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The door with the emergency exit sign flies open, and a group of heavily armed men in body armor storms through. Alonso takes aim without hesitation and shoots.
I turn away, not wanting to see any of this.
More shots sound, and I drop to my knees, cowering against the wall. Then Alonso collapses beside me with a load groan.
“Alonso!” I yell, panicked. “No, no, no, please God no,” I sob, bending over his unresponsive body, but before I can turn him to examine the extent of his injuries, a goon grabs me roughly by the hair and drags me up.
Auuuu… it hurts so bad.
I kick at him and make contact with his shin, and he growls.
The next second, pain explodes in my face, and I fall to the floor.
He hit me… I’ve never been hit before, and for a moment I’m too stunned to move.
My cheek burns, and spots color my vision. I feel faint. It doesn’t stop me from yelling for help, though. I yell from the top of my lungs, and pray to God, someone will hear me over the pounding of the music in the club.
Before I know what’s happening, my hands are taped behind my back and two goons drag me up. Goon One puts tape over my mouth, silencing my pleas.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
Where is my fourth guard? I turn my head backward and see him crumpled on the floor a few feet from Alonso. Two of the assailants have dropped, too.
The overwhelming urge to throw up takes over. But my mouth is taped shut. If I spew, I’ll choke on my vomit.
Do not throw up, do not throw up.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat as the goons drag me toward the exit, their fingers digging painfully into my flesh.
“Don’t let them take you to a second location,” the stern voice of the self-defense instructor from years ago floats into my mind.
I struggle, but to no avail.
How can I possibly stop them?!
I stop moving and dig my heels into the carpet as best I can, my legs slightly pointing forward to give me some leverage. It stops Goon Two briefly. When he bends down to pick me up, I stomp the heel of my stilettos with all my might onto his foot. He yells out in pain, but never loosens his grip on my arm. Cursing, his other hand draws back to smack me, but before it can connect with my face, Goon Three, who has a scar running diagonally across his face, reaches for me lightning fast and throws me over his shoulder as if I weigh nothing.
I’m paralyzed with fear.
I try to scream. I scream so loud in my head it’s deafening.
I kick my legs, hoping to hit some part of Scarface, but he restrains my legs with his burly arms. I hear the door swing open, and within seconds we’re outside in an empty courtyard.
A warm breeze touches my skin as I dangle over the goon’s shoulder. Car tires screech and a black SUV pulls up next to us. Someone opens the back door, and I’m thrown into the back seat, landing on my back.
I kick my legs viciously as Scarface tries to get in after me. In an instant, he produces more tape from his back pocket, holds my legs together, and, in a practiced move, binds them together.
Completely immobilized now, I close my eyes and try to drift away to a place not filled with horror.
Think of something peaceful.
But all I see is the image of Oriana’s dead body, lying crumpled on the cold floor, blood trickling from the hole where the bullet entered her forehead, her eyes open and cold, the life drained out of them.
It’s an image I know I won’t forget. I shudder, nausea taking over once more.
I might not have liked her but she didn’t deserve this.
None of us do.
