At the threshold of my door, I can see a body. My stomach roils but I manage to keep it together.
The man doesn’t stop. He just pulls me down the hall, leading me away from the life I knew one step at a time.
As we move through the house, I feel my body drift deeper into shock. We pass body after body, men with their faces blown off or their heads smashed in.
Blood is everywhere.
If this were a movie, I’d say the set designer needed to relax a little bit. There’s just so much.
Blood staining sofas.
Blood splattered across paintings.
Blood dying the swimming pool, flowing across the tennis courts, slicked down the banister railing of the staircase as we descend.
I trip several times and only manage to stay on my feet because of his grip on me.
More men with guns join us. None of them say a word.
He moves swiftly through the house, not stopping to talk or look at all the dead.
I’m actually grateful for that. Grateful that I don’t have long to linger on the lifeless faces staring at me.
Fernando. Ronaldo. Carlos. Javier. Alejandro.
I don’t have to see their faces to recognize my father’s guards. Their bodies have fallen to the ground like puppets cut from their strings. Their limbs disjointed and unnatural.
My body stills a little, but he pulls me forcefully forward and we pass them all.
All around the house, more men in black are swarming. They’re splashing canisters of liquid on top of everything. The stink of lighter fluid fills my nostrils.
I gasp as I realize what they’re about to do—burn everything I’ve ever known to a crisp.
I want to scream, to stop them, but my voice is lost inside me.
He comes to a stop and I almost ram into him. He doesn’t seem to notice as he turns to give orders to his men.
He has a natural authority that’s impossible to deny. I see the faces of his men, but I can’t absorb any details. Their features all melt together, becoming one. One many-headed, faceless monster smeared in blood from head to toe.
“Any survivors?” he asks one of his subordinates.
“None. We’ve checked twice now.”
I feel his men’s eyes flit over to me, but I don’t react.
It’s not that I don’t want to—I can’t. I feel trapped inside myself, like I’m screaming on the inside but no one can hear.
My fingers twitch instinctively towards my stomach, but I suppress the instinct before I can go through with the action.
They can’t know about my baby. None of them.
Especially not him.
“Ah, Artem?” someone speaks up.
I flinch. Artem. The dark-eyed man has a name.
It suits him. Blunt, brutal, foreign. Explains the faint Russian accent, too.
“What?” Artem barks.
“She’s shivering.”
I glance up towards the man who’s just spoken. He’s got shaggy blonde hair, pale blue eyes, the wisps of a patchy beard on his face.
He’s tall, built, and tattooed, just like Artem, but there’s a boyish innocence about him that Artem does not share.
His words also remind me that I’m standing here in the middle of an army of black ops soldiers sent from god-knows-where to do god-knows what, and I’m very nearly naked. All I’ve got on is a cotton nightshirt that scrapes halfway down my thighs. Not even a bra or panties on underneath.
Artem doesn’t even glance at me.
“I’ll bring her something—”
“No,” Artem cuts him off immediately. “I’m not wasting time. What she’s got on is fine. Make sure the place is burning before you leave. Rendezvous back at the plane.”
“Got it,” the blond man replies. “Hasta la vista, comrade.” He turns to rally the remaining men out of the compound.
Then Artem starts dragging me off again.
We move outside, then deep into the rear garden. Wind slaps at my face. It feels strange. It’s strong, too… unnatural.
Then I register sound.
When I look up, I see a helicopter descending from the sky, blotting out what little starlight there is tonight. It lands gracefully in the middle of a broad grassy stretch.
My eyes slide from it to the little parcel of land just a few yards off to the side of the landing site.
Cesar’s grave.
I feel life spark inside of me as my voice pushes past all the pain.
“No!”
I wrest my arm free from Artem’s grip. He’s not expecting it, especially after how compliant I’ve been up until now, so I manage to slip from his grasp.
But it’s a futile effort. He’s too fast—I’m still in shock.
He seizes the hem of my shirt before I’ve even made it a yard clear of him. I hear the tear of fabric and feel the cold breeze from the whirring helicopter blades stream between my legs.
Artem spins me back towards him with a sneer on his face. I see in his eyes what the Boulder Man who tried to rape me must have seen that night four months ago—pure fucking rage.
“I’m disappointed,” he snarls. “I thought you’d be smart enough to know not to run.”
I don’t know why my voice chooses to re-emerge just now of all times, but it does, full of as much acid as I can summon.
“I’d rather be brave and foolish than smart and cowardly,” I snap back.
My eyes are still focused on my brother’s grave. I can just see it beyond the jet’s sleek tail.
“You can be whatever you want,” he replies, “but not here and not now. We have business to attend to.”
“I don’t give a damn about your business!” I scream. It feels so good to speak, to fight back, to resist.
“You’ve made that clear. And yet, I still don’t give a fuck. You’re coming.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re nothing but a murderer and a monster.”
“All true,” he nods calmly. “You’re still coming with me.”
“No,” I scream, struggling wildly against his iron grip. “Let me go. Let me go!”
He sighs tiredly, as though my outburst is merely an inconvenient tantrum that he doesn’t have time for.
He looks past me
