Page 9 of The Tower

"Yes, and you will," I insist. "Because if you don't, you're dead."

She bites her lips, almost choking on her urge to wail violently. Part of me feels sorry for her. Here she is, after what I'm sure must have been the most traumatizing thing ever to happen in her young life, with blood running down her fancy dress, fiery pain pinching through her shoulder, and she's about to jump off the roof strapped to a man who shot at her.

Her desperation is evident.

And it makes her even more beautiful.

I look ahead, facing the same imaginary runway I just saw Brad and Tom run along as they made their way down. Tightening my grip on the straps, I start counting.

Chapter 5

Libby

This must be a nightmare. I must have passed out again, or maybe I've been sleeping this entire time. Something like that.

I can't possibly be awake right now.

This is not happening.

I almost throw up when my feet leave the ground, and there's nothing but death below. With my gaze locked down on the streets more than five hundred feet below, it's even harder not to faint again, let alone keeping my head up. Everything is moving so fast; the cold wind lashes out against my face, sending new waves of piercing pain through my body as it grazes my open wounds.

My dress is drenched, and the blood drips down into the abyss as we fly over the city in an oddly calm and graceful manner. Even the sounds of the city streets are drowned out up here. The wind hisses loudly, overshadowing every sound and calming me like a well-meaning person's hush. If it wasn't for the agonizing pain in my shoulder, I would almost call it a loving caress while dandling me like a child.

I thought I'd be crying or screaming for my life once we made the jump, but the opposite happened. As soon as we were airborne, the tears stopped, and instead of shrieking in fear, I'm now quietly staring down, gawking with my mouth wide open but not uttering a peep. I can hear his voice behind me, but I don't understand what he's saying, and I don't bother to ask. Whatever it is, I'm probably better off not hearing it right now.

I can't lift my left arm, holding on to the straps of the harness with my right hand all the harder when he adjusts our direction, flying a little curve to the left. The move makes me lightheaded again, sending a wave of black dizziness to my head and blinding me for a few seconds.

For a moment, all I want is to give in to the feeling. I want to pass out. I don't want to be here. I don't want to experience this. I want to be rid of the pain, the fear, the horrible images inside my head...

The panicking crowd, people falling to the floor, dark figures moving between them, making it impossible to know who friend or foe was. There could have been one shooter or ten. The horror was the same.

My aunt is dropping to the floor right next to me. Was that first bullet meant for her? The one that hit my shoulder instead? Or was it the other way around, and she was killed by a bullet meant for me?

I don't know which would be worse.

But if it was meant for me, why am I still alive? Why am I strapped to one of the killers' chests right now? Why did he take me with him instead of killing me?

Is this a kidnapping? Did they come for me? Is that why people had to die tonight?

But even in my spaced-out state, I doubt that because I heard the men arguing. Just as I came to, other men were on the roof, and they didn't seem to be happy about the idea of me tagging along.

Tagging along.

I manage a crooked smirk at that phrasing. It sounds so innocent, so friendly. Just me, getting shot, jumping off the roof with one of the guys who shot at me, tagging along—while bleeding to death.

Because that's what's going to happen, right? I'm going to die. There's no way I'm getting out of this alive. God only knows why he hasn't shot me yet, but whatever his reason, it doesn't mean he's not planning to kill me as soon as we touch the ground. Or that he plans to leave me for dead after all. Maybe he just wanted me to die slowly or to torture me. Maybe he's some kind of pervert who took me as a very special toy for himself. I have no way of knowing.

Maybe he's the Bridgewater murderer? There have been cases of abduction in the area lately, and all the victims were young women my age, ripped from their lives and locked away somewhere, and—in some cases—found for dead weeks later.

Could that be it? Am I going to be the next victim of the Bridgewater murderer?

Is this man, whose chest I'm strapped to, the cruel monster the police have been chasing for months? I couldn't even see his face because he never took off the black cloth mask. All I know is that he's part of the waitstaff, he's tall and strong, and his eyes are a dark hazel mystery.

Could it be...?

That particular handsome waiter. Is he one of them? Is he the one who took me? The one who tied me to his chest and is now flying me across the city, away from the hustle and the terror he caused?

No. That can't be. It can't be him.

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