Page 57 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

A LIAH IS MOANING. I SENSE her movement, hear the cascade of glass from her body as she attempts to hoist herself up on her arms.

The biggest noise, however, comes from the other side of the island. I can’t see Sabera, only hear her sharp exhale, followed by a low moan, then a stream of guttural obscenities.

Beside me, Aliah stills, listening intently.

Our leering invader has drawn back. I don’t know whether to be grateful or insulted by his lack of interest.

Sabera is the key. They came for her; they want her.

Standing on the other side of the counter, closest to the blown-out sliders, she would’ve been struck by the force of the first shot transforming the tempered glass to a hail of pebbles.

Second shot went high, however, a sign they still wanted her alive?

Because otherwise she would’ve made for an easy target. Just like Daryl.

I can hear her. A mix of tiny screams and fierce hisses, as one of the attackers drags her to her feet. She’s gotta be hurt, but she’s clearly still fighting.

It pisses me off. How dare these insurgents come here—this home, this city, this country. I don’t fucking care. They’re evil, awful men, destroying entire countries, subjugating generations of women and children. The outrage provides enough adrenaline to drive me to my feet.

I’m immediately sorry.

Daryl. To my left. His face is a mask of red, his torso a glittering pincushion of glass and buckshot. So much blood, a growing pool surrounding his body. I can barely stand the sight.

And Roberta, who’s still missing in action. What the hell did they do to Roberta?

My gaze lights upon Sabera, her arms wrenched behind her back as one of the men slides a knife around her ear, across her cheek, down her neck in a sickening imitation of a lover’s touch.

She’s shaking. Clearly terrified. And yet, the expression on her face…

She didn’t break the first time they had her. She has no intention of breaking now.

Which should’ve clued me in, as the next moment, the first leering bearded man steps forward and drags me around the end of the island, placing his own vicious dagger against my throat.

My knees buckle. He hauls me back up. I attempt bravery, but mostly, I suffer an out-of-body experience:

Dear Death—been searching for you for a really long while. About time we get this right.

Sabera stills. It’s harder to be stoic when someone else will pay the price.

I want to tell her it’s okay. I’ve been running from a bullet for years now. It was bound to find me eventually. I assumed I’d suffer flashbacks of Paul, who took that bullet for me. Or scenes from Wyoming, or a certain Boston cop. As unfinished business goes, I could fill a warehouse.

But mostly I think of Seattle, of a brief interlude where I felt safe, seen, and heard. A gift, I realize now. Why do we never realize these things till it’s too late?

Will he cry for me?

I honestly hope not. I’ve already been a big enough pain in the ass.

Before me, Sabera’s expression hardens. I don’t have to be a genius to understand the math. There’s nothing we can do that won’t result in our deaths. It’s merely a question of how slow versus how fast.

Her gaze is faintly apologetic. I get that, too. She never intended for her actions to harm others. Welcome to my life.

I let my gaze fall to her belly, hope she gets the message. She’s still fighting for two, and well, I’m only me.

The first razor slice down my cheek is so harsh and unexpected, I scream. The second, a matching cut, has me writhing and thrashing against my captor’s impossibly strong grip.

I shriek, I can’t help myself. But it’s not so much a wail of pain as a roar of outrage. Son of a bitch. When I get my hands on him…

Then the blade’s nipping at my throat, gouging, slicing, but I no longer fucking care.

There’s something wrong with me. I’ve always known it. Where others would cower, lick their wounds, seek to pacify…

The more this fucker hurts me, the more I want him dead.

When he moves to carve a fresh hole in my shoulder, I smack back my head as hard as I can, catching him in the nose. While Aliah rises to standing and pelts him with one, two, three objects in a row. Whisks. Or maybe graters, it’s hard to tell.

He stumbles, momentarily outraged, while his partner shouts out at him in a language I don’t understand, but I’m pretty sure translates to “get the fucking woman under control.” In response, Aliah beans Sabera’s captor with a colander, while Sabera starts cursing a long string of words I definitely get.

Clackety-clack-clack. Swish-swish.

One last play.

I slam my foot into my attacker’s insole. Then, when he jerks his foot away reflexively, I jam my elbow into his gut. He doubles over, dragging the blade down my neck and torso. I’m so intent on my mission, I don’t even notice.

I twist out of his grip and shove him to the floor, dropping a banana peel atop his face as I do so.

Petunia, God bless her…

Now the screaming is real. As it should be.

The motherfucker dares to try to stab my iguana. I stomp my foot on his wrist, three times for good measure. Then I snatch the knife from his nerveless fingers while Petunia takes a second snap at his nose.

I twist toward Sabera and her captor. I’m not human. I’m not real. Blood pours down my cheeks, neck, shoulder. I have a wickedly curved weapon in my hand and I want to drive it into the fucking horrible, awful piece of shit in front of me. Who tortured Sabera. Killed Isaad. Abducted Aliah.

Is this bloodlust? Because I feel nothing but a roaring in my ears.

The lone standing male has his hand wrapped around Sabera’s short-cropped hair, jerking her head up, exposing her throat. The shotgun he used to blast their way in here dangles from a strap around his torso, but we are much too close quarters for that.

A woman possessed, I advance.

He glares at me, jabs his own knife into Sabera’s throat.

I can see it plainly on her face. Do it. Strike even if it kills her. It doesn’t matter, as long as he’s dead.

Aliah advances around the island from the other side. The classic pincer movement after all.

He mutters something low. Neither Sabera nor Aliah seem deterred by what he has to say, so I disregard it as well.

He takes a step backward, dragging Sabera with him.

All I want to do is hurt, maim, kill. I want to thrust this blade deep into this man’s chest. I want to feel his blood, hot and red, on my hands. I want to hear the gurgle of his dying breath.

Where have these thoughts come from?

Who have I become?

But all I can picture is my room of pain, the dozens of ghosts roaming my collective psyche, betrayed by strangers, killed by those they loved. Each and every one innocent in their own right. And still…

Sabera is murmuring words I don’t know.

Aliah, shrieking in their language.

Me, advancing advancing advancing. I can kill him. I know I can. He’ll slash Sabera’s throat first, but still…

Another step, another step.

I’m not sane. I’m pretty sure I’ll never be sane again.

As Sabera’s gaze bores into mine:

“Do it!” she orders.

And then, as I rush forward in a blaze of glory—

“Stop!”

I just have time to look up. As my single phone call, my backup plan to all of our backup plans, Captain Kurtz materializes out of the darkness and clubs my target over the head.

Totally terrifying, absolutely evil Taliban soldier folds to the ground, Sabera extracting herself just in time.

I can’t help myself. I stab my newfound weapon in Kurtz’s direction.

“Some fucking cavalry you turned out to be. Could you have cut it any closer?”

Just in time for a second man to join him. Same facial structure but with curly brown hair. X factor/stutter-stop man. I knew it! I want to feel triumphant. But the world is starting to gray around the edges.

I feel my knife clatter to the floor. Then I’m crumpling to my knees, where I have an up-close-and-personal view of Daryl’s blood-pooled body.

I don’t cry anymore.

I just wrap my arms around my knees and pray for none of this to be real.

Until a new voice breaks the silence.

“Well, well, well. Leave it to you Yanks to get this party started without me.”

Lilla No Last Name steps through the shattered sliders.

Petunia, quite wisely, scurries away.