Anna Zaires - Twist Me

I climb down a few rungs, then look up, seeing Julian still sitting there. The expression on his face is tense and alert, like he’s listening for something.

And then I hear it—a murmur of voices, followed by shouts in Arabic.

My absence had been discovered.

Julian rises to his feet with one smooth motion and looks down at me, his hands gripping the machine gun. “Go,” he orders, his voice low and hard. “Now, Nora. Get to the drainpipe and outside. I’ll hold them back.”

“What? No!” I stare at him in horrified shock. “Come with me—”

He gives me a furious glare. “Go,” he hisses. “Now, or we’re both dead. I can’t worry about you and fight them off.”

I hesitate for a second, feeling torn. I don’t want to leave him behind, but I don’t want to stand in his way either. “I love you,” I say quietly, looking up at him, and see a quick flash of white teeth in response.

“Go, baby,” he says, his tone much softer now. “I’ll be with you soon.”

My heart aching, I do as he says, climbing down the ladder as quickly as I can. The shouts are growing louder, and I know the men are searching the warehouse, starting with the maze in the middle. It’s only a matter of time before they get to the darkened area along this wall. My entire body is shaking with a combination of nerves and adrenaline, and I focus on not falling as I descend further into the darkness.

Rat-tat-tat! The burst of gunfire above startles me, and I climb down even faster, my breathing hard and erratic. As soon as my feet touch the floor, I stretch out my hands in front of me and begin to grope in the darkness, searching for the wall with the drain pipe.

More gunfire. Yells. Screams. My heart is pounding so hard, it sounds like a drum in my ears.

Something squeaks underneath my feet, and tiny paws run over my bare toes. I ignore it, frantically searching for that drainpipe. Rats are nothing to me right now. Somewhere up there, Julian is in mortal danger. I don’t know if he’s by himself or if he brought reinforcements, but the thought of him being hurt or killed is so agonizing that I can’t focus on it now. Not if I want to survive.

My hands touch the wall, but I can’t find an opening. It’s too dark. Panting, I make my way along the wall, sweeping my hands up and down the smooth surface. My stitches ache, but I barely register the pain. I need to find a way out. If they catch me again, I will not survive for long.

Another burst of gunfire, followed by more yells.

I continue searching, my terror and frustration growing with every moment. Julian. Julian is up there. I try not to think about it, but I can’t. There’s nothing I can do to help him; logically, I know that. I’m barefoot and dressed in a hospital gown, without so much as a fork to defend myself with. In the meantime, he’s armed to the teeth and wearing a bulletproof vest.

Of course, logic has nothing to do with the agonizing fear I feel at the thought of losing him.

He will survive, I tell myself as I continue looking for the drainpipe. Julian knows what he’s doing. This is his world, his area of expertise. This is the part of his life he was shielding me from on the island.

My hands touch something hard on the wall near my knees and then sink into the opening.

The drainpipe. I found it.

There is another high-pitched squeak, and something scrambles out of the pipe toward me. I jump back, startled, but then I get on all fours and determinedly crawl inside, steeling myself for more potential rodent encounters.

The drainpipe is large enough that I can be on my hands and knees, and I crawl as fast as I can, ignoring the stale smell of sewage and rust. Thankfully, it’s only a little bit wet in there, and I try not to dwell on what that wetness might be.

Finally, I reach the other opening. Compressing myself into a little ball, I manage to turn around and climb out feet first.

Stepping away from the pipe, I gaze at my surroundings. The sky above me is covered with stars, and the air is thick with the scent of warm earth and jungle vegetation. I can see the warehouse building on the small hill above me, less than fifty yards away.

I stare at it, sick with fear for Julian. There is another burst of gunfire, accompanied by flashes of bright light. The gunfight is still going on—which is a good sign, I tell myself. If Julian was dead—if the terrorists had won—there would be no more shooting. He must’ve come with reinforcements after all.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I press my back against a tree, my legs trembling from the combination of terror and adrenaline.

And in that moment, the sky lights up as the building explodes . . . and a blast of scorching-hot air sends me flying into the bushes several feet away.

The next twenty-four hours are a blur in my memory.

After I get to my feet, I am dizzy and disoriented, my head throbbing and my body feeling like one giant bruise. There is a din in my ears, and everything seems to be coming at me as though from a distance.

I must’ve passed out from the blast, but I am not sure. By the time I recover enough to walk, the fire consuming the building is almost over.

Dazed, I stumble up the hill and start searching through the smoldering ruins of the warehouse. Occasionally, I find something that looks like a charred limb, and a couple of times, I come across a body that’s very nearly whole, with only a head or a leg missing. I register these findings on some level, but I don’t fully process them. I feel oddly detached, like I’m not really there. Nothing touches me. Nothing bothers me. Even the physical sensations are dulled by shock.

I search for him for hours. By the time I stop, the sun is high up in the sky, and I’m dripping with sweat.

I have no choice but to face the truth now.

There are no survivors. It’s as simple as that.

I should cry. I should scream. I should feel something.

But I don’t.

I just feel numb instead.

Leaving the warehouse, I begin walking. I don’t know where I am going, and I don’t care. All I’m capable of doing is putting one foot in front of the other.

By the time it starts getting dark, I come across a cluster of tiny houses made of wooden poles and cardboard. There is a shallow creek running through the middle of the settlement, and I see a couple of women doing laundry there by hand.

Their shocked faces are the last thing I remember before I collapse a few feet away from them.

“Miss Leston, do you feel up to answering a few questions for me? I’m Agent Wilson, FBI, and this is Agent Bosovsky.”

I look up at the plump middle-aged man standing next to my bed. He’s not at all like I imagined FBI agents to be. His face is round, almost cherubic-looking, with rosy cheeks and dancing blue eyes. If Agent Wilson wore a red hat and had a white beard, he would’ve made a great Santa Claus. In contrast, his partner—Agent Bosovsky—is painfully thin, with deep frown lines etched into his narrow face.

For the past two days, I have been recuperating in a hospital in Bangkok. Apparently, one of the women at the creek had notified the local authorities about the girl that wandered into their village. I vaguely recall them questioning me, but I doubt I made any sense when I spoke to them. However, they understood enough to contact the American Embassy on my behalf, and the US officials took it from there.

“Your parents are on the way,” Agent Bosovsky says when I continue to stare at them without saying a word. “Their flight lands in a few hours.”

I blink, his words somehow penetrating the layer of ice that has kept me insulated from everyone and everything since the explosion. “My parents?” I croak, my throat feeling strangely swollen.