I react with years of fight-and-reaction training. I am not Ella anymore. I am me, Kat, whoever that is.
I react with force as I am still on edge. I spin around, hit the man’s arm down, pull him close, swirl him around me so he is between me and the motorcycle, and get my arm around his throat.
“Who the fuck are you?” I hiss in his ear. The person is roughly my height and wrestles with my headlock.
“Who the fuck areyou?” asks the man, through gritted teeth. I know how forceful I can be, especially when I lock my arm with the other.
“I asked first,”I say.
“It’s two of us, one of you,” says the person on the motorcycle, still wearing a helmet.
“Listen very closely,” I say threateningly. “You are alive right now because I want to know who you are and why you are here. If I wanted, you would have been dead the moment you put a hand on my shoulder.” My voice gets dark as I close my arm even more. “One sudden move here,” I say silently, “and you drop dead in an instant. So talk now, or we’re done here.”
Silence.
“I'm counting to three,” I say. “One, two?—“
And then, a shot is fired. The bullet rushes past me and hits the person on the motorcycle through the helmet visor, directly in the face. Rider and bike fall over with an ear-shattering thud as I spin round and see Hannigan walking up to us, gun drawn.
What a fucking precision shot. Only a few people can pull something like that off with a handgun from that distance.
He walks up and presses the gun into the forehead of the man I have in a headlock.
“Who are you and who do you work for?” he asks, coldly, with a murderous look on his face. I loosen my grip with one hand and search the pockets. I find a phone and hand it to Hannigan.
I find something else, a small sewn-in pocket with a little pill in it. And I know who they are. I know because I have seen it before. My fingers grasp the small pill and pull it out. I let it slip into my sleeve so Hannigan doesn’t see. I might need it.
The man doesn’t answer, and I see Hannigan is close to snapping.
“Look at the gun of the biker,” I say. “Is there a 94:1 engraved on it?”
Hannigan's eyes flash at me, but he does as I say.
He grasps the gun, turns it, and nods.
“It’s the Lords,” I say. “They are professional contractors for the cause of religious extremists. 94:1 is a psalm, ‘O Lord, God of vengeance, O God of vengeance, shine forth.’ They kill the, in their eyes, sinners, the unholy, the greedy,” I tell him. My cover is blown anyway.
“Heard of them,” says Hannigan, and then puts a bullet into theguy's head. Blood splatters over me, and I turn away, wiping over my face with my arm.
I let go of the man, and he drops onto the floor, but Hannigan doesn’t lower his gun. It’s now pointing at me.
“And who are you?” he says. “Not an innocent Danish girl.”
“No,” I say.
“Then who are you?”
“Is she okay?” I ask him instead.
“Who. Are. You?” roars Hannigan at me.
“Tell me she’ll be alright,” I say silently. I don’t even know why it is so important to me.
“She’s in surgery,” he says coldly. “They’ll give their best.”
I close my eyes for one moment. I feel her lips on mine again, her touch, and hear her laugh. My fingers wander over my lips to protect the feeling at all costs. But they’re not there. It’s an illusion.
Everything is.
