“Yes. Now.”
“As the lady wishes.” I get a flash of teeth, his expression almost gleeful, and he pulls his phone out of his breast pocket. With a flick of his finger, he pulls something up on his screen before turning it to show me.
A man, lying on his side on an ivory and blue rug. His back is to the camera, but I recognize the clothes Ladd wore tonight. I recognize his short salt-and-pepper hair and the build of his body.
There’s a pool of blood under him, coming out of a wound in his back, and my heart hammers.
“I took great pleasure in killing him,” Mejia says with pride, slipping the phone back into his pocket before I can study it further. “I had hoped to torture him first, but I just couldn’t seem to help myself.”
His words penetrate… took great pleasure in killing him… and a rage so great builds inside me, the only way to expel it is to scream. I let loose a bloodcurdling wail of despair and fury, and it just goes on and on. It’s so intense, Mejia takes a wary step back, and something within me triggers.
He feels like prey, and I feel like a lion that wants to destroy him.
I leap forward, throwing my fists at him. All my training and martial arts knowledge goes out the window as I swing wildly, trying to land any punch I can get. I connect a few, hear him curse at me, but it’s a tinny sound, as if my ears are filled with cotton. My blood pressure feels dangerously high, as if my arteries might blow, and yet I can’t stop the outpouring of rage and grief as I scream again.
“You fucking son of a bitch!” I shriek as I manage an open-palmed slap to his cheek. Mejia is on the defensive, holding up his arms to shield his face, so I launch kicks that he has to turn sideways to deflect.
And then a grenade explodes along the fence line to the left of the house—a planned explosion to shock and awe, and the signal to Jameson to start their assault. I knew this was coming and yet, I’m so anguished over the prospect that Ladd is dead—or very grievously injured—that it startles me to inaction. A roundhouse punch halts in midair as I watch a burst of dirt and debris spread out from where the grenade impacted and it’s enough for Mejia to react.
He punches me hard in my temple, and I go reeling. I catch myself from falling all the way to the ground, but the blow is debilitating, and my legs wobble.
Another grenade goes off in the back of the house, and there’s a rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire coming from all angles it seems. Men shouting, cursing… some screaming in pain, and I pray those aren’t Jameson people. Flash-bangs go off inside the house, lighting up windows, and then magnificently, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, the military helicopter on loan from the government and piloted by Benji hovers above the tree line and angles toward us, nose tilted down. A huge spotlight shines from it and sweeps the front of the house until it stops on me and Mejia.
He’s not as rattled as I am after the concussive hit to my head, and before I can think to run back for my gun, Mejia has one in his hand. He leaps at me, throws an arm around my neck, and hauls me against him. Putting the barrel to my temple, he looks around wildly, and I can almost feel the confusion emanating off him.
“What the fuck is going on?” he screams, looking up at the helicopter. It’s low enough to whip my hair and kick up dust.
I’m still pulsing with so much rage at this man for what he did to Ladd that my laugh is maniacal. “I brought a few friends with me, asshole. And if there’s a God, a bullet has your name on it.”
“You bitch!” he yells as he walks backward, dragging me with him. I may have had him on the defensive just moments ago, but I’d caught him purely by surprise. Now I’m firmly in his grasp with his arm practically choking me, and he’s much larger than I am. I claw at him, but to no avail.
Through the gate opening he pulls me, muttering curses. “I killed that asshole McDermott far too fast. I’m going to take my time with you.”
That sounds gruesome indeed, and renewed energy surges within. I kick backward at Mejia, catching him in the shinbone with the heel of my boot and he howls with pain and rage. I rip a backward elbow punch at him, but he turns quickly to avoid the trauma to his ribs. I struggle to pull free, and Mejia surprises me—instead of pulling me farther through the gate, he spins fast and then releases me. I fly toward the Range Rover, my arms windmilling to find balance, but I’m moving at such a velocity that I can’t defy gravity. I almost face-plant into the gravel, dozens of tiny rocks cutting through my pants, shredding my knees and my palms as they make contact.