Chapter 37
Jennie
As Lisa 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 Lisa 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 Lisa is here, in front of me, as alive and vital as ever.
I don't know if I run toward her, or if she runs toward me, but somehow I end up in her embrace, held so tightly that I can barely breathe. She's raining hot, burning kisses all over my face and neck, her 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," Bambam says when we come out of the hangar in search of him. Like Lisa, 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?" Lisa asks hoarsely, nodding toward the older man, and Bambam smiles savagely.
"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 Rosé'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," Bambam 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," Lisa replies, wrapping her right arm around my waist. I'm grateful for her 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 Lisa, my vision going gray.
"Fuck." With that muttered expletive, my world tilts, turning horizontal, and I realize that Lisa picked me up, lifting me against her chest. "I'm going to take her to the plane," I hear her 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 her shoulders, and to my surprise, Lisa complies, carefully setting me on my feet. She keeps one arm around my back, but lets me stand on my own.
"What is it, baby?" she 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," Lisa says. Her eyes gleam coldly. "I will."
I take a slow breath and release it. The girl Lisa brought to the island would've objected, offered her 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 Lisa is about to take care of the threat they present.
"I think Rosé should be here for this," Bambam says. "She'll want to see justice served."
Lisa 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," Lisa orders, and Bambam heads back into the hangar, leaving Lisa and me alone with the Sullivan's.
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 Rosé'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 Rosé was . . . When neither Lisa 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 Rosé and for the child we lost, Sean Sullivan deserves nothing less than death.
A minute later, Bambam comes back, leading a shaky-looking Rosé 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 Bambam smiles coldly, handing her his rifle. Her hands steady, she aims at her assailant.
"Do it," Lisa says, and I watch yet another man die as his face is blown apart. Before the echo from Rosé's shot fades, Lisa steps toward unconscious Patrick Sullivan and releases a round of bullets into his chest.
"We're done here," she 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 Bambam rests in the main cabin with Lisa, myself, and Rosé. Upon seeing all of us alive, my mom breaks down in hysterical sobs, so Lisa 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 Lisa'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 Lisa 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 Rosé and Bambam?"
"They're all sleeping," Lisa says, watching the procedure. Her face is gray with exhaustion, her 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. Park. Bambam has a couple of cracked ribs and a few burns, but he'll recover."
"And Lisa?" I ask, glancing at my wife. She's already clean and bandaged, so I know the doctor must've seen to her while I was sleeping.
"A mild concussion, same as you, along with first-degree burns on her back, a few stitches in the arm where a bullet grazed her, 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," Lisa says thickly, getting up and walking over to stand by the window. Her movements are stiff and jerky, her posture radiating tension. Apparently realizing her 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, Lisa returns to the bed. I've never seen her this tired. She's all but swaying as she walks.
"Did you sleep at all on the plane?" I ask, watching as Lisa pulls off the T-shirt and sweatpants she must've changed into when we got home. My chest aches at the sight of her injuries. "Some bruising" is a serious understatement. She's black and blue all over, with much of her back and torso wrapped in white gauze.
"No, I wanted to keep an eye on you," she replies wearily, climbing onto the bed next to me. Lying down facing me, she drapes one arm over my side and draws me closer. "I guessed you might be concussed from that tumble you took in the car," she murmurs, her face mere inches from mine.
"Oh, I see." I can't look away from the intense green of his gaze. "But you also have a concussion, from the explosion."
She nods. "Yes, I figured as much. Another reason for me to stay awake earlier."
I stare at her, my ribcage tightening around my lungs. I feel like I'm drowning in her eyes, getting sucked deeper into those hypnotic green pools. Unbidden, recollections of the explosion slither into my mind, bringing with them the full horror of these recent events. Lisa flying from the blast, Rosé'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 Lisa doesn't let me. Wrapping her arms around me, she holds me as I break apart, her body warming me as she 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 her 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 Lisa's touch, of her enormous strength. Her 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 her just as tightly as she's gripping me, and that she also seems to derive comfort from my touch. She's consoling me, but I'm consoling her in return—and somehow that fact lessens my agony, lifting some of the dark fog pressing down on me.
She's held me while I cried before, but never like this. Directly or indirectly, she'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 Sorn's gruesome death, but even then, we didn't have a chance to mourn together. After the warehouse explosion, I mourned Sorn and Lisa on my own, and by the time she came back for me, there was more anger than grief within me.
This time, it's different. My loss is her loss. More her loss, in fact, since she wanted this child from the very beginning. The tiny life that was growing within me—the one she guarded so fiercely—is gone, and I can't even imagine how Lisa must feel.
How much she must hate me for what I've done.
The thought shatters me again, but this time, I manage to hold the agony in. I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, but for now, she's comforting me, and I'm selfish enough to accept it, to rely on her strength to get me through this.
Letting out a shuddering sigh, I burrow closer to my wife, listening to the strong, steady beating of her heart.
Even if Lisa hates me now, I need her.
I need her too much to ever let her go.