AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Thank you to everyone for being so patient with me! Things have been a little chaotic on my end, so I haven't been able to update as frequently as I'd like. Hopefully now everything is settled so you'll be back to seeing regular weekly updates from me. As a special treat for your patience, expect Chapter 6 sometime this weekend. And thanks as always for reading!
5: I Survive
I sit numb in my rickety metal chair, staring incomprehensively at the gun barrel just an arm's length from my face. I've never been this close to a gun before; I foolishly think how I can smell the metal. "But," I say stupidly," I finished. And I think I finished in time, didn't I?"
The guard just shrugs, and pulls the trigger.
Several things happen all at once. Something pushes me, hard, and I fall to the cold cement floor, smacking my elbows and knees against the hard surface. I look back over my shoulder, otherwise frozen with shock. The metal-armed man is on his feet, plunging a knife deep into the gunman's chest. The guard drops to his knees with a horrified gurgling sound, and then collapses so close to me I have to scramble out of the way. I barely absorb the way his glassy eyes are fixed on me before the metal-armed man is hauling me roughly to my feet. The moment he lets go, my legs give out from under me, refusing to support my weight; he catches me and sets me upright again, waiting patiently as I shakily test my stance. When he seems sure I'm not going to collapse again, he nonchalantly reaches down and picks up the gun beside the dead guard.
Without even a glance in my direction, the metal-armed man turns to the metal door, examining it with intense interest, as if he himself doesn't know how it opens. I think wildly that must mean he's a prisoner too, that he's here against his will, that he killed an enemy instead of an ally, that will somehow make murder comprehendible and all right.
There's a muffled shout from the other side of the door. As if anticipating me, the metal-armed man throws me a silencing look, holding a single finger to his lips. I copy him automatically, holding my own finger to my own lips, trying to swallow down my hammering heart.
The shout comes again. The metal-armed man moves beside the door, his gun at the ready, with me standing paralyzed in the center of the room. He moves in such an uncanny and unsettling way, like a stalking wolf. I can't tear my eyes from him. I want to beg him to not leave me, but everything in my body seems to be moving in slow motion, and by the time I open my mouth to voice my panicked plea, there's more shouting from beyond the locked door. It sounds panicked, too, fast Russian growing louder and louder. I know what's coming, and yet feel totally helpless to stop it.
The locks on the door creak, the door opens. The Russian guard rushes in. He has just enough time to register me standing there, and the body of his fellow guard behind me, before the metal-armed man steps forward and shoots the guard point-blank in the head.
I start to run. It felt like a rubber band stretching and stretching and finally breaking in me, my terror turned to adrenaline as I bolt past the guard crumpling to the ground, the metal-armed man, out into a dark tunnel that smells of dirt and stale air. I can hear the metal-armed man yelling behind me, but I don't stop. The path blurs around me. Part of me wonders if there are any other guards, and how quickly they'll kill me. Or will the metal-armed man kill us all first? I push the thoughts away as I pump my legs, willingly them to be faster, blindly following turns and corners until I'm so turned around I could never get back to the bunk even if I wanted to. I abandon any thought and let animal instinct drive me on, desperately hoping it will lead me home.
I hear the metal-armed man yell for me again, somewhere close. I don't allow myself to slow. I don't allow myself to think, to remember the smell of flesh blood, the empty way the guard's dead eyes stared up at me. I'm still in the nightmare. I have to get out, before I forget what a world without assassins and dead bodies looks like.
I don't even register the change of light until I'm suddenly standing in the middle of a sunlight-soaked meadow of wild flowers. The air is tangy with the smell of salty ocean water. I skid to a halt, overwhelmed with astonishment. It's as if I've been transported through some invisible portal into the middle of unspoiled nature. Seems I was right about being miles away from any civilized help.
My feet abruptly leave the ground. I scream, a full-throated sound of unbridled terror, all the horror of the last few days loosened into my blood. I twist around, trying to get free of the stranger's grip, clawing and kicking like some wild thing, but I can't gain an inch. I feel a mouth against my ear, and the metal-armed man's voice says," It's me! It's all right. Maggie, it's all right."
"It's not all right!" I choke out a strangled sob, half-relieved and half still shaken to my bones. Hysterical tears are flowing freely down my face," Put me down, put me down now!"
He does as I request, as easily as if I weighted as much as a heavy pillow. Through the haze of my hysteria, I have to admire a job well done; there's not the slightest sign of exertion, or that his metal arm was ever broken at all. The moment my feet touch the ground, I turn on him violently, but he's kept his grip on at least one of my arms, and manages to dodge my wide left hook.
"What the fuck!" I can't stop the words from spilling out of my mouth. I don't recognize my own voice, screeching, full of terror. The metal-armed man regards me with some mixture of confusion and annoyance.
"What-what the fuck, you just-just shot them! I thought they were on your side!"
His expression shifts just slightly, from confusion to his own peculiar expression of wry amusement. "My side?" he asks.
"Yes! I mean-weren't they helping you with your arm, and your mission? Didn't they work for the same people as you do?"
"Yes, they did," he answers calmly.
"So… were you their prisoner? Is that why you… killed them?" my voice shakes. I am pointedly looking at his face, trying not to see the splatters of blood across his body, trying to make sense of his untroubled expression.
The metal-armed man shrugs with just his right shoulder, as if the question barely interests him. His nonchalance morphs my panic into a hot, twisting knife in my side. I jerkily try to pull my arm from his grip," Let me go!"
"Not until you promise not to run," he sounds genuinely concerned.
"What will you do to me if I do? Gun me down just like them?"
"No!" he exclaims in shock," No, I-I was trying to…"
"To what? If you kill the people you work with, then why should I be any different?"
"Because I was trying to save you," he snaps, and immediately looks like he regrets ever letting the words slip out. The words freeze me in place, my addled brain struggling to take them in. Save me? I draw in a shaky breath, trying to quiet the shivering quacks of my heart. If only I could remember my therapist's calming techniques but my mind is a blank slab of raw mania-they always worked so well when I wasn't in the presence of a homicidal assassin. Not very good calming techniques if they don't work in all situations. Maybe I should ask for my money back, I think, and break into nervous, uncontrollable giggling.
"Maggie?" the metal-armed man seems truly alarmed now.
"I'm sorry," I hiccup through the giggling," I'm just, sorry, anyway. You can let me go, I promise I won't run."
He considers me warily for a moment, and then gently releases my arm.
"You were trying to save me? From-from the guards?"
"Yes. They were never going to let you live. You'd live long enough to fix my arm, and then they'd shoot you, and bury you here in the meadow."
I shudder at the blandness of his words, but then, this is what every day must be like for him. "So you shot them. That really going to go over okay with your shadowy organization?"
He snorts contritely," Not likely. We'll need to hole up for a few days until it all passes over."
"Will I be able to go home after that?"
"Do you want to?" he asks quietly. He sounds almost… sad, but no, that can't be, my brain obviously still needs to be straightened out.
"Yes, I really do. I don't think I'm cut out for the assassin business," I manage a half-hearted smile. He smiles back," Then I'll get you home." He turns and begins to wander off into the meadow, without waiting for a response. I quickly jog after him, struggling to keep up with his quick strides. "So where are we?"
"Few hours outside Drama. Greece," he adds, catching my confused expression," I've got a safe house in Kavala."
"Hope it's not too long of a walk," I mutter, already feeling a little out of breath from trying to keep pace. He chuckles, the sound still alien enough to make me start in surprise," There's a car hidden around here somewhere. It should still have your bag and papers-ah, there." He points to a thicket of trees and low brush, but it isn't until we're within five yards that I can just see the chrome bumper. He pushes the branches and brush away to reveal a small four-door; a Dacia, I think?
"Not what you were expecting?" he asks, with just a hint of teasing.
"I admit, I assumed shadowy assassins traveled in a bit more style," I say as he brushes off the last of cover. With two guards, a metal-armed assassin, an unconscious tourist, and a whole bunch of guns, it must have been a tight fit. He moves around to the trunk, popping it open to reveal a few simple black duffle bags. After digging for a moment, he tosses me a backpack," Your passport should be in there. I'd also suggest a change of clothes."
I glance down at myself. My khaki capris and tank top, clean at some point, are splattered with dirt and gore. A change of clothes suddenly sounds better than anything else in the world. I unzip the backpack to find a simple t-shirt and pair of jeans.
"All right, well then, turn around," I order. He looks up at me in disbelief," Excuse me?"
"Turn around, so I can change."
"I'm not going to watch," he scoffs.
"Then there's no problem turning around to ensure you won't," I reply, crossing my arms over my chest in what I hope will look like a display of dominance.
"Or I could just leave you here," he counters darkly.
"Okay, okay, fine, don't turn around! Just-just don't look, okay?" I start to unbutton my capris, but my fingers are limp with exhaustion, and I'm unable to even properly grasp the fabric. He watches me struggle with the button holes for a moment, then with a sigh, steps around the car. Panic blooms in my chest for a moment, but he only reaches forward, undoes the buttons with utmost professionalism, and then with a small smile, turns his back on me.
With the buttons undone, I'm able to strip off the pants and shirt with only some fumbling, and yank on the t-shirt and jeans. The t-shirt is too big and the jeans too long, but I'm hardly in a position to complain or care.
When he's sure that I'm fully covered, he turns back around and once again assists me with the buttons on the jeans, his metal fingers moving with nimble swiftness. He smiles down at them almost fondly, and returns to the trunk of the car.
My mind has finally calmed down enough that questions begin to flood in; like why, for example, he bothered to save me. He clearly has no moral conviction against killing, so he didn't save me for the ethics points. Saving me also seems to mean that he has to go on the run from whoever controls him usually, an act that probably involves dangerous and difficult logistics I'm only now beginning to comprehend. His act of mercy now means he has to babysit a clueless American for who knows how long, with seemingly no upside for him. Perhaps he's saved me with plans to have me continue working on his arm?
I watch as he pulls out another pair of jeans and a black zip-up hoodie from one of the duffle bags. Displaying not an ounce of awkwardness, he strips off his own blood-drenched pants. I quickly turn away, doing my best to appear coolly uninterested, but a soft chuckle from him suggests my blush has not gone unnoticed. Thankfully by the time I turn back, he's zipping up the hoodie, effectively disguising his metal arm. As a final touch, he slides on a pair of sunglasses, and flashes me a full grin; I wasn't even aware he had that many teeth.
"Now that's unsettling," I blurt out.