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My heart pounds in my throat as I wait for him, backing up into the wall to avoid being attacked from behind.
It feels like it takes him an hour to return. With every passing minute, I feel my blood pressure rising as I wait for Marat to ambush me, catching me in a moment of perceived safety and weakness.
When he finally arrives, he still has that sadistic grin on his face that lets me know he’s the right man for the job but probably the wrong man for a lot of other things. I’ve never seen this side of him before, and quite frankly, it’s just as concerning as it is a relief.
“Here, I’ve had this for quite some time. We need to place the canisters at every corner of the house. That will be more than enough to smoke him out or even kill him,” he says, handing me a few of the canisters.
“Then what?” I ask with growing urgency.
“Then we either smoke him out or kill him, you fucking idiot!” he shouts, running in the opposite direction to deploy his weapons.
I do the same, resenting him for not being clearer but figuring that he doesn’t really have the time or resources to give me a play-by-play on how to make mustard gas work effectively.
I kind of wish he did, though.
All I can figure out on my own is that there’s a time-release pin to pull, but I don’t know how much time it actually gives me before the bomb goes off.
With my heart beating in my ears now, I quickly speed through the house, placing the canisters along the floorboards and racing out of the house as soon as I’ve put down my last one.
Santiago just barely makes it out before all of the canisters begin to go off in a waterfall of horror. We rush back to the encampment, screaming at everybody to get inside of their vehicles and turn the air off immediately.
As I’m running toward the van where River is sleeping, I see her peeking out from the front seat with terror in her eyes as she points behind her.
I have to make a split-second decision as to whether or not I’m going to look over my shoulder. If It’s Marat, then he likely has a weapon pointed at the back of my head. But if itisMarat, I can subdue him and even kill him with one perfectly aimed shot to the forehead, and this whole thing can be over.
I decide to look behind me, and there he is – the man of the hour.
In the three seconds that I have to assess him, I can see that he clearly doesn’t have a weapon. He’s hardly wearing any clothes, likely because hewashiding in a crawl space where the Mexican desert heat was eating away at him, even in an air-conditioned getaway house.
He’s screaming something at me in garbled Russian, which leads me to believe that he himself was going insane during our stakeout. That alone makes it worth it. I managed to break him down to nothing while I stood victorious.
Considering that Marat isn’t much of a threat, but the gas flooding out of the house most definitely is, I continue sprinting towards the van as my fleet of men speeds off. The gas is moving too fast. If I don’t kill Marat now, I might not get the chance. I can’t bet on the desert heat or mustard gas to finish the job for me.
I have to act.
I twist my torso as I reach the van, raising my weapon at Marat. He seems oblivious that he’s in any danger at all, struggling to walk as he succumbs to the gas billowing through the yard. I probably don’t even have to shoot him, but I do, just to say I finished him off myself.
He falls to the ground like someone pulled the batteries out of him, and I start to cough as the wind blows fumes into my face. I struggle to open the van door until River jumps into action, covering her mouth and nose as she pushes the door open for me.
I want to kiss her, or at the very least, thank her. However, the circumstances just don’t allow for it.
The van roars to life as I turn the key, and I turn it around to join the others as Marat is left in the desert to rot alone.
26
RIVER
Being back at the estate after living in a van for two weeks is surreal.
If I had a memory, I’m hoping that I’ve never felt happier to be home, in my own shower, with clean hair and clean skin.
Whether or not this house is actuallymineis dubious at best, but for right now, I’m just going to shut my brain off, enjoy a real toilet and running water, and not open the door for absolutely anyone. I don’t care if the house is on fire. I’d better not be disturbed at all.
I choose the softest clothes I can for out of the shower. The sweatpants and shirt I pick aren’t the most expensive luxury brands that Adas bought me, which might offend him, but I don’t care. I went all the way out to fucking Mexico to play army with him and his collective of power-hungry psychos. I’ll wear an elastic waistband if I want to.
I spend a full hour letting hot water run over my head, listening intently to the sound it makes as it pours off my hair onto the stones of the shower floor. I’m sure I would be just as thrilled in a motel bathroom so long as it wasn’t infested with roaches, but being in such luxury is definitely a nice touch.
Eventually, I realize I have to come back to reality. It takes me a full five minutes of warring with myself before I actually turn the water off, feeling my stomach drop at the life that I’ve returned to.
