Page 32 of Leaving Lando

“Draw some blood,” camera man says. “And cut off her hair. We’ll send that to him first.”

I twist my hand around so I can grip the butt of the gun at close to the right angle. It’s my support hand, not my shooting hand, but I’ll manage.

Knife man grabs a bunch of my hair. I look at camera man, then behind him, and gasp.

It’s the oldest trick in the book, but it works. Knife man’s head jerks that direction and camera man swings around, going for his gun. I put two bullets into knife man’s torso, then two more into camera man as he tries to turn back to me.

Laying the gun aside, I shove knife man off me, then grab the gun again as I scramble to my feet. Knife man isn’t moving, but I give him a wide berth as I circle toward camera man. His hand is on his gun. Both of them are still breathing.

I want to search them for a phone that I can use to call, but I don’t want to risk getting that close if they’re faking unconsciousness. And I can’t bring myself to shoot them again. I wait, in a relaxed but ready firing stance, the gun pointed midway between them.

It’s camera man who breaks the stalemate, lifting his head as he brings his gun up. I shoot him in the wrist and he screams and drops the gun. I edge closer, kick it away, and spot a cell phone in his shirt pocket.

Camera man hasn’t moved. I manage to fish the phone out and dial Lando’s number from memory. It’s answered on the first ring.

“Adamo,” he snarls. His voice is so lethal that it frightens me for an instant.

“Lando.” It’s all I can say.

“Bree!” he shouts. “Baby. Tell me where you are.”

“Farmhouse. Farm.” I can’t seem to speak in complete sentences.

“Your farm?” His tone is still urgent, but much more gentle now.

“Yes.”

“We’re on the way. Tell me the situation.” He’s speaking briskly now, commandingly. Keeping me focused. “Is there an active threat?”

“No. Don’t think so.”

“Gunmen?”

“Two. Shot them.”

“You’re armed?”

“Yes.”

“How many rounds you have left?”

“One.” The answer’s automatic; my head did the math without me even knowing it.

“Okay, babe. Get your back against a wall. If you can retrieve the other gun safely, do that. We’ll be there soon. Are you hurt?”

“No,” I whisper.

There’s a silence. When he speaks again, some of that earlier deadliness is threaded through the tenderness of his voice. “I want you to move now, like I told you. Come back on and let me know when you’re in position.”

I move to a corner, picking up the other gun on the way. Standing up seems like too much effort, so I crouch down, setting down the mostly-depleted gun and holding the full one. The phone lifts to my ear in slow motion. “Here.”

“I’m gonna stay on the phone with you until we get there. Just a few minutes more, babe. I want you to keep talking to me, okay?”

“‘Kay.” My teeth are chattering from the cold.

He keeps asking me questions, repeating them if I don’t answer right away. I understand, at some level, that I’m in shock, that he’s keeping me conscious and anchored to reality. Whoever is driving will be going fast, crazy fast, racing out into the countryside.

At some point, I space out. The hand holding the phone can’t hold it up anymore. I’m still crouched in the corner, staring blankly at nothing, when they find me.

---