I wait outside the door to my bedroom, staining my ears to listen for any sound, but all I can hear are Makayla’s panicked breaths. She’s trying to keep as quiet as possible, but her breathing is too rapid. I hate that she’s here for this, but I hope in the darkness she can’t really see much.
I open the door and rush in, gun raised. There’s a burst of light and an ear-splitting sound as someone fires a heavy caliber pistol toward the doorway. I roll inside, distracted as my dog rushes toward me, whimpering. I fire three rounds toward where I saw the gunman, but I still hear movement and cursing from behind my bed. I didn’t hit him. I run past my dog, sliding down on the other side of my bed and then lifting the frame and mattress in one quick motion, flipping the whole thing over toward the gunman on the other side.
He’s forced to run out into the open. I fire once, hitting him in the shoulder. His gun clatters to the ground and he’s jolted backwards, squeezing a hand to the bullet wound. I rush him, pinning him to the wall by the throat. “What the fuck are you here for? What do you want?”
“You,” he croaks. “We were supposed to capture you and” he gags as my hand tightens. I’m forced to ease up, letting him get enough air to speak. “Boss wanted to make you watch while he fucked your girl. Then he’d kill you.”
My blood burns like acid in my veins. I grip his throat again, digging my fingers into his flesh until I feel his tendons straining. His eyes bulge and he claws at me. I ease up one more time. “Who is he? Who’s your fucking boss?”
“The Jackal,” he coughs, voice like sandpaper as he collapses to the ground, retching and trying to crawl away from me.
I aim my Glock at the back of his head and fire, dusting my carpet and walls with his blood. Makayla rushes into the room, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. She stutters to a stop, taking in the violence one piece at a time.
“Are you…” she mutters, eyes glassy.
I move to her, taking her shoulders and easing her from the room. I’m probably smearing blood all over her, but I talk in low, soothing tones, trying to calm her. My mind is elsewhere. Liam did this. I let him go because it appeased my guilt and now I’ve put Makayla in danger because of it. And as long as I’m involved with her, she’s never going to be safe. I keep my hand on my holstered gun as we step into the hallway.
“Come on,” I whisper, slapping my leg to get my dog’s attention. She hurries after me, happily panting and slobbering. “We can’t stay here. Cops are probably already on the way. I should be in the clear because it was a home invasion, but we can’t afford to get tied up with questioning right now. We have to stay on the move and low key. Okay?”
Makayla’s eyes are still distant, but she nods. “They’re dead, aren’t they?” she asks.
“Yeah. They’re dead. They can’t hurt you now.” Those men can’t, but whoever else Liam plans to send still can and will. And if I keep selfishly staying involved with you, they aren’t going to stop.
We take the elevator downstairs. An elderly couple steps inside with us and the woman smiles up at me sweetly.
“Honey,” she says, touching my arm. “You’ve spilt ketchup all over yourself.”
I look down at my left arm and side. It’s misted with dried blood. My hands are caked in the stuff and Makayla’s clothes are too. “Oh,” I say. “I just really love hamburgers. I must have gotten carried away.”
She laughs, touching my forearm. “You’re too funny.”
I give a strained smile, hoping neither of them notice how traumatized Makayla looks. The distraction of looking after her is helping keep the flashbacks at bay, but the smell of sand and blood reaches my nose. I can feel the sun on the back of my neck, even though I’m in an artificially lit elevator. There’s a rifle strapped to my back…
No. I’m in an elevator. I’m not in the war.
The doors ding when we reach the lobby. I lead Makayla and my dog to the garage, ushering everyone into the car. I rip out of the parking garage and head toward my safehouse, stomach clenching when I think about what I am going to have to do to keep her safe. I’m going to have to break her heart again, and I fucking hate myself for it.
36
Makayla
Jesse’s safehouse is a sparsely decorated building in the middle of town. We’ve been here for a day already, and Jesse and I have hardly spoken. I try to wrap my head around the fact that it was only four days ago that Jesse came back into my life. Four days and so much has already happened. I had to go to the set and film this morning, despite Jesse’s insistence that I stay somewhere secluded. When I threatened to walk if he didn’t take me himself, he finally relented and went with me. I think I set a record for the number of takes needed to satisfy Camillo today. My mind is anywhere but on the job.
No matter how much I try to push what I saw from my mind, it keeps coming back. I can still hear the ear-piercing rip of gunfire. I can see the blinding flashes of light and freeze-frame images of a man falling to the ground, mortally wounded. I can smell the gunpowder and blood, the burnt upholstery. I still can’t seem to completely get rid of the tightness in my chest, the looming sense of dread. Everything has taken on a sense of immediacy, and I can’t stop the flow of melodramatic thoughts assaulting my consciousness. I wondered if the shower I took this morning would be the last, or if today would be my last day on set. The questions have had the unsettling side effect of making me question what I’m doing with my life in the first place.
If I really want to act in movies, why am I settling for a TV show? Why am I assuming I have all the time in the world to slowly work my way toward my goals?
Just thinking about it all makes me want to hyperventilate. I’m on a simple, uncomfortable couch in Jesse’s safehouse. He had to let me stop on the way home to buy a few spare sets of clothes and underwear. More than anything, I wish I could just relax in my own apartment for a day, using all my normal shampoos and soaps and maybe even drawing myself a nice, hot bath. Instead, I’m in this cold box of a building. It’s a converted movie set that he apparently bought out.
I’m sitting on the stage, overlooking seating large enough for a small crowd of about four hundred. There’s a bed and particle-board furniture props to make one side of the stage look like a bedroom. The other side of the stage is set up to look like a kitchen, complete with plastic sink spray painted in glittering silver. Jesse turned on one of the bright stage lights, but we couldn’t figure out how to get it off the blue setting, so everything is bathed in a deep, midnight blue light.