Chapter 11 #2
Now that I’m decent again, I take a moment to knead my fingers into the back of my neck, cocking my head from one side to the other.
My neck crunches like a hard waffle does when you attempt to break it apart.
I let out a short groan. Despite sleeping for thirty hours, my recent night terrors didn’t allow me a true moment of respite: I imagined myself running away from Ingrid through the streets of Cairo, the fear slowing my movements.
Every time I looked back, she drew closer, but she never actually caught me.
Hopefully, that continues to be the case in real life as well.
After slipping the Luger I stole off the black-clad God Men’s dead body inside my waistband, I sit on the bed and lace up my boots—when the engine turns over unexpectedly.
Cec yells down the steps. “I hope you’re decent because we’ve got to go.”
“Dammit,” I swear softly.
Hurriedly tying my last boot, I scramble up the steps and pop my head up on deck, only to have my tangled mess of hair whip me in the eyes from the sea air.
We appear to be docked at some sort of port, like Cec said.
The windows of apartment buildings with their yellow-tinted plaster facades and clay tiles roofs overlook the water behind us, the walkways bustling.
I glance around the deck but don’t notice anything out of place. What makes Cec think we’re in such a damned hurry?
Then, Bes’s voice carries over to me. I squint into the rising sun, finding him at the bow of the ship leaning over the edge. He wears brown pants and a tan Henley with the sleeves rolled up, dark locks uncombed and wild.
“Staccare la pompa,” he yells, presumably to someone on the docks. “Staccare la pompa!”
They shout something back in Italian, but their voice disappears into the roar of the engine.
“Fuck,” he swears, running his hand through his locks. “Hurry, Ailsa!”
Wanting to make myself useful, I pull my hair back into a messy ponytail and stumble into the wood-paneled helm.
Bes beats me there. He grabs onto the wheel despite not having full range of motion with his bad arm.
It doesn’t stop him, though. Dark hair hanging manically across his forehead, he flips half a dozen switches and turns the lacquered wheel with great fervor.
The vessel glides backward at his command.
I blink at all the extraneous machinery in here, nearly all of which are foreign to me.
This is nothing like my old paddle boat at Nonna’s lake house.
Inside the covered helm, we find ourselves in the eye of a hurricane: it’s quieter here, calmer. Except for Bes, who’s a tempest of his own. The spot on his arm where Claude shot him is stained red with a sprinkle of fresh blood, his hands a flurry of calculated movements.
“What’s going on?” I ask. He doesn’t respond.
Glancing back, I find Cec perched on a weathered seat popped out from the wall. Bouncing both knees up and down, his face is pinched in concern. It must be difficult for him to feel so helpless. I nearly go to him, but I don’t want to abandon Bes if he needs my help.
I yell over the roar of the engine to get Bes’s attention. “A little warning would’ve been nice.”
He doesn’t spare me a glance. “Considering I wasn’t given one myself, you’re fortunate I could say a damned thing about it.”
Touchy.
I turn around to keep an eye on the shore as the boat pulls away. Where’s Ailsa? I search the dock for her red hair. Instead, a group of men in black shirts, gray-green jackets, and black berets run right past where our boat used to be docked, chasing after…
“Ailsa?” I question aloud.
She sprints in our direction, expression determined.
No longer wearing her trench coat, her shock of red hair and fair skin sift through the crowd of dark-haired, olive-skin-toned Italians.
They jump back at the intrusion, gesturing boldly with their hands and cursing at her in their colorful native tongue.
My feet drag me past Bes, out of the helm, and to the boat’s stern railing on their own accord.
I watch helplessly as she hurries toward us.
She’s not going to make it. I look around for something—anything—I can use.
A rope, maybe? I’d even take a life preserver at this point, despite having no way to reel it back in.
Peering over my shoulder, I find a rope similar to the one that kept us tethered to the dock moments ago, coiled haphazardly on the deck. Despite the boat pulling further and further away, I reach for it. If she can jump into the sea and swim to it, I can pull her up.
“Miss Hawkins, get inside the helm!” Bes yells, but I don’t listen.
Rope in hand, I look up to find all four of the men pulling their guns from their holsters mid-stride.
Even from this distance, I recognize them immediately to be Glisenti Model 1910’s; Nonna keeps one stuffed under her bed, in case of intruders.
The people around them scream at the sight of the deadly weapons, ducking as they race away from the action.
The moment they aim their weapons at her, Ailsa stops. Goddammit. Not knowing what else to do, I yank the gun from my waistband and pull the safety lever down.
Swallowing hard, I press my thighs against the railing in an attempt at balance as we speed away, aiming the weapon at the man closest to Ailsa.
My hand trembles slightly and I grip it with both hands to steady it.
I really, really don’t want to shoot anyone again, but I will if it means Ailsa lives.
Jump, you fool. Jump into the water, I scream at her in my mind. Instead, she throws up her hands in defeat. My heart drops into my empty stomach.
The man closest to her attempts to grab her—but she jerks his arm behind his back and slams her forehead into his, forcing him to his knees. Grabbing his gun, she points it at him and shoots.
He crumples to the ground.
That’s my cue. Closing one eye, I aim at one of the other men and pull the trigger.
The first shot zings by his head and ricochets off the building behind him.
All three remaining men cock their heads toward the boat, shifting their aim away from Ailsa.
I pay them no mind, focusing on my breathing like I do during target practice.
Because that’s all this can be: target practice.
“Bloody hell,” Bes swears loudly behind me, but he’s too busy driving the boat to stop me.
I focus on the same man again and fire. My aim stays true this time, the bullet burying itself in the middle of his chest. I don’t linger on him long enough to watch him fall, moving on to the next man. Ailsa struggles with one of them, and the other—
A couple bullets fly over my head and I crouch down. My heart pounds too fast inside my chest for comfort, head swimming for a second. Barely breathing, I grip the railing so tight with my left hand I swear my palm might rip open.
Before I can aim my gun again, another gunshot echoes across the port.
Ailsa’s body goes limp and falls backward into the sea.
My mouth opens in a silent scream. No! My grip on the railing tightens further. I can’t give up on her.
I consider tying the rope around me and leaping in after her, even though I just proved to myself at the Temple of Seti I that I’m not the best swimmer.
The men turn their guns on our boat again, firing off a few more shots until we’re out of range. I don’t take my eyes away from where Ailsa’s body disappeared into the sea, her blood blooming out from the spot and staining the bright blue water red.
She’s gone.
“Miss Hawkins.” Bes. I barely hear him over the rumble of the engine and the whooshing in my ears.
I couldn’t save her. She saved my life and I couldn’t do the same. Tears prick at my eyes, dried instantly by the sharp breeze.
“Miss Hawkins!” he barks. “Come away from there before you get yourself killed.”
Tears blurring my vision, I aim the Luger again, focusing on one of the remaining men. I won’t let them get away with it, at the very least.
Before I can pull the trigger, we hit a wave from a nearby cargo vessel.
The amulet jostles beneath my shirt as my grip loosens from the railing and I fall forward—when Bes catches me around the waist. He pulls me back so hard that I fall on top of him, knocking him down.
The gun skitters across the deck but stays aboard.
I fight against his grip. “Let me go!”
He only holds me tighter.
“I can still save her,” I say, quieter than I want to be while scrambling uselessly on the wood. “I have to.”
Bes shifts my weight so that I’m facing him, wordlessly wrapping his arms around me, one around my mid-back and the other against my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. Tears stab behind my eyes like hot pokers.
What are they going to do with her? Will they even bury her properly? Or throw her in an unmarked grave, her family having no idea what happened to her?
Bastards.
With the threat out of reach now, I press my face into Bes’s chest, allowing myself to sink into his embrace. His hand at my back strokes along my spine gently.
He murmurs against my hair in Arabic, “Fiha khair. Fiha khair.”
I have no idea what it means, but it soothes me all the same.
Although I slept for thirty hours, I’m exhausted once again.
Exhausted from running, from watching people die, from killing them myself…
and his arms around me are the only real thing I’ve felt in days.
The only thing anchoring me to this reality.
And if I stay here any longer, I might never get up.
I push Bes away and he lets me.
Glaring back at the docks, a flash of bright color draws my attention. A woman I recognize all too well strides between the uniformed men. My chest heaves, nausea pooling in my stomach once again. No, it can’t be.
Blonde hair pulled tight into place, she changed out of her white, blood-stained shirt into a dark red one to match her lipstick. The side of her face appears to have been stitched up, a layer of white powder sprinkled across it.
Ingrid.