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But Selena could be in trouble. She could have slipped in the shower or gone into spontaneous cardiac arrest. I took a deep breath and went to the door, swiping my card to unlock it.
I pushed it open.
“Don’t move.”
It only took me a second to assess the situation. A normal person might have been confused by what I saw, but years of combat and training kept me levelheaded.
Selena was sitting on a chair, her face covered in duct tape, her ankles bound together, her hands bound behind her back. And standing next to her was a shorter bald man, stocky, maybe in his mid-thirties, wearing camo pants and a black button-down shirt.
And holding a gun aimed directly at my face.
“What do you want?” I asked him.
“Come inside. Slowly.”
I stepped inside.
“Close the door.”
I closed it. “Let’s talk about this,” I said.
“Nash Bell. Do you recognize me?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”
There was a twinge of anger. “You don’t? How could you not?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I meet a lot of people.”
“But you’d remember me,” he said. “I wrote you emails. So many emails. All about your book, about the combat in your book, and about the shit our government is doing to ruin us.”
I stared at him and suddenly it hit me. “I do remember you,” I said. And that was true.
Months ago, Livy had shown me a string of emails from some “deranged fan,” as she had put it. The guy had been ranting about the fake details of my book, how the government was covering something up and somehow I was involved. He’d kept saying that I was fake, that I wasn’t really a SEAL at all, that I was just another crisis actor.
He smiled. “So you understand.”
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“John,” he said. “John Smith.”
“Okay, John,” I said, realizing it was a fake name. He expected to live after this somehow. “Why don’t you let the girl go? We can talk.”
He moved closer to me. “I don’t want to talk, Nash. I want the world to know that you’re fake, that the whole war is fake. You’re an actor, a phony, a liar.”
“Okay,” I said. “We can talk about that. Tell everyone if you want. But let the girl go.”
“I can’t do that. She’s important.”
“She’s not important, John. She’s just a girl.”
“She’s your wife,” he sneered, moving even closer.
Come on, asshole, I thought to myself. Just a few more fucking steps.
“Yes, she is, but she doesn’t know anything.”
“So you admit it!” he screeched.
“Let her go and we’ll talk some more,” I said.
He turned and stormed away, standing next to Selena. He pressed the gun to her head and I flinched.
“Shut up!” he yelled. “She’s mine. She needs to know the truth about you.”
“Okay, John, okay. What do you want me to tell her?”
“The truth. You’re a phony. You’re fake.”
“Okay, John. I’m fake. It’s all been a lie.”
“I knew it,” he said, practically in tears. He was completely insane, absolutely deranged. He really believed that the government was faking conspiracies and horrible atrocities all over the world for some crazy greater purpose.
He was so beaten down by the world, so sad and pathetic, that he denied reality. It was easier for him to believe in incredibly complex and elaborate conspiracies involving thousands of people than to believe that tragedies happened.
“Move the gun from her, John,” I said. “Point it at me.”
He pointed it at me. “Move,” he said, gesturing at a chair next to him. “Sit.”
I moved slowly toward the chair, keeping my hands up. “Okay, I’ll sit. Whatever you want.”
“Good. Then you’ll tell everyone the truth.”
“Okay, John. Whatever you want.”
“Move.”
I came closer and closer to him. Five feet, four feet, two feet, and then I was within distance.
He held the gun pointed at me.
Then I made my move.
Using the back of my left hand, I swatted the gun away. He pulled the trigger, missing me. I stepped in with my right arm, putting my right hand on his gun hand’s wrist and grabbed hold, turning my back to him.
He tried to punch me with his free left hand, but it barely hurt. I stomped his instep and then slammed my forehead into his nose once, twice, three times. Blood ran freely down his face, and I twisted his wrist.
He screamed in pain and dropped the gun.
I quickly followed that with a knee to his midsection, forcing him back a step. I struck him once in the chest, in the throat, and then in the nose. Finally, I grabbed his arm and threw him over my hip, sending his body crashing through the coffee table.
He lay there groaning while I picked up his gun and walked toward him.
“What’s your real name?” I asked him.
“Sam,” he groaned. “I know you’re fake. I know you are.”
“Sam,” I said, “I don’t have to kill you. But I’m going to.”
