Vice(53)

“Persephone!” The cry rings out through the night, and it’s the blood curdling cry of someone who’s just had their heart ripped out. Natalia stops crying. She gets to her feet, and then we’re both scanning the crowd again, looking for the person who screamed out the name.

It comes again, loud and clear.

“PERSEPHONE!”

With the large crowd of Fernando’s players taking up much of the room on the lawn, we didn’t notice him before now: Plato, on his hands and knees in the dirt, naked, hands bound behind his back. His face and his torso are streaked with dirt, and a river of blood is running down his back, over his buttocks and down his muscles legs.

“Oh god, is that—”

“Plato,” I finish. “Yes. And the body out there is obviously Persephone.”

“Oh god. Oh god…” Natalia screws her eyes shut tight. She looks like she’s never seen this before. She must have, though. From the way she’s spoken, she must have seen this over and over again, and yet she seemed sickened to her core. Perhaps that’s the difference between men and women. I have seen so much violence and death in my life. The things I experienced while at war haunt my dreams. There seems to be a big difference between a normal person seeing something like this and when I see it now, though.

I know it’s wrong. I know it’s f*cked-up. My soul rails against it as firmly and as strongly as it possibly can. And yet I have hurt more than this. I have witnessed such depraved, evil, dark things that I can no longer pinpoint the worst of the worst.

Across the manicured lawns, the wolves are still at work. I have no idea how long they will take over their kill, but they don’t seem to be done yet. They’re getting lazy, full, but they’re still bickering amongst themselves, arguing over their food. Plato screams, his howl of agony plaintive and misery-filled. Harrison, who was still laughing until a moment ago, looks furious. He scowls, his attention turning to Plato. With quick, decisive steps, he heads across the lawn.

“Oh no. Oh god, no,” Natalia wails. I don’t need to ask why she seems so distraught. I can already see the intent in Harrison’s eyes and I know he means no good. He reaches Plato quickly, drawing his gun from his belt at his waist. I’m moving then. I don’t even know what I’m doing until I realize I’m vaulting over the balustrade, down onto the lawn, and there’s suddenly grass beneath my feet.

“Sam! Please, come back!”

I have no idea how Natalia remembers to call me by my cover name, but she does, thank god. She sounds stricken with fear, but I am no longer in control of my own body. I couldn’t stop myself even if I wanted to. I stride across the lawn, fire slamming through my veins. When I see Harrison holding out the gun, when I see that it is, in fact, my gun, I break into a run.

No f*cking way is he shooting Plato with my gun.

No. Fucking. Way.

Harrison sees me coming. A wicked, morbid smile spreads across his face as he pivots, redirecting the gun, aiming it at me. He’s not a marksman, though. He couldn’t hit a moving target if his life depended on it. He clearly didn’t get to practice his aim all that much as a private contractor out in the desert. I duck to the left and he doesn’t even bother to fire. He knows it would be a wasted shot. He plants his feet, bracing, as though, he’s getting ready for me, and I almost burst into laughter. He’s the same height as me, the same build as me, but we are not equal opponents. Not even f*cking close.

I barrel into him, one arm already extended, hitting him in the neck. With my other arm I grab hold of him firmly around his waist. He’s winded, unable to breathe. At the same time he’s trapped, unable to escape me to right himself.

He makes a broken huffing sound as I take him to the ground.

These guys, these f*cking idiots, posers like him…they’re all about the powerful right hook. That’s all they have in them. Me, on the other hand? I’m trained in Krav Maga. I’m a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. I’ve been training in Muay Thai for as long as I can f*cking remember. I’m so much more than a mean right hook. I’m a devastating chokehold. I’m a brutal roundhouse kick to the head. Basically, I’m way more than this f*cker can handle, and he’s about to f*cking die.

“Get…off…me…mother…f*cker!” Harrison gurgles, straining as he tries to get the words out. I don’t get off. I jam my knuckles into his throat, making it even harder for him to breathe.

“Don’t! God, please, don’t!” Plato, still with his hands tied behind his back, is crawling towards us on his knees. “Don’t! Fuck, man, please, just back the f*ck off!”

I’m so close to killing this f*cker. So close to wrapping my legs around him, pinning him to the ground, and grinding his face into the dirt. I’d do it. I would finish the job in a f*cking heartbeat, but then Harrison’s men are on me, eight rifles pointed in my face, and suddenly my death is upon me.

If this is the way I’m going to die, then so f*cking be it. Plato risked his ass for mine. It’s only right that I hand mine over to save his. There’s so much going on around me that it’s hard to differentiate sound. I hear two or three of the guys priming their rifles, metallic clicking all around me, but everything else is just white noise.

“Release him. Now,” one of Harrison’s men snaps. He’s an American too, by the sounds of things. Another of them jabs me in the back with the butt of his rifle, hard enough to bruise. I know I need to let Harrison go, but I’m a stubborn *. A very large part of me would rather die than let him win this one.