Chapter 28

Jennie

Trembling from head to toe, I stare at Lisa, my chest squeezing with agony at the sight. There is a rough, dirty-looking bandage on her shoulder, with blood seeping out of it, and her naked body is a mass of cuts, bruises, and scrapes. Her face is even worse. Below the old bandage on her forehead, there isn't a spot left that isn't discolored or swollen. The most horrifying thing of all, however, is the huge bleeding gash running through her left cheek and all the way up into her eyebrow—a mess of ragged flesh where her eye used to be.

Where her eye used to be.

They cut out her eye.

I can't even begin to process that at the moment, so I don't try. For now, Lisa is alive, and that's all that matters.

She's tied to a metal chair, her legs bound apart and her arms restrained behind her back. I can see the shock and horror on her bloodied face as she takes in my presence, and I want to tell her that everything will be all right—that this time I am saving her—but I can't. Not yet.

Not until Jackson has a chance to get here with the reinforcements.

My bruised cheekbone is throbbing where they hit me, and the underside of my left arm is burning with pain from the open wound there. They stripped off my clothes and cut out my birth control implant while I was knocked out, probably fearing that it was a tracker of some kind. I hadn't expected that—I figured, if anything, they would find one of the real trackers—but it worked out even better than I'd hoped. After cutting out the implant and seeing that it was nothing more than a simple plastic rod, they must've dismissed me as a threat, thinking that I am exactly what I was pretending to be: a naïve girl who went to see her parents, oblivious of any remaining danger. It makes me glad that I had the foresight to leave the bracelet tracker at the estate, so as not to arouse their suspicions.

To my relief, it doesn't seem like they touched me much in other ways. At least, if they did anything more than cop a feel while I was unconscious, I feel no evidence of it. There is no soreness or stickiness between my legs, no pain of any kind. My skin is crawling at the knowledge that they had me naked, but it could've easily been much worse. When I woke up, I was already wearing someone's shirt and my own Ugg boots. They must be saving all the drama for when I'm in front of Lisa.

This was the part of my plan that Jackson found most risky: that time from my capture until my arrival at their hideout.

"You know that they can search every inch of you and find all three of the tracking devices Lisa placed on you," he told me before we left the estate. "And then you'll both be lost to us. You do understand what they will do to you to make Lisa talk, right?"

"Yes, I do, Jackson." I gave him a grim smile. "I understand perfectly. There is no other choice, though, and the trackers are tiny, the insertion wounds nearly invisible at this point. They may find one or two, but I doubt they'll find all three—and if they do, by the time they do, you may have a fix on their location."

"Maybe," he said, his eyes speaking volumes about his opinion on my sanity, "or maybe not. There are a hundred things that can go wrong between the time you get taken and when they bring you to Lisa."

"It's a risk I'll have to take," I told him, bringing the discussion to an end. I knew how dangerous it would be for me to act as a human tracking device to locate the terrorists, but I couldn't see any other way to get to Lisa in time—and judging by her current state, I was nearly too late as is.

I see Lisa attempting to compose herself, to hide her visceral reaction to my presence, but she's not entirely successful. After the initial shock passes, her jaw tightens, and her undamaged eye begins to glitter with violent rage as she takes in my semi-dressed state. Her muscles bunch, straining against the restraints. She looks like she wants to rip apart everyone in the room, and I know that the ropes tying her to the chair are the only thing preventing her from launching a suicidal attack on our captors. The other terrorists must be thinking the same thing, because two of them step closer to Lisa, clutching their weapons just in case.

Looking delighted with this turn of events, Majid laughs and drags me to the middle of the room, his grip on my arm excruciatingly tight. "You know, your dumb little whore all but fell into my lap," he says conversationally, fisting his hand in my hair and forcing me down to my knees. "We found her shopping in your absence, like all those greedy bitches. Figured we'd bring her here, so you can see her pretty little face before I carve it up . . . Unless you want to start talking?"

Lisa remains silent, glaring at Majid with murderous hatred, while I take small, shallow breaths to cope with my terror. My eyes are watering from the pain in my scalp, and the fear pulsing through me feels almost like a living thing. With my hands restrained behind my back, there's nothing I can do to prevent Majid from hurting me. I have no idea how long it's going to take Jackson to arrive, but there's every chance he might not make it in time. I can see the rust-colored stains on the blade hanging loosely from Majid's belt, and nausea rises in my throat as I realize that it's Lisa's blood.

If we're not rescued soon, it will be my blood, too.

To my horror, Majid reaches for that blade, still holding my hair in that painful grip. "Oh, yes," he whispers, pressing the flat edge against my neck, "I think her head will make a nice little trophy—after I cut it up a bit, of course . . ." He pushes the knife upward, and I freeze in terror as I feel the blade cutting into the soft skin under my chin, followed by the stomach-churning sensation of warm liquid trickling down my neck.

The growl that emanates from Lisa doesn't resemble anything human. Before I can do more than gasp, she surges forward, using the balls of her feet to propel herself and the chair off the floor. Her action is so sudden and violent that the two men standing next to her don't react in time. Lisa literally crashes into one of them, bringing the armed terrorist down to the floor, and, with one twist of her body, drives the metal leg of the chair into the man's throat.

The next few seconds are a blur of blood and screams in Arabic. Majid releases his hold on me and yells out some orders, galvanizing the others into action as he springs into the fray himself.

Still tied to the chair, Lisa is dragged off the injured man's body, and I watch in horrified fascination as the man Lisa attacked writhes on the floor, clutching his throat as rattling, gurgling sounds escape from his mouth. He's dying—I can see it in the weakening spurts of blood coming from the ragged wound in his neck—yet his agony doesn't seem to touch me. It's as though I'm watching a movie instead of observing a human being bleeding to death in front of my eyes.

Majid and the other terrorists rush to his aid, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but it's too late. The man's frantic grip on his throat eases, his eyes glazing over, and the stench of death—of evacuated bowels and violence—fills the room.

He's dead.

Lisa killed him.

I should be disgusted and appalled, but I'm not. Maybe those emotions will hit me later, but for now, all I feel is a strange mixture of gladness and pride: gladness that one of these murderers is dead, and pride that Lisa was the one to kill him. Even tied up and weakened by torture, my wife managed to take down one of her enemies—an armed man who was stupid enough to stand within Lisa's lethal reach.

My lack of empathy disturbs me on some level, but I don't have time to dwell on it. Whether Lisa intended to create a distraction or not, the end result is that nobody is paying attention to me at the moment—and as soon as I realize it, I spring into action.

Jumping to my feet, I cast a frantic glance around the room. My gaze lands on a small knife on a table near the wall, and I leap toward it, my pulse racing. The terrorists are all gathered around Lisa on the other side of the room, and I hear grunts, curses, and the sickening sound of fists hitting flesh.

They're punishing Lisa for this murder—and, for now, ignoring me.

Turning my back to the table, I manage to palm the knife and wedge the blade underneath the duct tape they wrapped around my wrists. My hands are trembling, causing the sharp blade to nick my skin, but I ignore the pain, trying to saw through the thick tape before they realize what's happening. My grip is slippery with sweat and blood, but I persist, and finally, my hands are free.

Shaking, I survey the room again, and spot an assault rifle leaning negligently against the wall. One of the terrorists must've left it there in the confusion resulting from Lisa's unexpected attack.

My heart throbbing in my throat, I inch along the wall toward the weapon, desperately hoping that the terrorists won't glance in my direction. I have no idea what I'm going to do with one gun against a roomful of men armed to their teeth, but I have to do something.

I can't stand by and watch them beat Lisa to death.

My hands close around the weapon before anyone notices anything, and I suck in a shaking breath of relief. It's an AK-47, one of the assault rifles I practiced with during my training with Lisa. Gripping the heavy weapon, I lift it and point in the direction of the terrorists, trying to control the adrenaline-induced trembling in my arms. I've never shot at a person before—only at beer cans and paper targets—and I don't know if I have what it takes to pull the trigger.

And as I'm trying to work up the courage to act, a blinding explosion rocks the room, knocking me off my feet and onto the floor.

I don't know if I hit my head or was merely dazed by the explosion, but the next thing I'm aware of is the sound of gunfire outside the walls. The entire room is filled with smoke, and I cough as I instinctively attempt to get to my feet.

"Jennie! Stay down!" It's Lisa, her voice hoarse from the smoke. "Stay down, baby, do you hear me?"

"Yes!" I yell back, intense joy filling every cell of my body as I realize that she's alive—and in a good enough condition to speak. Keeping low to the ground, I peer out from behind the table that fell next to me, and see Lisa lying on her side on the other end of the room, still tied to the metal chair.

I also see that the smoke is coming in from the vent in the ceiling, and that the room is empty except for the two of us. The battle, or whatever is happening, is taking place outside.

Jackson and the guards must have arrived.

Almost crying with relief, I grab the AK-47 lying next to me, lower myself onto my stomach, and begin to belly-crawl toward Lisa, holding my breath to avoid inhaling too much smoke.

At that moment, the door swings open, and a familiar figure steps into the room.

It's Majid—and in his right hand, he's holding a gun.

He must've realized that Al-Quadar were losing and came back to kill Lisa.

A surge of hatred rises in my throat, choking me with bitter bile. This is the man who murdered Sorn . . . who tortured Lisa and would've done the same thing to me. A vicious, psychotic terrorist who had undoubtedly murdered dozens of innocent people.

He doesn't see me there, all his attention on Lisa as he lifts his gun and points it at my wife. "Goodbye, Manoban," he says quietly . . . and I squeeze the trigger of my own weapon.

Despite my prone position, my aim is accurate. Lisa had me practice shooting sitting, lying down, and even running at some point. The assault rifle bucks in my shaking arms, slamming painfully against my shoulder, but the two bullets hit Majid exactly where I intended—in his right wrist and elbow.

The shots throw him back against the wall and knock the gun out of his grasp. Screaming, he clutches at his bleeding arm, and I get up, heedless of the danger posed by the bullets flying outside. I can hear Lisa yelling something at me, but her exact words don't register through the ringing in my ears.

In this moment, it's as though the entire world fades away, leaving me alone with Majid.

Our eyes meet, and for the first time, I see fear in his dark, reptilian gaze. He knows that I am the one who shot him, and he can read the cold intent on my face.

"Please, don't—" he begins saying, and I squeeze the trigger again, discharging five more bullets into his stomach and chest.

In the brief silence that follows, I watch as Majid's body slides down the wall, almost in slow motion. His face is slack with shock, blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, and his eyes are open, staring at me with a kind of numb disbelief. He moves his lips, as though to say something, and a rattling gurgle escapes his throat as more blood bubbles up out of his mouth.

Lowering the gun, I step closer to him, drawn by a strange compulsion to see what I have wrought. Majid's eyes plead with mine, begging for mercy without words. I hold his gaze, stretching out the moment . . . and then I aim the AK-47 at his forehead and pull the trigger again.

The back of his head explodes, blood and bits of brain tissue splattering against the wall. His eyes glaze over, the whites around the irises turning crimson as blood vessels burst in his eyes. His body goes limp, and the smell of death, sharp and pungent, permeates the room for the second time today.

Except it's not Lisa who's the killer this time.

It's me.

My hands are steady as I lower the weapon again, watching the blood trickle down the wall behind Majid. Then I walk toward Lisa, kneel down beside her, and carefully place the gun on the floor as I begin to work on untying her ropes.

Lisa is silent as I free her from her bonds, and so am I. The sounds of gunfire outside are beginning to die down, and I'm hoping that means Jackson's forces are winning. Either way, though, I'm ready for whatever may come, a strange calm engulfing me despite our still-precarious situation.

When Lisa's arms and legs are free, she kicks the chair away and rolls onto her back, her right hand closing around my wrist. Her left arm, still partially in a cast, is immobile at her side, and there's more blood on her face and body from the beating she just received. Her grip on my wrist, however, is surprisingly strong as she pulls me closer, forcing me down on the floor next to her.

"Stay down, baby," she whispers through swollen lips. "It's almost over . . . Please, stay down."

I nod and stretch out next to her on the right, being careful not to aggravate her injuries. With the door open, some of the smoke in the room is beginning to clear out, and I can breathe freely for the first time since the explosion.

Lisa releases my wrist and slides her arm under my neck, gathering me against her in a protective embrace. My hand accidentally brushes against her ribs, causing her to hiss in pain, but when I try to scoot back, she merely holds me tighter.

When Jackson and the guards step through the door a few minutes later, they find us lying in each other's arms, with Lisa pointing the AK-47 at the door.