Smokescreen

I nod again.

“Don’t be scared, we’re here to get you out. Can you quietly tell me your situation?”

“Pedro is hurt badly, he was spitting up blood earlier. I’m okay, but I’ve been drugged repeatedly. I keep falling asleep.”

“Come with me.” He puts his hand in mine to lift me up.

“What about Pedro?”

“I’ll send a man for him.”

“I’m not leaving him.”

“Ma’am, we’ve been instructed to get you out, no matter what.”

“Please, this young man almost got killed for me. I need to stay with him,” I plead with him, squeezing his arm.

He stills at my request and I feel something cold and heavy in my hand.

“You ever shot a gun?”

“Yes, a long time ago.”

“The safety’s off. Shoot if you need too. My guys all have night vision goggles, so if the light turns on, be prepared. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be back in less than a minute. My name is Wren. I need to grab someone to help. Wake him up. Get him ready to move.”

I nod and say a quiet thank you and hear him leave.

“Pedro, wake up.”

He moans and rolls over. “What’s wrong?”

“Help is here, they’re going to get us out. Can you stand?”

He leans on me and we stand together. The door opens again and the sound of several men fills the room.

“Miss Sullivan?”

“Wren?”

“Yeah, I’m about to grab onto your elbow, don’t scream. Two of my guys are going to help Pedro. It’s pitch black everywhere so you need to hold on tight. We’ve got about two hundred yards to get to safety. If we encounter gunfire, drop to the ground and stay down. Got it?”

“Yes,” we both whisper.

The next five minutes are the most terrifying of my life. We’re about one hundred yards away when gunshots ring out behind us. Instead of dropping, the men helping us, move faster. I almost cry in relief when I spot low beam headlights illuminating a small clearing.

The men help us in the van and it takes off before the doors close. No one speaks for a few minutes until the driver turns on the interior light and I finally see the men who saved us. There are five men total. Dressed in all black with face paint and guns strapped across their bodies, and each of them is huge.

“You don’t look like the police,” I say in awe.

“Never said we were,” Wren answers with a smirk. Then his face gets hard. “Thought you said you were okay.”

“I am.”

“From where I sit, you’ve got a busted cheek, blood stains on your shirt, and bruises covering your neck. That’s doesn’t seem okay to me.”