“Nora! Stay down!” It’s Julian, his 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 he’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 Julian lying on his 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.
Peter 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 Julian, 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 Julian.
A surge of hatred rises in my throat, choking me with bitter bile. This is the man who murdered Beth . . . who tortured Julian 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 Julian as he lifts his gun and points it at my husband. “Goodbye, Esguerra,” he says quietly . . . and I squeeze the trigger of my own weapon.
Despite my prone position, my aim is accurate. Julian 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 Julian yelling something at me, but his 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 Julian 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 Julian, kneel down beside him, and carefully place the gun on the floor as I begin to work on untying his ropes.
Julian is silent as I free him from his bonds, and so am I. The sounds of gunfire outside are beginning to die down, and I’m hoping that means Peter’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 Julian’s arms and legs are free, he kicks the chair away and rolls onto his back, his right hand closing around my wrist. His left arm, still partially in a cast, is immobile at his side, and there’s more blood on his face and body from the beating he just received. His grip on my wrist, however, is surprisingly strong as he pulls me closer, forcing me down on the floor next to him.
“Stay down, baby,” he whispers through swollen lips. “It’s almost over . . . Please, stay down.”
I nod and stretch out next to him on the right, being careful not to aggravate his 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.