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When I can’t find him anywhere within the building, I run out, checking the yards and garage.
“Raffi!” I shout.
What is that boy doing?
Perhaps it’s anxiety, or even exertion, but my stomach starts cramping. I need to take the car.
“Damn!” I complain, unable to find my car key in my bag.
I rush back upstairs and find the door ajar. It wasn’t like that when I left.
Entering quietly, I pick up my gun from my handbag.
A shadow moves in the kitchen. It could be Raffi grabbing a bowl of ice cream in between calls, but there’s no way it’s my son. It’s big, and it moves like a thief. I doubt Clayton will have sent another Simon Blake.
That leaves only one other possibility.
The intruder is walking into my room now. I can see he’s wearing black clothing, leather gloves, and a dark cap that’s drawn really low. Curiously, his gun is still in its holster. Well, that man will soon learn about his lack of preparation.
I join him in my room and shoot his thigh.
“Bitch!”
Before he can reach for his gun, I point mine at the back of his neck. I train to shoot to wound despite my instructor’s reluctance, but it doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t kill him, and he knows my intention.
He puts his arms up, but he’s still standing.
“Where’s my son?”
“I’m here to take you. I don’t know of no boy.”
I think he’s telling the truth. But where is Raffi?
The man turns, grabbing my wrists like eagle talons seizing prey. My hands tremble in the wrestle, but I refuse to let go of my gun.
He’s still not interested in drawing his own. Either he’s confident that he can subdue me without firing a shot, or he has been ordered not to shoot me.
Not expecting such resistance from me, he swings his healthy leg while leaning on the wall behind him, so his wounded leg doesn’t have to bear his whole weight.
Hell, no!
I’m not going to let him touch my belly, let alone hurt it.
As he gives himself room to complete his kick, his grip loosens. It’s slight but enough for my finger to pull the trigger.
First, his hands let up, then his leg falls mid-kick, and finally, his body slides down the wall he’s leaning on, leaving a trail of blood. As if the man was going to get up and haunt me, I throw a sheet over his body.
I puke once more. I’m still groggy from the scene I’ve just left in this Airbnb master bedroom, but I’ve got to find my son.
“Raffi!” I search the apartment again, hoping he’s back after a walk or something.
The front door creaks open.
“Raffi? That you?”
My split-second of ambivalence gives my uninvited guest a chance to stop me in my track. In that split second, all I thought about was Raffi. What would my son think if I had pointed the gun at him? Even worse, what if I’d accidentally shot him?
Fuck!
