Page 76 of At Your Mercy

Dad’s chair scraped loudly across the tile. “Schatz, who is it? Hey! What the hell do you think you’re—”

One of the men barked something short—a command.

Mom’s voice broke, pleading again, “Please, we’ll give you whatever you want, just—just don’t hurt my family. Please, the children. Please.”

Henri whimpered. Lia started crying.

The man who’d been at the back of the group took off his gloves, slowly, like he had all the time in the world, the other men parting as he walked forward. His auburn hair caught the kitchen light when he stepped forward, and he looked aroundthe room with calm detachment, eyes gliding over everything until they found my father.

Dad moved instinctively, half-shielding Mom and my siblings. “You need to leave. Right now. Whatever this is, you—”

“Sit down,” the man said quietly. The sound of his voice was like static—calm, unhurried, but it filled every inch of space until there was nothing else.

Dad didn’t sit. He took a step forward.

The one closest to him lifted a gun.

Mom screamed.

And then everything dissolved into noise—the crash of a chair, the shattering of glass, Henri yelling, Lia’s cries turning into terrified shrieks.

I ducked down against the steps, shaking so hard I could feel my teeth rattle.

“Put—put down the gun, I’ll sit! I’ll sit, so—” my Dad shouted, his hands raised in surrender. He carefully walked backward into the kitchen, keeping Mom, Henri, and Lia behind him at all times. When he reached the table, he kept his hands up as he lowered into one of the wooden seats.

“The others need to sit too,” one of the men stated. I listened, my hands pressed against my mouth to suppress my cries, as the sound of my family pulling out chairs came and went.

I wanted to join them, to hide behind Dad, but the flash of the gun in my memory made me stay rooted to my spot at the top of the stairs.

The man with the calm voice spoke. “There’s supposed to be another one, isn’t there?”

Another in the group answered him, “Yes, sir. Another boy.”

My mom whimpered.

There was the sound of shuffling, like the strangers were walking around the kitchen and living room.

“Where is he?”

“P-please—” Mom’s voice broke.

“He’s—he’s not here. He’s at a friend’s house tonight,” my dad said.

“Hmm,” the man hummed. “So if I check upstairs, I won’t find anyone?”

“No, it’s just us.”

A loud click echoed throughout the house, and my mom erupted into sobs.

“If you’re lying, I’ll put a bullet in this one’s skull.”

“No!” Dad’s voice cracked. “Please, please don’t hurt them. I’m telling you the truth, he’s—”

The man, seemingly the one in charge, spoke again. “This is your last chance. Tell me where he is.”

“I swear to you, he’s—”

A hand smacked the table, rattling it. “Last chance,” the man repeated. “Or I’ll let my men start choosing who goes first.”