But he doesn’t point it at me. Instead, he places it carefully on the stone floor between us, just out of my reach. Then, from his pocket, he produces a single bullet. He holds it up between his thumb and forefinger. It’s brass, golden, and in this darkness, it seems to glow with its own infernal light.
“Here,” he says, his voice losing all pretence, becoming flat and cold. “You have a choice. Wait here for your dear husband to come for you… or be brave enough to end it.”
He places the bullet on the floor, next to the pistol. He rises to his feet, looks down at me one last time with that empty gaze, and turns. The door slams shut, the bolt screeches home. The light vanishes, and the darkness rushes back in, thicker and heavier than before.
Silence.
Then, the gunfire again, and it’s closer. Much closer.
My body moves before my mind can process the enormity of it. I uncurl myself, and the chains scrape against the floor. I scramble forward, while my body screams in protest at the sudden movement. The length of the chain on my wrist cuff pulls taut. My fingertips brush cold, grooved metal. I stretch, and my shoulder joint burns like it’s been set on fire, but my fingers close around the rough checkering of the pistol’s grip. I drag it back toward me, and the sound is so loud I fear it will give me away.
I collapse onto my side; the gun clutched to my chest like a prayer book I’m cradling. It feels impossibly heavy.
But I have a choice.
I can wait, I can let Antonio find me; let that man turn me back into his pet again. Can let him use me, whore me out, do whatever he wants again while pretending he loves me. I can bear this child of violence, Antonio’s supposed child.
Or…I can end it.
It would be so easy. A fraction of an inch of pressure. An end to the pain, an end to the fear. I would never have to do any of those disgusting things again. This child inside me, my child, would never have to know a world that could create a place like this.
My tears stream down my face, and I can’t tell if I’m crying tears of joy or regret. Has God given me this moment, this chance? Is this his divine mercy being offered right now?
I gulp, adjusting my grip on the pistol, making it more secure.
I know what I am, what Antonio made me and what these men also made me. I’m a whore. A sinner. I’m condemned to hell already, but it can’t be worse than the reality of what my life is.
My other hand curls around my belly, holding my baby the only way I will ever be able to, and I whisper the words “I’m sorry.”
And I am sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. This poor child, this poor little thing deserved better parents, better options. A better mother than the piss poor human it got.
If I had the strength, if I had the courage I would fight for it. I would fight for my child but I’m too broken, too weak, too pathetic to do that now.
I am a coward.
I want the easy way out.
I want the silence.
The world has shrunk to the space between my sights and the next man who stands between me and her. Every shot is a punctuation mark in a sentence of pure, unadulterated rage. I don’t feel the recoil anymore; it’s just a vibration that travels up my arm and feeds the beast gnawing at my insides.
Konstantine is dead. I did what Esau wanted, I played the good little soldier. And for what? The hollow victory curdles in my stomach; a worthless token exchanged for a chance. A chance to get to Grace.
That’s all that’s left. The deal is done, the debt is paid, but none of it matters. The only thing that matters is the singular, desperate pull towards the heart of this concrete hell, towards where they are keeping my wife.
My men move around me, they clear corners, laying down suppressing fire. Their movements are precise and professional. I am none of those things. I am a blunt instrument, a wrecking ball. I don’t wait for clearance. I see a shape, I fire. I hear a sound from a doorway; I empty the clip into the wood. They are all ghosts, all faceless obstacles to be obliterated.
We breach a stairwell, descending into the bowels of the building. The air grows colder, smelling of damp concrete and rust. This is where they stash things they want to forget. This is where they have put her.
“Clear,” one of my men barks, his voice echoing in the confined space.
I don’t acknowledge him. I’m already moving down the next flight, my boots hitting the metal steps with a clang that sounds like a death knell. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs, a counter-rhythm to the sporadic gunfire.
Grace. Grace. Grace.
We hit a landing, a long corridor stretching into darkness, lit only by flickering fluorescent tubes. And there, leaning casually against the wall as if waiting for a bus, is Lucas Asher.
He’s grinning. A wide, manic slash of white in the semi-gloom. The sight of it, the sheer arrogance, is a spark on a gasoline trail. My men fan out, weapons raised but I raise a hand, a silent command to hold. This one is mine.
