Keep Me (19 page)

“Nora—” I begin saying, only to be interrupted by a sharp
crack
outside. It’s followed by several more, a rapid-fire burst of noise that I recognize right away.

Gunshots
. The guns are using silencers, but nothing can quiet the deafening bang of a machine gun going off.

Immediately, there are screams and answering gunfire. Un-silenced this time. The soldiers stationed on the floor must be responding to whatever threat is out there.

In a millisecond, I’m off the bed, the laptop sliding to the floor. Adrenaline rockets through me, speeding up everything and at the same time slowing my perception of time. It feels like things are happening in slow motion, but I know that it’s just an illusion—that it’s my brain’s attempt to deal with intense danger.

I operate on instinct honed by a lifetime of training. In an instant, I assess the room and see that there’s no place to hide. The window on the opposite wall is too small for me to fit through, even if I were inclined to risk falling from the third floor. That leaves only the door and the hallway—which is where the gunshots are coming from.

I don’t bother trying to figure out who’s attacking. It’s immaterial at the moment. The only thing that matters is survival.

More gunfire, followed by a scream right outside. I hear the heavy
thump
of a body falling nearby, and I choose that moment to make my move.

Pushing open the door, I dive in the direction of the thumping sound, using the momentum of the dive to slide on the linoleum floor. My cast knocks against the wall as I bump into the dead soldier, but I don’t even register the pain. Instead I pull him over me, using his body as a shield as bullets begin flying all around me. Spotting his weapon on the floor, I grasp it with my right hand and begin firing shots into the other end of the hallway, where I see masked men with guns crouched behind a hospital gurney.

Too many. I can already see that. There are too fucking many of them and not enough bullets in my gun. I can see the bodies littering the hallway—the five Uzbekistani soldiers have been mowed down, as well as a few of the masked attackers—and I know it’s futile. They will get me too. In fact, it’s surprising that I’m not already riddled with holes, human shield or not.

They don’t want to kill me.

I realize that fact just as my gun bucks one last time, discharging the last round of bullets. The floor and walls around me are destroyed from their bullets, but I’m unscathed. Since I don’t believe in miracles, that means the attackers are not aiming
at
me.

They’re aiming all around me, to keep me contained in one spot.

Rolling the dead man off me, I slowly get to my feet, keeping my gaze trained on the armed figures at the far end of the hallway. The gunfire stops as I begin to move, the silence deafening after all the noise.

“What do you want?” I raise my voice just enough to be heard on the other end of the hallway. “Why are you here?”

A man rises up from behind the gurney, his weapon trained on me as he begins to walk in my direction. He’s masked like all the others, but something about him seems familiar. As he stops a few feet away, I see the dark glitter of his eyes above the mask, and recognition spears through me.

Majid.

Al-Quadar must’ve heard that I’m here, within their reach.

I move without thinking. I’m still holding the now-empty machine gun, and I lunge at him, swinging the gun as I would a bat, arching it deceptively high before jabbing it low. Even with my injuries, my reflexes are excellent, and the butt of the weapon makes contact with Majid’s ribs before I’m thrown back against the wall, my left shoulder exploding in agony. My ears are ringing from the blast as I slide down the wall, and I realize that I’ve been shot—that he managed to fire his weapon before I could inflict real damage.

I can hear yelling in Arabic, and then rough hands grab me, dragging me along the floor. I struggle with all of my remaining strength, but I can feel my body beginning to shut down, my heart laboring to pump its dwindling supply of blood. Something presses down on my shoulder, exacerbating the fiery pain, and black spots cover my vision.

My last thought before I lose consciousness is that death will likely be preferable to what awaits me if I survive.

I don’t realize that I’m screaming until a hand slaps over my mouth, muffling my hysterical shrieks.

“Nora. Nora, stop it.” Peter’s steady voice pulls me out of the vortex of horror, dragging me back to reality. “Calm down and tell me exactly what you saw. Can you calm down enough to talk?”

I manage a small nod, and he releases me, stepping back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rosa and Ana standing a few feet away. Ana’s hands are clamped over her mouth, tears running down her cheeks again, and Rosa looks scared and distraught.

“I didn’t—” I can barely force the words through my swollen throat, “—I didn’t
see
anything. I just heard it. We were talking, and then all of a sudden, there were gunshots and—and screaming, and then more gunshots. Julian—” My voice breaks as I speak his name. “Julian must’ve dropped the computer because everything went topsy-turvy on the screen, and then all I could see was the wall, but I heard it—the gunfire, the screams, more gunfire . . .” I am not conscious of sobbing uncontrollably until Peter’s hands close around my shoulders and gently guide me toward the couch.

He forces me to sit down as I begin to shake, the terror of what I just witnessed combining with memories from a few months earlier, when I had been taken by Al-Quadar in the Philippines. For a few horrifying moments, the past and the present merge, and I’m again in that clinic, hearing those gunshots and feeling fear so intense that my mind can’t register it. Only now it’s not Beth and I who are in danger.

It’s Julian.

They came for him—and I know exactly who
they
are.

“It’s Al-Quadar.” My voice is hoarse as I get up, ignoring the tremors that continue to rack my body. “Peter—it’s Al-Quadar.”

He nods in agreement, and I see that he’s already on his phone. “Da. Da, eto ya,” he says, and I realize that he’s speaking Russian. “V gospitale problema. Da, seychas-zhe.” Lowering the phone, he tells me, “I just notified the Uzbekistani police of the events in the hospital. They’re on their way, as are more soldiers. They’ll be there within minutes.”

“It will be too late.” I don’t know where my certainty comes from, but I can feel it deep within my bones. “They have him, Peter. If he’s not dead yet, he will be very shortly.”

He looks at me, and I can see that he knows it too—that he knows how hopeless the whole thing is. We’re dealing with one of the most dangerous terrorist organizations in the world, and they have the man who’s been hunting them down and decimating their ranks.

“We’re going to track them down, Nora,” Peter says quietly. “If they haven’t killed him yet, there’s a chance we may be able to retrieve him.”

“You don’t really believe that.” I can see it on his face. He’s just saying it to placate me. Majid’s people have been able to evade detection for months, and it’s only the lucky capture of that terrorist in Moscow that led to the discovery of their whereabouts. They will disappear again, hiding somewhere else now that they know their location in Tajikistan has been compromised.

They will disappear, and so will Julian.

Peter gives me an indecipherable look. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. The fact is that they want something from your husband: the explosive. They wanted it before, and I’m certain that they want it now. It would be very foolish of them to kill him right away.”

“You think they’re going to torture him first.” Bile rises in my throat as I remember Beth’s screams, the blood spreading everywhere as Majid systematically cut off bits and pieces of her body. “Oh my God, you think they’re going to torture him until he breaks and gives them this explosive.”

“Yes,” Peter says, his gray eyes steady on my face as Ana begins to sob quietly into Rosa’s shoulder. “I do. And that gives us time to find them.”

“Not enough time.” I stare at him, sick with terror. “Not nearly enough time. Peter, they’re going to torture him and kill him while we look for them.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” he says, pulling out his phone again. “I’m going to throw all of our resources at this. If Al-Quadar so much as blips on the radar someplace, we’ll know it.”

“But that could take weeks—even months!” My voice rises as hysteria grabs hold of me again. I can feel my grip on sanity slipping as the roller coaster of grief, joy, and terror I’ve been riding for the past couple of days plunges me into a bottomless pit of despair. It was only yesterday that I thought I’d lost Julian again, only to learn that he’s alive. And now, just when it seemed like the worst was over, fate has dealt us the cruelest blow of all.

The monsters who murdered Beth are going to take Julian from me too.

“It’s the only option we have, Nora.” Peter’s voice is soothing, like he’s talking to a fractious child. “There is no other way. Esguerra is tough. He may be able to hang on for a while, no matter what they do to him.”

I take a deep breath to regain control of myself. I can break down later, when I’m alone. “Nobody is tough enough to withstand nonstop torture.” My voice is almost even. “You know that.”

Peter inclines his head, conceding my point. From what I heard about his unique skills, he knows better than anyone how effective torture can be. As I look at him, an idea enters my head—an idea that I never would’ve entertained before.

“The terrorist they captured,” I say slowly, holding Peter’s gaze. “Where is he now?”

“He’s supposed to be remitted into our custody, but for now he’s still in Moscow.”

“Do you think he might know something?” My hands twist in the skirt of my dress as I stare at Julian’s torturer-in-chief. A part of me can’t believe I’m about to ask him to do this, but my voice is steady as I say, “Do you think you could make him talk?”

“Yes, I’m sure I could,” Peter says slowly, looking at me with something resembling respect. “I don’t know if he’ll know where they might go next, but it’s worth a shot. I will fly out to Moscow immediately and see what I can find out.”

“I’m coming with you.”

His reaction is immediate. “No, you’re not,” he says, frowning at me. “I’m under explicit orders to keep you safe here, Nora.”

“Your boss has just been captured and is about to be tortured and killed.” My voice is sharp and biting as I enunciate every word. “And you think
my
safety is a priority right now? Your orders no longer apply because they have Julian. They no longer need me for leverage over him.”

“Well, actually, they would love to have you for leverage over him. They could break him much faster if they had you as well.” Peter shakes his head, his expression regretful but determined. “I’m sorry, Nora, but you need to stay here. If we do end up rescuing your husband, he would be very displeased to learn that I allowed you to be in danger.”

I turn away, shaking, terror and frustration mingling together and feeding on each other until it feels like I will burst from it all. I feel helpless. Utterly and completely useless. When I had been taken, Julian came for me. He rescued me—but I can’t do the same for him.

I can’t even get off the estate.

“Nora . . .” It’s Rosa. I can feel her hand on my arm as I blindly stare out the window, my mind running through all the dead ends like a rat in a maze. “Nora, please . . . Come, let’s get you a bite to eat . . .”

I shake my head in curt denial and pull my arm away, keeping my gaze trained on the green lawn outside. There’s something nibbling at the edge of my brain, some errant, half-formed thought that I can’t quite grasp. It has to do with something Peter said, something he mentioned in passing . . . I hear him leaving the room, his footsteps quiet in the hallway, and suddenly it hits me.

Spinning around, I sprint after him, ignoring the shock on Rosa’s face as I push her out of the way. “Peter! Peter, wait!”

He stops in the hallway, giving me a cool look as I skid to a stop next to him. “What is it?”

“I know,” I gasp out. “Peter, I know exactly what to do. I know how to get Julian back.”

His expression doesn’t change. “What are you talking about?”

I draw in a gulping breath and begin to explain my plan, speaking so fast I’m tripping over the words. I can see him shaking his head as I speak, but I persist anyway, driven by a sense of urgency more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced. I need to convince Peter that I’m right. Julian’s life depends on it.

“No,” he says when I’m done. “This is insane. Julian would kill me—”

“But he might be
alive
to kill you,” I interrupt. “There’s no other option. You know that as well as I do.”

He shakes his head, and the look he gives me is genuinely regretful. “I’m sorry, Nora—”

“I will give you the list,” I blurt out, grasping at the only straw I can think of. “I will give you the list of names before your three years are up if you do this. Julian will hand it over as soon as he gets it into his hands.”

Peter stares at me, his expression changing for the first time. “You know about the list?” he asks, his voice pulsing with such anger that I have to fight the urge to step back. “The list Esguerra promised me?”

I nod. “I do.” Under any other circumstances, I would be terrified to provoke this man, but I’m beyond fear at the moment. A recklessness born of desperation drives me now, giving me uncharacteristic courage. “And I know that you won’t get it if Julian dies,” I continue, pressing my point. “All this time you’ve been working for him will be in vain. You’ll never be able to get revenge on the people who killed your family.”

His impassive look disappears completely, his face transforming into a mask of blazing fury. “You don’t know shit about my family,” he roars, and this time I do take a step back, my self-preservation instinct belatedly kicking in as I see his hands tightening into fists. “You fucking dare taunt me with them?”

He takes a step toward me as I back away, my heart hammering in my chest. Then, with a sharp, violent motion, he twists and punches the wall, his fist breaking through the drywall. I flinch, jumping back, and he punches the wall again, taking his rage out on it as he undoubtedly wants to do on me.

“Peter . . .” My voice is low and soothing, like I’m talking to a wild animal. I can see Rosa and Ana in the doorway, looking terrified, and I try to diffuse the situation. “Peter, I’m not taunting you—I’m just pointing out the facts. I want to help you, but first you need to help me.”

He glares at me, his chest heaving with rage, and I see him struggling to regain control. I’m shaking on the inside, but I keep my gaze steady on his face.
Don’t show fear. Whatever you do, don’t show fear.
To my intense relief, his breathing gradually begins to slow, the fury twisting his features ebbing as he brings himself back from whatever dark place his mind was in.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a few moments, his voice strained. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that.” He takes one deep breath, then another, and I see his usual controlled mask sliding into place. “How do I know you’ll be able to keep your promise about the list?” he says in a more normal tone of voice, his anger seemingly gone. “You’re asking me to do something that Esguerra will hate. How do I know he’ll come through with the list if I do this?”

“I will make him give it to you.” I have no idea how I can
make
Julian do anything, but I don’t let any of my doubts show. “I swear to you, Peter. Help me with this, and you can have your revenge before your three years here are up.”

He stares at me, and I can practically feel his internal debate. He knows my arguments are sound. If he does what I ask, he stands a chance of getting that list of names sooner. If Julian dies, he won’t get the list at all.

“Fine,” he says, apparently reaching a decision. “Get ready then. We’re leaving in an hour.”

* * *

When we land in a small airport near Chicago, there is a thick layer of snow on the ground, making me grateful that I decided to wear my old Uggs. It’s already evening, and the wind is bitterly cold, biting through my winter coat. I barely register the discomfort, however, all my thoughts consumed by the ordeal to come.

There is no bulletproof car waiting for us. Nothing to draw attention to our arrival. Peter calls a taxi for me, and I get into the back of the car by myself, while he heads back to the plane.

The driver, a kindly middle-aged man, tries to chat me up, likely in the hopes of figuring out who I am. I’m sure he thinks I’m a celebrity of some kind, arriving on a private jet like that. I give monosyllabic responses to all his questions, and he quickly catches on to my desire to be left alone. The rest of the drive passes in silence as I stare out the window at the night-darkened roads. My head pounds from stress and jet lag, and my stomach roils with nausea. If I hadn’t forced myself to eat a sandwich on the plane, I would probably be passing out from exhaustion.

When we get to Oak Lawn, I direct the taxi to my parents’ house. They’re not expecting me, but that’s for the best. It makes the whole thing look more authentic, less like a setup.

The driver helps me unload a small suitcase I packed for the occasion, and I pay him, tipping him an extra twenty bucks for my earlier rudeness. He drives off, and I wheel my suitcase to the door of my childhood home.

Stopping in front of the familiar brown door, I ring the doorbell. I know my parents are home because I see the lights in the living room. It takes them a couple of minutes to get to the door—a couple of minutes that feel like an hour in my exhausted state.

My mom opens the door, and her jaw goes slack with astonishment as she sees me standing there, my hand resting on the handle of the suitcase.

“Hi Mom,” I say, my voice shaking. “Can I come in?”