When we reach the door, my breaths are desperate gasps as I try to swallow down the pain and harrowing memories.
“I’ll set the room on fire, Predator. You do your job,” the old man says to the man holding my hand.
What the hell kind of name is Predator?
He pulls me in behind him and my chest closes up when he lets go of my hand.
Shit, this is it!
Oh, my God. I’m not ready to die.
My heart pounds in my ears and I’m well aware of the fact that each of those heartbeats might be my last.
But then he reaches for me with his left hand and I grab for it desperately.
I don’t care what his name is as long as he’s here to help me.
‘Please let him be here to help.’
“I need my right hand free,” he whispers darkly. My eyes dart to his face and I’m filled with horror all over again. This man is easily the scariest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Every line on his face is pronounced as he pulls a gun from behind his back. I didn’t even see it where it was tucked into the back of his pants. My throat and mouth dry right up and I can’t swallow the thick spit that’s coating the inside of my mouth. He nudges me a little, until I’m right behind him, and then I remember what he said - I have to stay behind him.
I cling to his hand and arm with both my hands. We walk towards a simple looking house. Heat flares up behind me and I glance over my shoulder. The old man has set a shipping container alight.
Then reality dawns on me. I was held in a shipping container. How easy it would’ve been to dispose of my body.
Fuckers!
“We’re going to walk in. We’re going to kill them and we’re going to leave. You do not touch anything. We don’t leave any traces that can lead back to us.” The man is so focused I can feel the intensity of the moment rippling off him in waves.
“We?” The word pops from my mouth.
“Glad to see you’re still thinking straight enough to hear what I’m saying,” he says gruffly. The corner of his mouth twitches. “No screaming and no fainting. Oh, and definitely no puking.”
I take a step back from him, humiliated that he can smell the nauseating smell of vomit on me.
He moves first and I only move so I can keep up with him. We don’t run. Everything inside of me is screaming at me to make a run for it, but I stay behind him like a pathetic puppet trailing after her master.
He tightens his grip on my hand when we near the house and I see a muscle jumping in his jaw, which only makes me more nervous.
As we climb the four stairs to the porch, my vision tunnels on the front door.
Why the fuck aren’t I running in the opposite direction?
Why am I just letting him pull me along?
I should be fighting, kicking and screaming!
My mind races from absolute panic to that void filled with emptiness.
I see him lift his arm but nothing can prepare me for the loud bang as he shoots a hole where the lock is. The front door shudders, squeaking at the hinges. And then it all happens in flashes.
Flashes and loud bangs.
Screams and blood.
Men lunge for Predator, but he lets go of my hand, moving fast and with precision, as if he’s done this a million times.