Fury (31 page)

             
Breathe.

              I tucked the gun into the back of my waistband then turned around toward them. Their presence snapped something in me. Their faces reminded me of why I was there.

             
Breathe.

              “Who can speak English?”

A girl, maybe fifteen years old, stood.

“I do, ” she said.

“What’s your name?” I said calmly.

“Vi.”

“Vi, I’m Ethan.”

“Ethan,” she repeated softly.

“I, uh, I’m going to get you all out of here. I have some things to take care of first, though, so I need you all to remain here. Do
not
leave. Do not step foot on that elevator until I come back for you. Understood?”

She nodded. A few others who understood, nodded as well, then began to translate to those who didn’t. Before long, lots of faces were nodding.

“I’ll be back,” I told them, using the thumb once more to open the elevator doors.

I stepped inside, stood amongst the three dead men, and pressed the button for the third floor.

             
Breathe.

              When the doors opened and I stepped through, I discovered it was yet another “entertaining” floor. The receptionist smiled briefly before taking in my arsenal. She’d yet to be warned I was coming because I’d killed anyone who could have warned her.

              “Hands up,” I told her and she obeyed. “Do you have anyone behind these doors?” I asked. She nodded. “Which ones.” She pointed at three of the six doors.

I bounded up to her and tied her up as I had the first girl.

              “Stay quiet,” I told her. She nodded.

             
Breathe.

              I went to the first door and walked in on a sixty-year-old man with what looked like a fourteen-year-old girl. The girl scurried to one side of the room when the man turned to see who had interrupted him, tears were in her eyes.

             
Breathe.

              “Stay,” I told the girl then yanked the man by his hair, dragging him through the door, and placed him inside an empty room. I killed him without hesitation.

             
Breathe

              When I came out, the men in the other two occupied rooms had come out to see what had happened. I smiled at them.

              “Gentlemen,” I said raising two handguns at each of their faces, “this way.”

I stepped aside, exposing the dead child molester in the room behind me.

              They both screamed and ran for the elevator that wouldn’t work for them. They didn’t have the magic touch.
But I do
. Two swift shots to the head and they went down. I dragged their bodies, their lifeblood leaving trails behind them, and put them in the room with the first.

             
Breathe.

              I took the three girls with me to the second floor and dropped them off.

“Remember, no one leaves until I come back. I
will
protect you,” I told them.

I made my way toward the elevators, stuck the thumb on the fingerprinting pad, and entered, pressing the button for the fourth floor.

             
Breathe.

              My heart beat wildly in my chest.

             
Breathe.

              The doors opened. Straight ahead there was nothing, just stacks of old club furniture, but my peripheral was blocked. I crouched down. Took one of the handguns in my waistband, removed the clip, placed it in my pocket, then threw the useless gun out into the middle of the room.

              Immediately, I heard gunshots.

             
Breathe.

              I readied the automatics, threw myself out of the elevator, turning onto my back, and began spraying both sides of the room.

They returned fire.

             
Breathe.

              Something burned, stung as I went sliding across the concrete floor, making me grit my teeth.

I was hit.

             
Breathe.

              I continued to shoot until all men had fallen. I counted at least fifteen on each side. I stayed down for two reasons.

              One, I had no idea if there were more. Hidden.

              Two, my legs were in sudden agony.

             
Breathe.

             
Rise above it,
I heard Akule’s voice in my head.
Rise above it.

             
Breathe.

              Out of bullets, I tossed the automatics, and removed two of the four handguns I had left. I flipped over on my stomach, ignoring the fiery pain in my legs. Scanning through the furniture, I spotted two pairs of feet at the back of the room. I rolled myself against a stack of chairs and took aim with one gun.

             
Breathe.

             
First shot. One man fallen. Second shot. Second man fallen.

             
Breathe.

             
Both fell at eye level with me. Both saw me. Both pointed their weapons at me. Both died within a second.

             
Breathe.

Scanning the rest of the room, I found no other signs of life. Using one of the stacks of chairs, I lifted my body with an agonizing shout. I gnashed my teeth together to defeat the misery. I put my weight on my legs and almost fell back down. Razor-sharp torture shot down my legs then back up my body. I let out one final muted bellow, my body breaking out into an intense sweat from the effort. I wiped my eyes clear with the bottom of my T-shirt and made purposeful strides toward the elevator doors.

I rose above it.

CHAPTER FORTY

Ethan

             
Breathe.

              The elevator door closed. I pressed the button for the sixth floor. The brief ride was peppered with images of Finley. I had a sickening feeling of finality I’d never see her again. I thought back on all of my bad decisions. The decisions that ultimately prevented my forever life with her. I thought back on what had motivated me to do it.
She
was that everything. She was my foundation, my supporting walls, my attic full of secrets, my sheltering roof. She was my home.

              My eyes stung at the memory of her driving away from me. My last words to her should not have been my last. My last words to her should have been everything she’d deserved. They should have been private, astounding words spoken from a marital bed made undone by us. By us. By
us
.

Those should have been my last words... before I’d began new words, new promises.  

I’d made such an incredible mess of our lives. Of so many good people’s lives. I had no regrets when it came to saving the innocents I’d saved, but I should have found another way. A way that didn’t cause more rife, more suffering, more difficulties. I should have been patient. I should have quelled the fury that rose so easily in my heart and soul and mind and hands.

             
Breathe.

              The doors opened slowly. And there. Ten feet from me, surrounded by a small army of armed men, stood a man I couldn’t have mistaken for anyone other than who he was. He was grotesque, wearing a smile of triumph, with the most hollow, malevolent eyes I’d ever seen owned by another human being. My body shuddered.

              “Khanh.”

             
Breathe.

              “In the flesh,” his voice grated, the tone oozing something so profoundly disturbing it made me want to claw away my ears. His arms extended from his sides in presentation. I fought the urge to throw a knife at his open target of a black heart. It was so dark I felt it could be seen through his shirt, beating the irregular rhythm only shared by those whose soul had been sold.

             
Breathe.

              “Come in,” he said, gesturing me forward. He was young, much younger than I would have thought, maybe twenty-five. He did indeed reach my shoulders. I’d guess five feet ten inches. He was not one hundred percent Vietnamese, mixed with something else, something European. He was barefoot, casual, in a very American look of jeans and a T-shirt, as if the men surrounding him hadn’t weapons trained on me. I looked down. Red lasers painted the entire length of my body. I looked up and saw Dai’s smiling face.

             
Breathe.

              I stepped inside and absently noted that my boots were filling with blood from my legs.

             
Breathe.

              “Take a seat,” he said, pointing to a part of sectional opposite where he’d tossed himself onto like a little kid.

He picked up a controller and started playing a video game on the large flat screen perpendicular to the windows that faced the night lights of Hanoi I sat with my back to. I felt so confused, wondering why he hadn’t killed me yet.

             
Breathe.

              “You’re so young,” I observed.

              He laughed as his fingers clicked the controller, his eyes stayed trained on the TV. “That I am.”

              “Did your parents get you into this?” I asked, trying to figure out how the young, seemingly normal guy in front of me had gotten into the business he’d gotten into.

              “Nah, self-made, baby.”

              “No need to brag to me, asshole,” I said, leaning back into the sofa, making myself comfortable. “I’ve seen your business firsthand.”

He stared through me with his horrific eyes and threw the controller at his side.

              “Yeah, you have.”

He sat up a little and his men followed the movement.

             
Breathe.

              “You’ve been a busy bee, haven’t you?” He leaned in menacingly.

              I met him face to face. “Not as busy as I’d have liked.”

              He stood abruptly. My hand went for one of my guns but he turned just as quickly and made his way toward the kitchen. His men’s guns were still trained on me.

              “Come in here,” he said, rummaging through cabinets.

I stood, making my way toward him.

              “Would you like some tea?” he asked, placing a kettle on his gigantic range.

              “No,” I told him, edging around the men there.

              He turned toward me, placing his hands at the end of a long kitchen island. “I have a proposition for you,” he said.

              “No,” I answered.

              He laughed. “You haven’t even heard what I had to say.”

              “There’s nothing you could possibly say that would sway me from my task.”

              “That’s too bad,” he said. “Because I’ve never seen anyone like you,” he explained, grabbing a packet of monk fruit and setting it on the surface of the island. He walked to his sub-zero and grabbed a bottle of whipping cream. When he placed it next to the monk fruit, he said, “Bad habit. Mother’s French.” He stared at me. “You would be quite the asset for me,” he continued. “I would be unstoppable with someone like you.”

              “It is too bad, because I’d rather die than work for you.”

              The kettle whistled shrilly into the thick air around us. “Really?” he asked, taking it from the lit burner and pouring hot water over a silver tea strainer in his cup. He placed his hands on either side to let it steep. We sat in an eerie silence for two minutes, seven seconds. I’d counted.

He removed the strainer and set it on a dish to drain. He poured the sweetener and the cream in, stirring with a metal spoon. The metal grated the bottom of the ceramic and the sound filled the room. He clicked the side of the spoon on the rim of the cup then set the spoon down on the cup’s saucer. He lifted the cup to take a sip. When he swallowed, he set the cup back down with a loud clink.

“Maybe
you
would rather die but would
she
?” he said, startling me. He pulled something from his pocket, unfolded it, and brought it up to eye level, flashing it at me. It was a picture of Fin and me.

Fury built within me with such rapid heat, I thought my hands would melt through the surface of the island. I gripped the edges, certain they would crumble under the strain.

“She’s quite pretty,” he said. “I might keep her to myself for a few weeks until I tire of her. Or I could sell her to the highest bidder. Many, many men are eager for tall, leggy, gorgeous Western women. They’re always my biggest sellers on the auction blocks.”

My body trembled with the need to abolish him, stamp him out, annihilate him.

“Or perhaps I’ll cut her up in little pieces and feed her to the children,” he said, his eyes blazing with intensity.

“You are going to die,” I told him. I heard the men around me shift closer.

He laughed then sighed, picking up his cup, and leaning one hand on the countertop. He took a sip. “It’s too bad. Just too bad,” he repeated, shaking his head. He set the cup back down. “Kill him,” he said, walking toward the sub-zero to put the cream back.

             
Breathe.

Breathe.

             
Breathe.

              Burner still on. Ceramic teacup. Kettle. Boiling water. Metal magnet strip on kitchen wall. Chef’s knife. Meat carver. Santoku knife. Slicing knife. Six steak knives.

             
Breathe.

              Four handguns. Unknown number of bullets.

             
Breathe.

              My
short swords
.

             
Breathe.

              No immediate cover. Fridge door, maybe?

             
Breathe.

             
Breathe.

              I reached for the kettle full of boiling water and scattered the contents on the men behind me. They dropped their guns as they reached for their eyes and faces. I bent to pick up one of the abandoned automatics, rolled across the island, and landed on the other side, nearest Khanh.

              I smiled at him as his eyes widened, his hands flew up in the air. “No! No! Don’t shoot! You’ll hit me!”

I laughed.

              “Isn’t it too bad?” I asked him. I raised a handgun and shot him in the foot. He fell to the ground, screaming. I rolled up, yanked open the sub-zero door, and stood behind it. Khanh began to crawl through the kitchen toward his men, but I yanked him back to me, pulling him up, using his body as a shield.  

             
Breathe.

              I walked Khanh toward his men and raised my weapon. I fired off two rounds, hitting two men, but the remaining men scattered into his open-floor apartment, hiding themselves behind furniture, effectively trapping me in the kitchen near the television wall.

             
Breathe.

              Khanh began to fight me, struggled to get away so his men could take me out. I took my handgun and shot him in the thigh of his right leg. He screamed in agony.

              “Stop moving,” I gritted.

             
Breathe.

              I took note of all the men in the room, all their guns raised and aimed at me.

             
Breathe.

             
Nothing to lose
.

             
Breathe.

              I readied the automatic and unleashed a spray of bullets. As if in slow motion, the windows shattered, tufts of stuffing from the couch went flying through the air, glass exploded all around us. And the men behind the furniture were dying with shrieks. They still refused to shoot upon us. Khanh was my leverage.

              He struggled in my arms, but I held tightly to his neck.

             
Breathe.

              My automatic ran out of bullets so I tossed it aside, reaching for one of my only three handguns left.

             
Breathe.

“Attack him!” Khanh yelled out to the ones who survived the spray, taking me by surprise.  

             
Breathe.

              Five men approached quickly. Too quickly. One of those men was Dai.

             
Breathe.

              I pushed Khanh down toward the wood floor.

             
Breathe.

              I pulled out another one of the handguns and raised both arms. One shot. One man down. Two shots. Second man down.

             
Breathe.

I’d run out of time.  

             
Breathe.

              The remaining two men along with Dai rushed me, overcoming me before I’d gotten a chance to shoot them. I dropped both of the guns. I crossed my arms within my hoodie and pulled out my knives. They whistled with the swiftness of their release and the sound was music to my ears. Knives I knew. Knives I was comfortable with. Knives were second nature to me.

             
Breathe.

              I spun, holding the handle of one knife so the blade ran down my forearm. I let the blade slice across one man’s chest before planting the other knife in his neck. He fell where he stood. Both knives met my side once more.