Kip shakes his head. “This is much easier.”
“You may have gotten through them, but you’ll never take me. You won’t make it out of this room alive.” There’s a pause, and his tone changes. “Unless we work together, like the old days. I know you have a thing for the girl. We can work it out. You can have her.”
Kip glances at me, and for one awful moment I wonder if he’ll go along with whatever horrible thing Byron plans to do to me. Then Kip’s eyes darken at the welts on my skin, and I know he would never do anything to hurt me. He’s here to save me. But Byron must have expected me to distract him, because he takes the opportunity to pop out of the bathroom and fire off a round.
Kip dives to cover my body with his, shooting back.
The thing about a bullet is, it doesn’t feel like fire after all. Maybe I’m numb from being tied up too long. It feels like ice instead. I’m hit, I realize. Hit in the side.
Be careful, I wish I could say. He doesn’t fight fair. No one does. Not Byron, not Kip. Not even me.
I fought as dirty as possible, keeping Clara away from Byron, keeping her safe—and I succeeded. This is the jungle, and only the fittest survive. Though I may not be very fit anymore, because I feel myself fading. Falling. Thank goodness for the rope around my wrists. Otherwise I’d sink down beneath the ground.
Instead I’m suspended, waiting.
There’s shooting back and forth—all around. That much I can tell from the blasts to my eardrums. But Kip is trapped. I’m the one tied up, but he’s the one in a vulnerable position—right in front of me. He can’t duck behind the bed where he’d be safe. I think he can’t even storm the bathroom because that would leave me exposed. The only cover he has is the second bed. He’s using it to protect himself—and shooting whenever Byron tries to aim out, so he’s forced to retreat. It won’t last for long though.
He’s going to get himself killed, and it will be my fault. Mine. I can’t let that happen.
I force myself back to reality. I’d been slipping before. The pain and shock of it had let me drift in a kind of unreality. But now I’m fully aware of every bruise and cut on my skin, acutely aware of how much I hurt. I pull my hand where it’s tied—nothing happens. The rope may have more give, but it’s still tight enough I can’t pull my hand out.
I pull again, harder, twisting myself, as the bullets ricochet off the wall. One lands in the mattress underneath me, snapping a coil with a loud twang. Any second now one will hit Kip. He’s still blocking me. Still protecting me.
The hole is too small. It’s like I’d have to break my hand to get it out.
Something settles over me. Confidence. Recklessness. Sometimes they’re the same thing. So let my hand break. It’s a hard thing to break your own hand, in the same way that it can be hard to die. I have to let go of the survival instinct. I have to break myself.
I pull, using all my strength, straining at my ankles to build this much force. The bed creaks.
Something in my hand snaps.
Now my left hand is free. That gives me enough room to un-loop the rope from the pole, so my right hand is free. My left hand is messed up—broken?—but my right hand still works. I jerk myself up, unsteady on my feet.
And fall, stumbling to the ground. It’s safer here.
“Stay down,” Kip orders before firing off a round.
Safety doesn’t matter anymore.
If anyone will get shot, it will be Kip. He matters.
I crawl to one of the men on the floor and take his gun.
The thing about men is they always underestimate me. Because I’m small and weak. Because I have a pussy instead of a cock. And my father, he kept me locked up. For all those reasons, I am ill-equipped for the world. But one thing I know is violence. I’ve been around violent men all my life. I’ve been around them when they pulled out their guns, when they flicked off the safety. Been around them when they fired. And I was watching.
I aim and fire. The kick is enough to knock me backward, but there’s a brand-new hole in the wall courtesy of me.
And I have Byron’s attention. He’s smirking, of course.
So I walk toward him. Kip lunges for me, but I’m expecting that. I evade him and go toward Byron. I know I don’t have the aim to hit him far away. I don’t have months or years of target practice. And my hand is possibly broken. It feels like it’s on fire. But if I’m close, I can get him.
That assumes he won’t shoot me first. He could. At this point I wouldn’t mind much. But I don’t think he will. Because he underestimates me most of all.
We’re one foot away now. Kip is right behind me, about to expose himself, make himself vulnerable to save me. I can’t let that happen.