog pressing down on me.
He’s held me while I cried before, but never like this. Directly or indirectly, he’s always been the cause of my tears. We haven’t been united in our pain before, have never gone through joint agony. The closest we’ve come to experiencing loss together was Beth’s gruesome death, but even then, we didn’t have a chance to mourn together. After the warehouse explosion, I mourned Beth and Julian on my own, and by the time he came back for me, there was more anger than grief within me.