“Jordan!”
No, I don’t look back.
Oh, hey, look, somethingcanhelp me hold back gut-twisting nausea: Fear.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I now bolt for the office at a dead run. At least I have unlimited access to Elliot’s office, and don’t need to explain to Suzanne or anyone else what I’m doing when I dash inside and shove the door closed behind me. I don’t pause to lock it, though, now moving at a dead run into the bathroom because I’m not sure I’m going to make it.
Thatdoor Idolock, however.
Somehow, I manage to set my travel mug on the counter by the sink before I drop to my knees. At least I make it to the toilet, where I retch and puke up my coffee and breakfast.
I cannot get thesoundsout of my head. First of man’s panicked begging as he realized what they were going to do, then of him struggling in the dirt as they bent him over, and his piercing shrieks, and the wet, squelching noises when—
I puke again, focusing on the water in the bowl, the echoes of my pulse in my head almost sounding like someone knocking, the sound of my breath bouncing off the walls in this small room.
Unfortunately, my mind drifts back to what I just witnessed. Those sounds were even worse than the sight of the blood as his head—
I puke some more, until I’m painfully dry-heaving.
Fuck.
There are horrible things in this world. I fully acknowledge and understand that.
There are many blessings in my life, and one of them is that I’ve never been non-consensually hit, or tortured, or physically abused. I have skills and talents, and am highly adaptable, flexible, able to follow life’s ebbs and flows. Other than my early survival, then leaving my parents, leaving Leo, and the near-miss at the club shooting, I’ve lived a charmed life. Mimi’s death was awful emotionally, but I did take comfort in that it was painless and quick for her. It was, as some of her friends even commented, a “good” death they envied and hoped one day to have themselves.
Agooddeath, a painless one which they did not know was upon them.
There was nothing even remotely close to a “good” death in that video I just saw.
That man’s demise was horrible, and traumatic, and as I kneel here puking still, his death is already being transmitted all around the globe for other radical terrorists and creepy gore-hungry assholes to jerk off to. For news organizations to solemnly and self-righteously proclaim that they’re not going to show the rest of it, while stopping the feed just on the downward swing of that fucking sword, with his panicked begging being the last thing people hear from him.
What about the man’s family? His friends? Co-workers?
What about the two women still being held captive? One of them an American?
That’s what’s up in the air. No one knows for certain if they’re alive or not, although conjecture is that they might still be alive.
Shaky, I climb to my feet, flush the toilet, and start to clean up.
That’s when I realize the knocking I heard isn’t in my head.
It’s very soft, on the bathroom door, and barely perceptible.
Like the sound of someone trying to stay quiet while getting my attention.
Fuck.
I leave the sink running and reach over to flip on the fart fan while I fumble my work cell out of my pocket. As soon as it powers up, I dial Suzanne’s desk and cut her off when she answers.
I whisper. “Come into the office and tell Leo Cruz they need him back in the SitRoom.Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hang up.
There’s one more knock on the bathroom door when I hear what sounds like a sharp rap on the office door just before it opens.
I hear Suzanne’s voice, muffled and distorted with the bathroom’s acoustics.
