J. Redmerski - Behind The Hands That Kill

Woodard smiles giddily. “Aw, thanks, Izabel.” He pats his stomach with his palm. “Lost nineteen pounds already.”

Izabel smiles, close-lipped.

Then she turns her attention to Niklas; she walks toward him. I—and Niklas, judging by the look of expectation on his face—thinks she is going to say something to him, but she passes him up and comes my way instead.

“Have you told them yet?” she asks.

I pause, thinking. “Told them what?”

She glances back at everyone else, and then her eyes fall on me. “About the bounty on my head.”

“No,” I say, “but I planned to.”

“What about the bounty?” Niklas says, stepping up closer. “We already knew there was one—we all have bounties on our heads.”

“Yes,” I say, “but things have become more complicated.”

“How so?” Gustavsson asks.

Niklas narrows his eyes, chews on the inside of his mouth; I will never get used to my brother looking at me that way, as if everything is my fault, as though I am the Devil in a suit.

Perhaps it is. Perhaps I am.

I leave them all, Izabel included, and make my way toward the window again. I can feel their eyes on me from behind, the anticipation, the impatience, and the resentment from my brother.

I inhale deeply, and fold my hands together down in front of me again. “I will tell you all about the bounty, the surprising and…concerning possibilities surrounding it. But first, I will tell you how Izabel’s life was saved.”

I do not have to think back to that night too deeply to remember—I will never forget it for as long as I have breath in my lungs.

Bullets ripped through the air; I could hear them, but only in my subconscious; I could hear boots hitting the stones in fast succession; the firing of another gun blasting in my ears. I saw bodies falling around my cage. But I did not move. Or blink. Or flinch when a bullet zipped past me and dinged the cell bar inches from my head—I was disappointed that it missed.

More shots rang out, echoing off the tall stone walls of the building.

“The key!” I heard someone shout. “Victor, where’s the key?”

Still, I could not find the will to move, or to understand—what key? Who was this woman screaming at me about a key? I was sitting on the floor with Izabel in my arms; we were covered in blood, but…I thought…it was mostly hers.

“Victor!” shouted a man’s voice this time. “We need to know where the key is. Snap out of it, man, or she’s going to die. And I can’t be having that.”

I blinked, and raised my eyes to place a face with the familiar voice—Brant Morrison, my mentor from The Order. I knew I should be concerned that he was there, but I was not. Take me if you must, Morrison, put me out of my misery if you would grant me a dying wish, but do it quickly.

“The key! WHERE IS THE KEY?” he shouted.

It took a moment for me to understand, to pull my mind from the drowning sea of my despair, but finally I answered absently, “…Artemis…she has the key.”

The woman—something was also familiar about her—crouched in front of the lock on the cage door. She set her gun on the floor beside her and fished a lock-pick from her boot.

“Is she still alive, Victor?” Morrison asked.

I glanced unsteadily down at Izabel; I moved one arm from around her and brought my fingers to her nose, feeling for air coming from her nostrils. At least I thought that was what I was doing…I did not know; I felt like I was in another place, very far from there, but could still hear and see and feel everything. My other hand remained tight on the side of Izabel’s neck, trying to control the flow of blood; somewhere in the depths of my muddled mind I was still trying to save her, even though in my heart I knew she is dead.

“I should have done it myself,” I said absently, looking at no one. “I should have done it a long time ago…spared her all of this.”

“Snap out of it, man,” Morrison told me again. “If she’s still alive, there’s still time to help her.”

I looked right at him now, and for the first time since he entered the building, I was fully aware of his presence. But I did not care an iota that he was here, or who he was, or what he planned to do with me.

“I want her dead,” I said aloud to myself about Artemis, my teeth crushed together in my parched mouth. “Both of them—I will kill them both!”

“Calm down,” Morrison said; he pointed at Izabel. “Victor, keep pressure on the wound.”

I realized my error quickly and threw my hand back on her neck; her blood covered me, slippery and warm and final.

Finally, the strangely familiar woman picked the lock on the cage and pushed the door open; she dashed inside the cell; I did not even notice until afterwards that she checked Izabel’s wrist for a pulse. “She’s alive—Brant, we have to get her to the nearest hospital; she won’t make it to the Safe House.” She gestured for him with one hand. “Hurry!”

Morrison ran into the cell and crouched in front of me; he reached out to take Izabel; instantly my grip tightened around her, and I pulled her closer—they were not taking her anywhere.

“If you want her to live,” Morrison said, encouragingly, “you’re gonna have to snap the fuck out of it and let us take her.”

“Keep your hands off her!” I roared, wrenching Izabel closer. “I know you want me, to take me back to The Order—I know! But leave Izabel out of this! I will let her die before I let you take her!”

Morrison shook his head, and then set his gun on the floor; he held his palms up, facing me. “Listen to me, Victor,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt her. I just want to get her help.”

“Bullshit!”

“There’s no time for this,” the woman said.

Morrison reached out for Izabel again. “Hate me all you want, Victor,” he said, “but right now we have to get her to a hospital or she’s going to die. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? Think about it—if I wanted her dead I’d let her lay there and bleed out. If I wanted you dead, I’d have shot you already.”

The woman crouched next to Morrison in front of me, peering intensely at me. I did not understand what that look was in her eyes, but for some reason, I felt like I should trust her; she wanted me to trust her.

“Victor,” she said, carefully, intent on holding my gaze. “I swear to you that the only thing I want to do is save her. I know I can’t make you believe me, but you have no other options. She goes with me, or she dies.” She leaned in closer—what is that look? Trust me, Victor, it felt like she was conveying. I’m here to help you. Covertly, without moving her head, she averted her eyes in Morrison’s direction, then quickly back at me. He may not be, but I am. Please trust me…

I looked down at Izabel in my arms, then reluctantly back up at the woman. Desperate, and knowing that she was right at least about having no other options, I gave in. “Take her—but only you. He does not touch her! Hurry,” I said, and let go of Izabel.

Morrison nodded at the woman, giving her the go-ahead, and then she took Izabel’s limp body into her arms swiftly but carefully, keeping pressure on the wound with one hand, and she dashed away on flat-heeled boots, weaving through a maze of dead bodies. I watched the doors out ahead long after she had disappeared behind them.

The clicking sound of handcuffs locking into place pulled me back into the imminent threat: Brant Morrison, high-ranking veteran operative for The Order, who I knew was there to apprehend me. Squeezing my fist, I pulled back my hand in anger, the handcuff locked around my wrist jangled and scraped against the bar.