Rebecca York: Betrayed

“I don’t want to kill you.”

Bueno , Elena Reyes thought as she flicked her gaze from the man’s eyes to the automatic pistol he held in his hand and back again. Dios , if she’d only gone to the human resources department in the morning instead of after lunch, she wouldn’t be in this fix.

She’d been in the front office talking to the receptionist, Lisa Walters, when they’d both heard loud voices in the back.

“That’s Joe Duckworth,” Lisa had murmured. “He was let go last week, and he came storming in to talk to Mr. Perkins.”

As the volume of the altercation increased, the women had exchanged glances.

“Maybe I’d better come back later,” Elena had said, taking a step toward the door.

Before she could leave, Mr. Perkins had stumbled into the reception area, with Duckworth behind him, holding a gun.

And now Elena and the human resources staff were gathered together in the reception area, listening to the man’s rambling demands. Air-conditioning poured from the vents in the ceiling, making her feel as if someone had pushed her into an open grave. She wanted to rub her arms with her palms to warm herself, but she kept her hands at her sides.

Don’t draw attention to yourself. Blend in. Those were rules she’d unconsciously followed since before her parents had brought her to the United States.

The gunman kept speaking in a high, whiny voice that grated on her ears and her nerve endings.

“But you don’t understand the position I’m in. What other choice do I have?”

She wanted to answer, but she kept to her previous decision and let him do the talking.

Yes, that was safer. His eyes told her that he wasn’t sure what he wanted, although he was prepared to do whatever was needed to get it.

“Everybody stay calm,” he said.

Sure, when he could blow them away at any moment.

In the past twenty minutes, she and the other hostages had learned a lot about him. Joe Duckworth had been a loyal employee of S&D Systems for two years after moving to Maryland from North Carolina. His wife had hated living in a crummy apartment in the North so she’d gone back home to her family. Joe had been driving back and forth on weekends, trying to get her to change her mind. That had taken a toll on him, and it wasn’t his fault that his work had suffered.

In the past few minutes, he’d switched from his life story to his demands. He wanted his job reinstated. He wanted back pay. He wanted the respect that was due a man of his considerable talents. He’d been on the phone to Lincoln Kinkead, president of S&D. So at least management knew what was going on up here. But the survival of the men and women trapped in the HR department, herself included, depended on a lot of factors.

Had Duckworth already gone too far to back down? Had his wife come back for a visit? Was she lying dead on the kitchen floor? If so, he had nothing more to lose, and this rant was just his way of working himself up to the big moment when he killed himself and took a bunch of innocent S&D employees with him.

Madre de Dios . The Spanish phrase brought a flash of annoyance. She’d worked hard to think in English. And she always did, unless she was under stress.

She risked taking her gaze off Duckworth for a moment, checking out the six other hostages in the room. There were five women and one man. Mr. Perkins, the sixty-year-old head of personnel, and five much younger female employees who worked for him, including Lisa, the receptionist, a slender brunette wearing a white blouse and black slacks. She was the one who looked like she was going to do something stupid. Elena tried to catch her eye, but the woman was staring into space with a fixed expression on her face.

Relax. Just relax. Don’t do anything foolish.

Elena repeated the words in her head, trying to project them toward Lisa, but the woman didn’t seem to be getting the message.

She made a moaning sound, and as Elena watched in horror, she leaped out of her chair behind the reception desk and ran for the door. Before she reached it, Duckworth shot her in the back, and she went down, her face pressed against the gray vinyl tile floor.

The rest of the captives watched in frozen horror, but Elena couldn’t simply leave her lying there.

“I have to help her,” she said in a voice she struggled to hold steady. Forcing herself to walk slowly, she crossed the room and knelt by Lisa. The woman’s breathing was labored, and blood stained the back of her white blouse.

“We need something to stop the bleeding,” Elena said. “She left a jacket on the back of her chair. Someone bring it to me.”

One of the other captives brought Elena the jacket, and she folded it up and pressed it to Lisa’s back, wishing she could do more for the woman.

“Just take it easy. You’re going to be okay,” she whispered.

Lisa moaned and turned her head, giving Elena a pleading look.

“Let me find something to cover you.” She turned to the woman who had brought the jacket. “Can you apply pressure?”

She gave a small nod.

Straightening, Elena looked around at the anxious faces watching her, then searched for something to use as a blanket.

As she surveyed the room, she flashed back to another time when her life had been in danger. Then she’d been a little girl, with no idea how to save herself. Now she was older and, she hoped, wiser.

It had been back in San Marcos, where her family had lived before they’d come to the U.S. as political refugees eighteen years ago.

It had happened on one of the local shopping days, which was nothing like shopping in North America.

She and her mother and brother, Alesandro, who was two years older than Elena, had gone to the open-air market in the town square near their home to buy food and look at the used clothing that got shipped south from the United States. Momma had bought tomatoes and squash, and they were heading for the fish stalls when a squad of soldiers came running through the crowd, shouting orders and pushing people aside. They were looking for rebels who had dashed between the stalls, trying to escape from the troops.

The soldiers found the rebels, and the two groups started shooting.

Momma rushed Elena and Alesandro toward the edge of the market, but at the first sound of gunfire, she pushed Alesandro to the cracked pavement and covered him with her body. Elena huddled next to them, shielding her head with her arms and shivering as bullets flew around them. When the shooting stopped, a lot of rebels lay bleeding on the pavement, along with a few soldiers and some unlucky civilians who had gotten caught in the crossfire.

As soon as the government troops let the shoppers go, Momma whisked Alesandro and Elena home. But Elena would never forget that day. Not just the terror of the gunfight but the knowledge that her mother had been focused on saving her son—not her daughter.

Until then, Elena had sensed only that her brother was more important to Momma and Papa than she was. The gun battle at the market left her with a sharp pain in her stomach.

After that, her parents began making plans to get out of San Marcos. When she listened to them talking in low voices at night about their arrangements, she couldn’t shake the secret fear that they would leave her behind.

But to her vast relief, they’d brought her to the United States with them, where she prospered, always trying to prove to them that they should love her as much as they loved her brother.

Well, that had been early motivation. Later the drive to succeed had been for herself alone. She’d worked hard to learn English, gone to Montgomery College on scholarships, gotten a degree in computer science, and been hired by S&D in the information technology department. She’d already gotten promoted, and outside of work, she’d been doing equally well. She had her own apartment. She was completely self-sufficient. And she’d been able to buy herself nice furniture, nice clothing, and a nice car.