“I took great pleasure in killing him,” Mejia says with pride, slipping the phone back into his pocket before I can study it further. “I had hoped to torture him first, but I just couldn’t seem to help myself.”
His words penetrate… took great pleasure in killing him… and a rage so great builds inside me, the only way to expel it is to scream. I let loose a bloodcurdling wail of despair and fury, and it just goes on and on. It’s so intense, Mejia takes a wary step back, and something within me triggers.
He feels like prey, and I feel like a lion that wants to destroy him.
I leap forward, throwing my fists at him. All my training and martial arts knowledge goes out the window as I swing wildly, trying to land any punch I can get. I connect a few, hear him curse at me, but it’s a tinny sound, as if my ears are filled with cotton. My blood pressure feels dangerously high, as if my arteries might blow, and yet I can’t stop the outpouring of rage and grief as I scream again.
“You fucking son of a bitch!” I shriek as I manage an open-palmed slap to his cheek. Mejia is on the defensive, holding up his arms to shield his face, so I launch kicks that he has to turn sideways to deflect.
And then a grenade explodes along the fence line to the left of the house—a planned explosion to shock and awe, and the signal to Jameson to start their assault. I knew this was coming and yet, I’m so anguished over the prospect that Ladd is dead—or very grievously injured—that it startles me to inaction. A roundhouse punch halts in midair as I watch a burst of dirt and debris spread out from where the grenade impacted and it’s enough for Mejia to react.
He punches me hard in my temple, and I go reeling. I catch myself from falling all the way to the ground, but the blow is debilitating, and my legs wobble.
Another grenade goes off in the back of the house, and there’s a rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire coming from all angles it seems. Men shouting, cursing… some screaming in pain, and I pray those aren’t Jameson people. Flash-bangs go off inside the house, lighting up windows, and then magnificently, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, the military helicopter on loan from the government and piloted by Benji hovers above the tree line and angles toward us, nose tilted down. A huge spotlight shines from it and sweeps the front of the house until it stops on me and Mejia.
He’s not as rattled as I am after the concussive hit to my head, and before I can think to run back for my gun, Mejia has one in his hand. He leaps at me, throws an arm around my neck, and hauls me against him. Putting the barrel to my temple, he looks around wildly, and I can almost feel the confusion emanating off him.
“What the fuck is going on?” he screams, looking up at the helicopter. It’s low enough to whip my hair and kick up dust.
I’m still pulsing with so much rage at this man for what he did to Ladd that my laugh is maniacal. “I brought a few friends with me, asshole. And if there’s a God, a bullet has your name on it.”
“You bitch!” he yells as he walks backward, dragging me with him. I may have had him on the defensive just moments ago, but I’d caught him purely by surprise. Now I’m firmly in his grasp with his arm practically choking me, and he’s much larger than I am. I claw at him, but to no avail.
Through the gate opening he pulls me, muttering curses. “I killed that asshole McDermott far too fast. I’m going to take my time with you.”
That sounds gruesome indeed, and renewed energy surges within. I kick backward at Mejia, catching him in the shinbone with the heel of my boot and he howls with pain and rage. I rip a backward elbow punch at him, but he turns quickly to avoid the trauma to his ribs. I struggle to pull free, and Mejia surprises me—instead of pulling me farther through the gate, he spins fast and then releases me. I fly toward the Range Rover, my arms windmilling to find balance, but I’m moving at such a velocity that I can’t defy gravity. I almost face-plant into the gravel, dozens of tiny rocks cutting through my pants, shredding my knees and my palms as they make contact.
I try to push up quickly, knowing I can’t flee and my best chance is to launch myself at him, but then a gunshot cracks the air, and something punches the back of my leg toward the outside of my thigh. It knocks me to the ground.
Instinctively, I touch the area, feeling like I got hit with a baseball bat, but my hand comes away wet with blood and I realize the psycho just shot me.
Mejia pounces before I can attempt to stand, jerking me upward by my arm. I hiss from the pain in my leg, but that’s actually reassuring. It feels superficial, like a million tiny nerve endings in my skin and fascia have been seared by the bullet’s path. The amount of blood is nominal as I look down, and I realize the son of a bitch barely grazed me. I put weight on my leg, and it’s strong.
I don’t think Mejia deliberately gave me only a scratch. I think he’s just a terrible shot.
Mejia’s hand goes to my head. He grabs a hunk of my hair in his fist and puts his gun to the back of my head.
“Get in the car,” he screams, even as the helicopter lowers. I wonder if they put someone in the chopper with Benji who can take a shot at Mejia, but nothing happens so I guess not, or they don’t have clear aim.
“Get in the car!” Mejia yells again, using his grip on my hair to force me toward the Rover. I’m still reeling from the very real possibility that Ladd is dead, and I’m sapped of strength from my furious assault on Mejia earlier and dizzy from his punch to my head. While the bullet wound isn’t serious, it drains the last of my fight.
He easily manhandles me to the driver’s door and shoves me inside the car. He jabs me in the neck with the gun, ordering me to crawl over the console to the passenger seat. My leg throbs as I struggle to do as he commands, because I have no doubt that if I do not, he will shoot me and make a run for it. At least if I go and he has the promise of a future to fulfill his revenge, I can stay alive a little longer.
I look up at the house and see flashing lights from gunfire and flash-bangs. Mejia enters the car and pulls the driver’s door shut, and it cuts off most of the exterior noise. The helicopter is still overhead, and as Mejia puts the Rover in reverse, I lean forward in my seat and look up through the windshield. It’s too dark to see detail, but the spotlight is still shining on us.
Mejia peels out of the driveway onto the road, slams the car into drive, and shoots forward with a squeal of tires. He rockets down the dark road, but I can hear the helicopter following us. I can see the striations of light the beam makes in the roadway before us and to the sides of the car as we speed along.
But to Mejia’s benefit, the road enters a heavily forested area where the trees are dense and overgrown on either side. There’s no way the helicopter will be able to stay on us with any accuracy. We pass by several side roads, so I know at any time, Mejia can turn away from the path we’re on.
Benji isn’t going to be able to track me from above.
I’m not worried, however.
Bebe was smart enough to implant a tracker in the heel of my boot so I won’t be lost to Jameson, and I know Mejia isn’t smart enough to consider such a thing.
It’s little consolation as I look over at Mejia. He’s muttering and cursing, his breath coming in heaving pants. He’s lost it, and I wouldn’t put it past him to drive us headfirst into a tree.