Scar Face is a bad man, one to stay clear of. He is American. I feel it in my gut he likes to hurt women for the fun of it and without provocation.
She helps me across to a small room inside the hangar, speaking to me in hushed tones. “Honey, just don’t ever give that one a reason… because he will hurt you.”
We enter the office. I know I’m going to need a friend or ally where I’m being taken. I extend an olive branch.
“My name is Whisper.” She looks at me with such pity in her eyes and ignores my words. I noticed she didn’t speak to either of the men when approached. I feel this should be my first lesson.
“Lean up against the desk for support.” I do as she asks, and she starts stripping me of my leather jacket, working efficiently. Her eyes flutter up to me as she works. “Look, names are too personal. I have lost too many friends. Please don’t ask that of me.”
I want to say something, but I don’t know what. She scares me with her words. She starts unzipping my hoodie. I try not to let on how much pain I’m in when she starts to remove the sticky, no-longer-plain-white T-shirt I wore underneath. She ends up tearing the thin fabric to remove it from my body, while I try not to double over from the pain. Every time I move, my shoulder screams in agonized rage at me.
She doesn’t utter a word when she sees the bloody, ragged bullet hole. Whatever she has been put through has desensitized her to my condition. I know she isn’t here by choice. Her body language shows me she’s a prisoner like I am.
She is simply surviving.
I want to ask her so many questions, but I fear what will happen to me. Can I trust her enough to risk the repercussions?
Her mind is elsewhere at the moment. She keeps looking out the window, watching the masked man as he talks to the two who brought me here.
She stops what she’s doing, brushes my messy hair away from my face gently with her fingertips, and looks me square in the eye before she kicks her heels off. “I’m so sorry, honey. Please forgive me.” She hurries to the door, shutting it quietly behind her, and then runs. There is another plane down the other end of the hangar, and she is racing toward it.
What is she doing?
Where is she going?
Is she trying to escape these people?
My eyes dart to the masked man in the suit jacket. He has moved away from my abductors, standing several feet from them, and is busy talking on his phone, while the two abductors wait patiently talking to each other, with their backs to him.
He hasn’t noticed the girl has run off, and now I know why. I gasp out loud when I see the guy pull a concealed weapon with something on the end of it out and calmly turn around, walking up to both of my abductors. And at point blank range, he shoots them in the back of the head, blood spraying as their bodies hit the floor at his feet.
I hear no gunshots. He used a silencer, just like what I assume Edge used on me.
They didn’t even see him coming, just like I didn’t see my shooter coming.
The killer is now talking to somebody on his radio. His head swings around to the office window; he knows I saw what just happened. He knows the girl isn’t here anymore. He points to me and mouths, “Stay,” and then he makes a run for it. He’s been alerted to the girl’s attempt at escape and starts legging it toward the second plane.
I’ve become frozen with fear as I watch this train wreck play out.
I’m William’s submissive lost girl again. I can only watch on in horror.
He’s fast.
Too fast.
I want to pray for her to survive, but I know these people won’t let her escape.
This is a spontaneous, desperate bolt for freedom.
There will be a price to pay for what she has done, and it will be a heavy one, the crime not worth the punishment.
The girl has passed the second jet. The raised hangar door is her target, as far away from the masked man as she can get. Her hope of freedom is pushing her to get outside the hangar. Her mind thinks that once she gets past there, she is safe.
Her mind is playing tricks on her.
Masked Man is too fast. He will be on her before she gets much farther.
My heart is a tribal drumbeat pounding in my ears. I want the man to trip and fall. I want this to be a movie where she gets to run through an invisible portal, where she gets teleported to freedom.
I’ve just about convinced myself she knows of a way out when she hits the ground, lying face down on the hangar floor.
The tribal drumbeat falls silent.
The hushed bullet hits its target true because bullets are faster than any human can ever be.
The masked man has just caught up to her, his firearm in his hand. He lays the weapon down and turns her over, lifting her until her feet are dangling off the ground, her head hanging in defeat.
He looks like he’s shouting at her, but she’s not responding.
She is now free.
There is red staining her crisp white blouse. A bullet has pierced her back on the left side, cutting a path through to her heart.
Everything happened so quickly. Three people dead.
Four deaths I have witnessed in my life.
The girl was desperate to flee her captivity. Whatever evil awaits me, she made a decision to try to escape it. It was worth it to her.
Red washes my vision. A box has broken open, and I see William slicing my mistress’ throat open as clear as if they were standing right before me. So much blood everywhere, a life taken without conscience. Mistress didn’t see William coming. She was unable to defend herself. It was a great fear of mine, living under William’s dominance, that at any moment, my life could be snuffed out and nobody would ever know I existed.
I just watched a man shoot three people dead. I bear witness to three people’s lives taken in quick succession. My memories are now coated with their blood.
My breathing has escalated, my heart pounding, pushing blood through my veins. I’m awake and living this nightmare, and I can’t get myself out of it. My freedom has, yet again, truly been stolen from me by people who have no right to it.
I close my good eye, trying to wipe my mind clean while steadying my breathing. I can’t afford to freak out now.
I want to survive for my family; they are worth fighting for.
I repeat to myself a mantra. I want to survive for my family—for Miss Catherine, Boxer, and Lincoln. They are worth fighting for.
I’m standing here in my bra, pants, and boots, scared out of my mind. I need to focus on me now.
On saving me.
I look toward the office door, but running is not an option for me. I can barely stand. I would be gunned down by this killer too. I look back at the masked man. He’s busy carrying her body somewhere.
Looking away, I concentrate on getting myself dressed. I unzip my boots, tugging them off, and place the phone on the floor beside my socked feet, and then an idea hits me. I unzip my vomit-covered pants and tug them down, making it look like I’m only taking them off, if anybody is watching me from the plane. I bend over, causing myself to feel dizzy as I hit up Miss C’s phone number and watch it connect, a low battery message appearing on the screen reminding me of its own imminent death, and then I touch the speaker button. The office door is shut, so they can’t possibly hear me talk if I’m quiet about it.
“Whisper!” Miss C picks up on the first ring. Her voice is loud, and she sounds so frightened.