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A deafening crack of thunder whizzed through the noise and Mr. Grey dropped to the ground like a fly. And more of my father’s men suffered the same fate.
Shit! We’ve been ambushed!
My eyes watered. “Oh my God!” The curtain slipped from my grip and covered the peephole, but barely muffled the gunfire sounds pricking the air. My hand flew to my mouth and a tear rolled down my cheek.
I could only think of one thing: Hide.
With the speed of lightning, I ran out of the living room and up the stairs to one of the guest rooms. It was only after I’d hidden in a closet, safely tucked between hangers of thick clothes, that I remembered I left my phone on the sofa downstairs.
No way to call for help.
I was doomed.Doomed! Doomed!
Fresh sobs stung the back of my eyes and rocked my shoulders, but I quickly swallowed them, slamming another hand over my mouth. My chest heaved and a series of questions ran through my head like a hamster on a wheel.
“Who are they?”and“What do they want?”
I tried to think. Could they have any connection with the charity event? Did I anger someone? The idea wasn’t farfetched. My father mingled with politicians, and I’d heard many times, “You only do as you’re told.” Maybe they didn’t want large funds going to homeless children around the world.
Grey’s lifeless body dropping to the ground flashed again through my mind and I shook my head.
That couldn’t be it.
I didn’t do anything wrong. So then, who were these men?
The security alarm blared, and I pressed my ear against the wood. Through the tiny cracks, more gunshots resonated through the empty hallway.
The alarm stopped, and I heard pieces of glass shatter and crunch under heavy feet.
They were everywhere.
My heart beat so fast, I feared it reverberated through the closet doors. A ringing began in my ears and my throat tightened. I had trouble breathing. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so scared.
“We’re here to get you, Mike. Your grand entourage has arrived. Where the fuck are you?” A man shouted from the living room. “Show yourself, you coward, you piece of shit!”
His voice. It was the most rousing and at the same time the most frightening thing I had ever heard. Smooth, yet angry, and deep, like a multitude of unearthly voices, it echoed through the house. If the walls could, they would shatter under the impact. I shuddered. My palms grew clammy.
Whoever this man was, it was clear that he was looking for my father. He had no idea. My father wasn’t here, and I was the only one hiding in a closet to save my life. A flimsy idea crossed my mind: what if I stepped out to tell them that my father wasn’t home? Would they spare me?
The answer sat on my tongue like a bitter pill weighing a ton.
“Svoloch’ [bastard]!” The man bellowed.
A painful tearing sound resounded through the hallway and a heavy crashing of ceramics against the wall. The curtains and flowerpots. I whimpered.
The noise didn’t stop. Shattering glass. Ricocheting bullets. More sounds of destruction. Each one digging a deeper hole in the depths of my heart. Hot tears burned my eyes, scorched my cheeks, and rolled down my hand.
I had never imagined death, nor what it would be like to die. But if I had, it would never have occurred to me to die in the hands of dangerous men for something my father had obviously done to them.
Heavy footsteps pounded through the hallway and up the stairs. I held my breath. They were at the other end of the hall, kicking open doors and ransacking the bedroom, but I could sense their presence, like a dark, pregnant cloud that was about to deflate.
Crash. Crack. Crunch.
They came closer. Close enough to be heard and seen more clearly. I leaned forward and opened the closet, just a little. The peephole was enough to see through. My heart was pounding as I realized the bedroom door was open. Faint shadows danced on the walls in the wide hallway. The men waved their guns in the air and shouted in a language that sounded Bulgarian.
“Pavel!” The man with the unearthly voice sounded nearby.
A tall, huge man appeared in my line of vision, and I only saw his side profile. He had his eyes fixed on the man behind the door. The man had a short haircut and scars on his jaw. His hands were large. As if he could snuff out life with a gentle squeeze. He gripped a black pistol in his hand. “Yes, boss.”
