Target on Our Backs
Page 66

He's going to torture him by torturing me.
No. He can't do it. I can't let him.
This can't be happening.
Something snaps inside of me then. I can feel it. It's like the walls holding me together start crumbling, the panic pushing its way through like an overflowing river. Headlights flash in the windows yet again, drawing the man's attention, distracting him long enough for me to do something. Terrified, I lash out, struggling in his arms, my arm thrusting back, my elbow going straight into his gut. Hard. His grip on me slips and he loses hold of the lighter. The man goes to retrieve it, and I react in the moment.
I have to.
Reaching down, I grab the knife, the one Naz brought with him.
I recognize it.
It came straight out of our kitchen.
One second it's firmly in my hand; the next second I'm swinging the damn thing. I don't stop to think about what the hell I'm doing, because if I do, I might hesitate.
There's no time for hesitation, not when our lives are at stake.
I hit him, I think, somewhere in the leg. I'm surprised by how easy the knife goes in. I always thought it took brute force, but the blade slides right through the skin. He grunts, fucking growling as I twist out of his arms and pull the knife back out, blood spurting from the gash.
I drop the knife as I run.
I run straight to Naz. He's already advancing toward me. I throw myself into his arms, trying to hold myself together, but I'm crying. Naz's hands frantically explore me, like he's trying to make sure I'm okay, and his lips find my forehead a moment later. It's a soft kiss, a quick kiss, before he pulls away.
He looks me right in the eyes.
I watch as his terror fades away.
Something else takes over.
An anger.
A hunger.
The monster.
"Run," he says quietly.
I cling to him, eyes widening. "What?"
"Get out of here," he says, pulling me off of him, as he pushes me toward the door. There are car doors slamming outside. People are approaching. Oh God. No. No. No. "Run and don't look back."
I want to argue.
I want to tell him he's a fucking fool.
There's no way I'm leaving here without him.
Till death do us part.
I want to stay here, stay with him, but I know, deep down inside, there's no way he'll let me.
Because it's not just me now.
It's me and a baby.
His baby.
Our baby.
He gives me another look, and I know I can't hesitate. Closing my eyes, I look away from him, running for the exit just like he told me.
Yanking the door open, I burst outside, my head still pounding. I feel sick. My chest burns, as I break into a sprint, unable to help myself as I do it... I look back.
It's only a second, as I stare at the closing door.
A second of hesitation.
Oh God. Naz.
I keep running, though, nearly fucking tripping, stumbling over my feet before crashing right into something.
BAM
Hands grab my arms, keeping me from falling on my ass. My head whips back around, and there I see him.
I see that face.
Lorenzo.
The sight of him is like being punched in the gut.
It's crippling.
I'm crumbling.
Falling to pieces.
"Sunshine," he says casually. "Figured we'd find you here."
"Of course you did," I whisper through my tears, trying to yank away from him, but he just grips my arms tighter. Men surround us, maybe half a dozen. I don't count them. I don't give a shit about them. They all look the same.
Dressed in black with ski masks on.
They blend in with the darkness.
"Where's your husband?" he asks, but he doesn't wait for me to answer. Swinging me around, he shoves me back into one of his men, looking at the guy pointedly as he says, "Take her. Make sure she doesn't get hurt. You know the drill."
The man starts to drag me away as Lorenzo pulls out a gun, holding it firmly in his hand. He heads toward the concrete building, and a scream bursts out of me. A scream of sheer terror, of utter desperation.
Oh God, he's going to die.
He's going to kill him.
"No!" I shriek, fighting the man who's holding me, kicking and punching, trying to break free. "Naz! Please! Naz!"
I scream his name, praying he hears me, praying he's ready, praying he walks away from this okay. I can't do it without him. I need him.
I need him.
It takes three of them to subdue me, to shove me in the back of a car that's only a few feet away. Two climb in the back with me, while the guy he passed me off to gets behind the wheel. I fight with all my might, grabbing masks and pulling on them, scratching faces, trying to take out their fucking eyes.
Anything to escape.
I scream and scream and scream, his name the only word I can now conjure. Naz. Naz. Naz.
I don't know if he can hear me.
I don't know if it's too late.
I punch a guy straight in the nose before trying to break out a window, beating on it with my fists, but it's not buckling. I use my foot when they try to pull me away from it, hauling my leg up and kicking the glass, angry that it just won't fucking break.
Why won't it break?
It takes damn near a dozen times before the glass fractures, splintering and cracking, falling to pieces. My foot goes right through it then, and I hiss as the jagged glass slices the skin near my ankle.
Fuck, I start bleeding everywhere.
"Jesus Christ," the driver yells. "Get her under control!"
I hit, and I hurt, but it gets me nowhere. The two guys pin me down in the backseat of the car as they start driving away. We don't make it very far, just through the park, before a bang rocks the area, loud enough that it vibrates the windows in the car.
A flash of light illuminates the sky.
I don't have to see it to know what happened; I don't have to look to know how bad it is. The man driving raises his mask, resting it on his head, as he glances in the rearview mirror, looking back.
Don't look back.
He lets out a low whistle.
I'm sobbing, hyperventilating, trying to breathe, but I don't think I can survive this kind of pain.
As the building explodes, my world implodes.
Everything around me goes up in flames.
I 've always been fascinated by how the body works.
How a fist-sized muscle deep in your chest is responsible for keeping you alive every day. It steadily beats, every second of every hour, pushing blood through your arteries then back to it through your veins. And you do nothing to make it happen. It just does it, all on its own. Doesn't matter how you're feeling, what you're thinking, if your fucking heart is breaking... it keeps on beating, a hundred thousand times a day.
But someday, it'll stop. Someday, it'll beat for the last time, and then there will be nothing.
Nothing except for death.
I don't know if there's an afterlife, but if there is, what awaits me won't be pleasant. Because I've stood there and watched as well over a dozen hearts stopped beating, and rarely have I ever felt anything more than fascination about it.
Maybe, in some other life, I could've been a doctor. A cardiologist. Instead of stopping hearts, I could've got them started again. But in this life? I'm nothing more than a man with a fascination, watching as yet another heart makes its last beat.