Page 102 of Lash

I click the mic button, hoping it will serve as acknowledgment; the rustling is closer now.

I hear voices—whispering in Spanish. Closer. Closer.

My heart pounding, I wait, listening, motionless.

"Ella esta' aqua’ en laguna part,” the voice says.

“So,” Another voice answers.

Two of them, it sounds like, unless there are others not participating in the conversation. The rustling becomes footsteps in the undergrowth, and then I can see the branches moving as they approach my position as if they know exactly where I am.

I hold my breath now, gun braced in both hands, arms outstretched along my body—I am proud, perhaps inordinately so, of how steady the barrel is, considering how hard my heart is hammering in my chest.

A burly arm sweeps aside a clump of ferns; I aim inwards of the arm and squeeze the trigger three times in rapid succession, controlling the kick the way Tata taught me. A wet, wheezing cough, and a short, stout man topples forward, eyes blinking at me in shocked confusion.

Something niggles in my gut, whispering that I should roll over a few times. I don't question the feeling and roll to my left. The gun digs into my gut as I roll over it, and a branch pokes me in the face, but I ignore all that and roll again. The blinding flash of a muzzle precedes by a fraction of a second, the concussive rattle of a machine gun spraying bullets where I'd been, thumping wetly into the man I just killed. Laying on my side, I shrink into a small ball, gun held close to me now, waiting. Another burst of gunfire echoes, rattling and chattering, and dirtsprays and leaves thwack and bark splinters as the shooter fires indiscriminately, spraying side to side.

I wait.

Hold my breath.

A whipcord-lean figure steps over the body of his friend, gun held at his hip, sweeping the area where I'd been laying.

He sees me lying in the undergrowth and swivels to bring his rifle to bear, but he's too slow. My first bullet punches through his biceps, spinning him to one side, and my second tears through his throat, splashing red down his front in spray and then in rivuleting buckets. My third bullet smashes into his chest, the bone cracking wetly as a red blossom spreads dark on his front.

He sinks to his knees, dropping his gun and clutching at his throat as if to hold his blood in.

His eyes glaze over and go sightless, and he slumps forward at an angle.

Running steps crunch and crash through the forest, but I hold my fire, remembering Solomon's word of warning, and his promise that Nico was coming to me.

Sure enough, Nico’s face breaks through the branches, painted with worry. He skids to a halt in the wet, slippery carpet of rotting leaves, staring at the two dead men.

"I heard the shooting," he pants in Croatian. "I was afraid for you, but I should have known better.”

I'm shaking now, eyes wide, hazy with tears. Nausea roils through me, and I close my eyes to combat it, breathing through the acidic burn of bile as it rises in my gorge, swallowing hard against the surge of vomit.

But with my eyes closed, I see the men I killed with the rifle—heads jerking as my bullets splat open their skulls like watermelons.

I roll to my hands and knees, still clutching the pistol in one hand, and spew vomit across the forest floor. I hear his feet, feel his presence, and then he's kneeling beside me, hand on my back.

“It is over now." He murmurs this in Croatian. "It is all over."

"Hel-helicopter?" I pant.

"Mercado got away." He sounds furious about it. “There was a secret tunnel. The helo took off while you were having your shootout."

Another flash flood of images assaults me—blood spraying, Tata's broken body, the man I stabbed and his blood hot on my hands. Vomit hits my teeth and I have no choice but to let it out, spine arching upward as I heave.

Spitting and wiping my lips on my sleeve, I sit on my heels. "Inez?"

"We have her. She's alive. Not in great shape, but alive."

I notice him rubbing at his chest. "Are you hurt?"

He shakes his head. “Took one to the vest. I am well." He sits cross-legged in the wet leaves and pulls me onto his lap. "You were amazing. You do so well, Tati. You are a miracle. I love you so much."

I bury my face in his throat, letting my emotions wash through me. "I hate killing, Nico. Ihateit."