Page 38 of Indirect Attack
I WAS DIZZY, NAUSEOUS, and thirsty, and the pounding in my head wouldn’t let up. It was almost a blessing when I began to weave in and out of consciousness.
The terrorist hadn’t returned since our first meeting, and though I occasionally heard muffled voices up the stairs and beyond the door, I was entirely alone and isolated. At one point, I’d tried calling out for water and food, my voice rough through a dry, sore throat, but I’d received only a resounding silence in return.
The cold had started seeping into my bones—I was dressed for an archeological dig at the end of summer, not some cold, damp basement—and I’d started shivering. The only way to gain some warmth was to curl up as tightly as I could, pulling my legs into my chest. But at some point, even that stopped working.
I tried to focus on something else, anything else. Ben, of course, was where my mind went. When I could, I lost myself in memories of our night together, reminiscing over dinner and drinks, our intense, fiery time in my room. My mind went even further back, to high school, to dragging a sullen Ben to the homecoming games and dances, to lying on the floor in my room listening to music while he sketched endlessly. To ourlong talks as we walked back from the bus stop through the fall leaves, stopping to get apples from our neighbor’s laden tree. To building forts as kids in the field between our houses, only for his younger brother Sam to knock it all down like the wild animal he’d been back then. Summers at the pool and winters spent watching movies together by the fire if we weren’t outside pelting each other with snowballs.
At one time, I’d imagined our kids doing the same things—tumbling over one another, building a treehouse with Ben’s help, playing in the yard, or drawing with their father. And just this morning, a part of me had begun to awaken those dreams again, seeing light and hope where there had only been darkness before.
But eventually, wandering down that road only brought me back to my present. To the danger, threat, and fear. To the fact that there was a good chance I would never see Ben again, the past only memories and the future promise gone for good.
And then I was glad when unconsciousness would weave its way back in.
When I heard the noise, I wasn’t sure how long I’d been unconscious this time—seconds? Minutes? Hours? Was it day or night? Time had no meaning in this tiny room without a window to tell me how long I’d been here. But I jolted awake, my gaze moving around the space, but it was silent again.
Maybe I’d imagined the noise or dreamed it or heard someone clomping above me.
But then I heard it again, a deep rumble I felt through the floor. The single light above me flickered, and I looked up to see it swaying gently.
Noises began to filter in with the rest—shouting, first, outside the door. Then loud popping I recognized as gunfire, muted though it was by the thick walls.
I knew it was the Marines. They had come for me. Ben had come for me.
But it was a trap, with me as the bait—would Ben even make it down to me? Would the Marines overcome the terrorists? I couldn’t tell anything from the chaos filtering in from outside, and whether one side prevailed over the other.
The gunfire drew closer, then farther away, then closer again. A bang echoed not from outside but from the other side of the door. It sounded far off, but I knew it had to be from the building where the terrorists held me, especially when shouts of fear followed it.
Ben was coming.
Sudden energy flushed through me, driven by terror, dread, panic, and the knowledge that rescue was only a few minutes away.
But they had to reach me first.
I began tugging the handcuffs and the pipe. The metal cuffs bit into my raw wrists, but I didn’t care. I had to get away. I had to warn Ben.
Pieces of ceiling filtered onto my head as I tugged and jerked on the pole, my eyes watering with the dust. Though the light was dim, I thought I could see the bolts locking the whole thing onto the ceiling beginning to wiggle. This place was old and decrepit, the metal was rusty, and there was no way it wouldn’t budge at some point.
But I was weak, had a concussion and a raging headache, and my wrists were starting to scream. I wasn’t sure which would last longer—the pole or me.
I dodged a chunk of the ceiling when it fell, nearly smashing on top of my head, and continued pulling desperately on the pole. The sound of gunfire was all around the building now, loud despite the walls, and what I assumed were explosions trembled like earthquakes through the ground.
As I looked up again, blinking flakes out of my eyes, I could definitely see the bolts beginning to come loose. It occurred to me, briefly, that maybe running out in the middle of a firefight wasn’t the best idea, but I had to get to Ben. I had to let him know all this was a trap.
The first bolt fell, and I let out a yell of triumph, which turned to a cry of fear as an explosion went off nearby. It sounded like thunder and rocked the room, sending more dirt sifting down onto my head.
“Please don’t blow this place up,” I begged, knowing they couldn’t hear me.
More gunfire echoed through the hallways, penetrating the door.
I jerked to the side as far as possible as another bolt fell, hitting the floor with a thud before rolling away, then jumping as more explosions rocked the room.
Another bang followed the awful noise—but this wasn’t gunfire, and it was directly above me. My head jerked up at the noise, only to see the terrorist from before at the top of the steps, and he had a gun in his hand.
I felt myself pale, my pulse speeding up until it felt like my heart wanted to jump out of my chest. As he took the stairs in two giant leaps, I started shaking like a leaf. In panic, I shook the pole with every ounce of strength I had left, trying frantically to get away even though I knew I had no chance. He was here to kill me.
“Don’t touch me.” The words left my mouth as a strangled cry, pulling away as far away from him as the cuffs would allow. “No, don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me!”
The man let out a string of curses and kicked at me. I ducked, raising my arms to cover my head, but breath-stealing pain still blossomed in my side. Winded and in pain, I looked up, expecting to see the gun aimed at me, but the terrorist was oddlysilent and still, his gaze on the steps. His entire body radiated tension, his hand wrapped so tightly around the gun that his knuckles were white. His finger was on the trigger, and even though he was close enough for me to kick out and potentially knock it from his hand, the other, the much greater possibility, was that he would shoot, which would be the end.
