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I plant my bare feet on the floor. I raise my arms, stiffening both at the elbows to support the pistol. My naked thighs are shaking. My bare breasts heave as I fight to draw a steady breath.
I can’t take a shot. The men are too close. They’re moving too much. It’s too dark, and I’m terrified I’ll end up hitting Trap.
“Jonas!” I scream, to draw his attention.
He responds faster than I think is humanly possible. Still keeping his grip on Trap’s throat, he pounds Trap’s head onto the floor. The wet, meaty sound is drowned out by Jonas’s snarl as he staggers to his feet.
Stooping, he snags the knife from Ansel’s dead hand.
He whirls toward me as I try to track him with the gun. His face is twisted beyond recognition. He’s smeared with blood and worse. He’s lunging across the space between us, knife at the ready, hollering an ancient war-cry.
I leap back, but he’s moving too fast. I don’t have time to aim the gun. I don’t have space to twist away. I’m trapped and he’s coming and there’s no way I can escape…
Leo springs in front of me. Arms wide, chest forward, head back, he puts his body between Jonas Herzog and me.
The knife is silent, sinking home.
Leo’s arms wheel, and he collapses to the floor, hands closing over the grip of the blade protruding from his belly. Jonas stares down at his empty fingers, utterly confused.
I raise the gun and fire, a direct hit to Jonas Herzog’s face. The back of his head splatters against the dining room wall.
Silence.
But not really. Trap is groaning, rolling over to his stomach, pushing himself up on all fours. I’m keening, my breath moving in and out of a throat so tight it sounds like I’m singing.
And Leo is sobbing.
I limp to his side, taking only a second to place the pistol on the table. Leo’s fingers slip on the knife. He’s trying to pull it out.
“No,” I say, kneeling beside him. Some ancient memory of a first aid class or a Girl Scouts merit badge or maybe just an episode of bad TV warns me that if he moves the blade now, he might bleed out.
I hear Trap behind me. He’s coughing, but he’s talking into his phone. 911. Emergency.
Leo grabs my hand. “Tell…Alix…I love her,” he says between sobs.
“Hush.” I try to smooth his hair. “I’m here. I’m Alix.”
“No,” he protests. “Daughter… Alix.”
“Just rest,” I tell him. He’s not making sense.
His fingers squeeze mine. “Master made me… Gun… Camera… Fuck… Svetlana….”
“Hush,” I say, not because I don’t believe him, but because I do. Of course Herzog had a gun. Of course Herzog filmed him raping a helpless woman.
Trap is giving our address now. “Just rest,” I say to Leo. “Help is on the way.”
“Baby… My baby… I get pic— pictures…. If I w— work.”
They kept poor Leo in line, kept him chained to a table, just so he could see pictures of his child. He’s more agitated now, fighting harder to make sure I believe him. I make soft noises and try to keep him calm. “Shhh,” I say. “You can tell me more later.”
He shakes his head. He doesn’t believe in later. Urgency pushes out four full sentences. “I left here. I needed Crash. I needed Alix. I called the Herzogs.”
Tears stream down his face. His teeth chatter so hard, I can barely make out what he’s saying. “Please,” I say, twisting my fingers around his. “Just wait. You can tell me the rest tomorrow.”
“I k— kept ID,” he said, defiance making his voice stronger. “For f— front gate. H— Herzogs in trunk.”
Trap is talking to the security guards at the freeport gate now. He’s telling them to let the police in, to send up the ambulance. He’s telling them to hurry.
