Chapter 23 #2
“Yes, please set it up.” What I really want is to see her and hold her in person, but the video will have to do for now. “In the meantime, I’m going to check on Lucas and the others.”
Because of the bulky cast on my arm, it’s a struggle to put on the clothes the nurse brings me.
The pants go on without any issues, but I end up having to rip out the left sleeve to get the cast through the armhole.
My ribs hurt like hell, and every movement requires tremendous effort as my body wants nothing more than to lie back down on the bed and rest. I persist, though, and after a few tries, finally succeed in clothing myself.
Thankfully, walking is easier. I can maintain a regular stride.
As I exit the room, I see the soldiers Sharipov mentioned earlier.
There are five of them, all dressed in army fatigues and toting Uzis.
Seeing me emerge into the hallway, they silently fall into step behind me, following me as I head over to the Intensive Care Unit.
Their expressionless faces make me wonder if they’re there to protect me or to protect others from me.
I can’t imagine the Uzbekistani government is thrilled to have an illegal arms dealer in their civilian hospital.
Lucas is not there, so I check on the others first. As Sharipov told me, they are all badly burned, with bandages covering most of their bodies.
They’re also heavily sedated. I make a mental note to transfer a huge bonus into each of their bank accounts to compensate them for this, and to have them seen by the best plastic surgeons.
These men knew the risks when they came to work for me, but I still want to make sure they’re taken care of.
“Where is the fourth man?” I ask one of the soldiers accompanying me, and he directs me to another room.
When I get there, I see that Lucas is asleep. He doesn’t look nearly as bad as the others, which is a relief. He’ll be able to return with me to Colombia once the plane arrives, whereas the burned men will have to stay here for at least a few more days.
Coming back to my room, I find Sharipov there, placing a laptop on the bed. “I was asked to give this to you,” he explains, handing me the computer.
“Excellent, thank you.” Taking the laptop from him with my right hand, I sit down on the bed. Or, more appropriately, collapse on the bed, my legs shaking from the strain of walking all over the hospital. Thankfully, Sharipov doesn’t see my ungainly maneuver, as he’s already heading out the door.
As soon as he’s gone, I go on the internet and download a program designed to conceal my online activities. Then I go to a special website and put in my code. That brings up a video chat window, and I put in yet another code there, connecting to a computer back at the compound.
Peter’s image appears first. “Finally, there you are,” he says, and I see the living room of my house in the background. “Nora is coming down.”
A moment later, Nora’s small face shows up on the screen. “Julian! Oh my God, I thought I would never see you again!” Her voice is filled with barely contained tears, and there are wet tracks on her cheeks. Her smile, however, radiates pure joy.
I grin at her, all my anger and physical discomfort forgotten in a sudden surge of happiness. “Hi baby, how are you?”
She gapes at me. “How am I? What kind of question is that? You’re the one who was just in a plane crash! How are you? Is that a cast on your arm?”
“It appears to be.” I lift my right shoulder in a brief shrug. “It’s my left arm, though, and I’m right-handed, so it’s not a big deal.”
“What about your head?”
“Oh, this?” I touch the thick bandage around my forehead. “I’m not sure, but since I’m walking and talking, I assume it’s something minor.”
She shakes her head, staring at me with disbelief, and my grin broadens. Nora probably thinks I’m trying to be all macho in front of her. My pet doesn’t realize that these kinds of injuries truly are minor for me; I’ve had worse from my father’s fists as a child.
“When are you coming home?” she asks, bringing her face closer to the camera. Her eyes look enormous this way, her long lashes spiky with residual wetness. “You are coming home now, right?”
“Yes, of course. I can’t exactly go after Al-Quadar like this.” I wave my right hand toward the cast. “The plane is already on its way to get me and Lucas, so I’ll be seeing you very soon.”
“I can’t wait,” she says softly, and my chest tightens at the raw emotion I see on her face. A feeling very much like tenderness winds through me, intensifying my longing for her until I ache with it.
“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.