Page 78 of His Angel

“Let me go!”

I’m hauled out of the safe room, dragged up the stairs, my feet scraping against the steps. I keep trying to fight, my nails scratching against one of their arms, but it does nothing.

Their hands are mechanical, unrelenting, as they haul me, my body jerking with each step, my breath coming in short, raw bursts.

I can’t see anything through the sack, and the darkness is absolute, disorienting. I’m drowning in it, my mind spinning, my heart a frantic staccato in my chest as it pounds with fear, with desperation, with the agony of not knowing what’s happening or where they’re taking me.

I’m going to die, I think, and the thought seizes me, a crushing weight I can’t escape, that I can’t fight, that I can’t breathe against. These men are going to kill me. They’re going to kill Isaia.

No, no, no, I can’t let that happen.

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

I kick out harder, my foot connecting with something solid, but hands wrap around my ankles, and I’m lifted off the floor, carried by pairs of strong arms.

They keep moving, and I keep thrashing, my screams bruised and battered against the inside of the sack, against the inside of my head.

The air changes, and I realize we’re outside, the atmosphere shifting around me, immediate, palpable. The sound hits me next, the whir of chopper blades, so loud like they’re carving the sky open, the furious slice of them vibrating in my skull.

I’m set on my feet, and I gasp with the shock of it, the wind from the rotors so strong it pierces through me. I try to jerk free, try to run, fighting harder than I ever have in my life. But their grip is iron, and I’m sobbing as I’m forced into the chopper, a ragged, desperate sound ripped from my throat.

One of them shoves my face down onto the metal floor, his knee grinding into my back, his weight crushing the air from my lungs, pinning me there as I thrash wildly, as I fight against him with every last ounce of strength I have, my body jerking violently, the pain of it bruising, shocking. My arms are twisted behind me, restrained with something so tight it makes my skin burn.

My head spins, my stomach lurches, and I feel like I'm going to be sick, the movement of the chopper disorienting as it rises and sways as if the whole world is tilting with it, and I can’t tell which way is up, which way is down, which way will lead to the end of me.

The knee in my back adds unbearable pressure. I gasp and sputter, my sobs explosive, desperate, as I swallow down the urge to vomit as I try to breathe.

I never stop fighting, never stop flailing, trying to throw them off, trying to free myself, my mind racing, adrenaline surging with terror, with the awful unknown of what they’re going to do to me, my sanity slipping as I fight against the horror of it, the helplessness of it, the hopelessness of it.

The chopper banks hard, and I slide against the metal floor, the sack twisting around my head, the sound of Isaia’s name ripped from my throat by the wind. They’re barking out orders, their voices a low snarl lost in the whir of the blades.

Another surge of panic tears through me and triggers a burst of energy, and I wrench against the restraints even harder, and this time my feet kick at something hard, a voice crying out, “Bitch!”

Pain explodes in a white-hot flash, my face slamming against the metal floor with a force so violent I think I might black out. The shock of it is jarring, head-splitting, and my skull feels like it's cracking open.

I taste blood on my tongue. The metallic taste spreads through my mouth like poison, and I gag against it. Thick. Coppery.

My ears fill with static, a high-pitched ringing that drowns out everything else, my body going numb, my limbs weighing me down like lead. I can’t fight anymore; my thoughts are scattered, and my mind is a rush of blurring fog and confusion. It’s like I’m slipping in and out of consciousness, adrenaline fading.

I can feel the quick, sharp jolts of movement as the chopper surges through the air, and I’m pretty sure I hear someone say, “We’ve got her, sir.”

I have no idea how much time passes, how many times I’ve passed out—if I’ve passed out. Everything is surreal, like none of this is really happening.

It’s a dream.

I need to wake up

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

There’s a jarring thud beneath me, the hard slam of metal against the ground, and the shock shoots through my spine. The chopper lands, and the impact knocks my head against the floor, my bones rattling with the force of it. The world is shaking, and I try to brace myself when I’m being yanked up and pulled out, dragged into open air.

The sack over my head is suddenly removed, and the light stabs at me. It’s so intense I have to blink a few times to adjust. We’re on a…we’re on a boat. A yacht. The deck lies sprawled out before me.

I squint up at the men on either side of me, their grip iron on my elbows as they force me to walk. “Let go of me!”

They don’t. Their faces remain impassive, uncaring, fingers biting into my flesh.

I twist myself, jerking my arm up, and sink my teeth into the nearest one’s arm, biting down hard until I taste blood. He howls, releasing his grasp, and I use the moment to grab his gun, my fingers slippery on the metal, fumbling for control as I lunge forward.

---