I stood by the door, panting, as my eyes adjusted to the room.
He was propped up in the corner, like a trapped animal, gripping his thigh, his sweatpants soaked with blood.
“Get out of here, Skye.” He might have been hurt, but his voice was steely—calm and controlled.
“Let me have that.” I took a strip of fabric from him. It was torn off his shirt, the one that was stained with faded strawberry splotches.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” he said, as I wrapped it around his leg, my fingers shaking as I tied it into a tight knot. “You need to leave. Now.”
“Skye!” We both turned at the sound of my father’s voice.
He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. My father took great pride in his appearance, but today he looked like hell. There was no sharp crease in his pants; his shirt hung wrinkled and limp around his shoulders.
“I found you.” He stared at me like he couldn’t believe it, like I was an apparition that would disappear if he blinked. “Are you all right?”
I went to him, knowing he had moved heaven and earth to get here, not sleeping, not eating, not resting. “Dad.”
He gave me three gray-whiskered kisses, then three more, then three more, before engulfing me in his hug. “I didn’t know if I was ever going to see you again.”
We stayed like that for a while until his eyes settled on Damian. I felt his arms tighten around me. “You.” He spat out. “You’re going to pay for every second you’ve made her suffer.”
“Dad, no.” I shifted so we were facing away from Damian. “Listen to me. I need to expla—” I stopped mid-sentence, noticing the man who stood behind my dad for the first time. He looked oddly familiar, with a dark, menacing air that reminded me of what was waiting outside.
“Se?or Sedgewick,” he said. “My men are ready to escort you and Skye back to the chopper. Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere.” He pointed his gun at Damian.
Damian’s gaze swung from the man to my father, and back again. He was on the floor, with his injured leg stretched out before him, but his fists were clenched, his jaw clamped tight.
“Good,” said my father, pulling me towards the door. “You know what to do, Victor.”
Suddenly, I understood the look in Damian’s eyes, the reason why the man had seemed so familiar. My father had hired Victor Madera, his ex-bodyguard, to track us down, and there, in the shack, after so many years, the two men were together again—the men who had taken MaMaLu away from Damian. And now they were taking me away too. Damian had put away his vengeance, but I could feel it rising now, like a crimson tide ready to crash around us.
“No. Stop!” I wrenched my hand away from my father and stood between the men and Damian. “No one touches him.”
“Skye?” My father looked bewildered. “What are you doing? Get away from him.”
“Back off,” I said to Victor, who had stepped forward, his gun aimed at Damian.
“It’s okay.” Victor inched forward. His hair was gray at the temples, but he was still in good shape. “You’re suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. It happens. Just step away from him and listen to your father.”
“Skye, honey.” My father beckoned. “You’re safe now. He has no hold over you. Come. Take my hand. I promise it’s going to be all right.”
“I am all right! Can’t you see? I’m fine. I just need you to listen to me. Please, just listen.”
“Okay, okay. You’re fine.” My father’s eyes settled on the splint around my finger. He exchanged a look with Victor. “Let’s talk about this outside.”
“No! Right here. Right now. I’m not leaving him.” I could see the torment in my father’s eyes, the incomprehension, but I knew he’d understand once I told him the truth about who Damian was, about why he’d done this. He had to.
“Remember Esteb—” I didn’t get any further.
Victor yanked me towards him, grasping me by the waist. “Take her,” he said to my father. “Go!”
That split second of taking his eyes off Damian cost him. Damian struck with lightning precision, tackling Victor’s ankles. Victor fell back on the workbench. Rusty pliers and hammers and nails cluttered to the floor as it tipped over. The two men wrestled on the ground, each trying to reach for the gun that lay a few inches from their grasp.
“Don’t!” I stopped my father from grabbing the gun, clenching on to his arm.
“What’s wrong with you? Snap out of it, Skye!”
Damian and Victor were still struggling. Victor on top, then Damian, then Victor again. Damian kicked the gun out of the way. Then Victor was up and he was kicking Damian. He drove his thick, heavy boots into Damian’s ribs, his stomach, the wound on his leg. Again and again.