“Gabe,” I rasp. “Gabe! It’s only me. Wake up.”
But the look in his dark eyes is dull, he’s not awake. And he clearly thinks I’m someone else.
“Fuck you!” he screams at me, his face contorted in anger. “Why did you do it? She was just a girl. You’re a f**king murderer!”
He clenches his grip tighter and I can no longer breathe at all. I push at him as hard as I can until my vision begins to tunnel and the edges turn fuzzy.
“Gabe,” I gasp desperately.
My chest feels hot from lack of oxygen and my fingers and legs go numb. I can’t feel my hands enough to push at him anymore. My eyelids are too heavy to hold open and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if I close them, I might not ever open them again. “Gabriel, please…”
I can’t speak anymore. Gabe’s grip on my throat is too tight.
I can’t move. He’s fifty times stronger than I am.
And I can’t breathe.
As I close my eyes and everything goes black, I realize that this is what it’s like to die.
Chapter Sixteen
Gabriel
Smoke curls around me, making it impossible to see and just as impossible to breathe. I duck my head closer to the ground as I drag myself by my elbows. The lower I get, the cleaner the air is. The smell of gasoline and burning rubber is almost suffocating and I try to take small breaths.
“Brand!” I hiss, as quietly as I can. I don’t know who else is hiding in the shadows, who else is watching us, waiting to attack. “Brand!”
I still can’t see, but I hear a moan, low and ragged, and I keep crawling to find it.
The darkness makes it impossible to see and the crackling fire from the burning Humvee makes it almost impossible to hear.
“Fuck,” I mutter as a jagged piece of metal cuts into my thigh and wedges in deep. I reach down to pull it out, and my hand comes back bloody. I know I’m in shock because I don’t feel anything, not a thing, even though I am covered in blood. I can taste it, the metallic rusty taste, dripping down my throat. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to stay conscious because my vision keeps blurring in and out.
It makes me nervous that I can only hear one person. The blast was bad. And if something happened to Brand, I’ll never forgive myself. I should have seen this coming. I should have acted faster. If only that little girl hadn’t looked so f**king scared.
“Not Brand,” I tell God. “Not him. Please.”
I keep crawling through the dirt and finally the smoke breaks and the moon shines brightly enough that I can see the situation a little better. I can see Mad Dog’s still form, lying a few paces away. His legs are no longer attached to his body, his intestines are hanging out of his torso. His blood seems as black as the night as it pools around him.
Fuck.
He’s dead and it’s my f**king fault. But I can’t help him right now. I need to find Brand.
I spin to the right, hunting for him. I see nothing. I peer into the distance as far as I can see, and I’m relieved to see a slow movement from up ahead. A leg. A combat boot, army-issued. It moves again.
Brand.
Thank fuck.
I am trying to get to him when I come across the girl.
Her eyes are glassy and open.
And her head is detached from her body.
I know I pass out, because when I next open my eyes, a man is standing over me. Dressed in traditional Afghan garb, he stares down at me wordlessly and I know instinctively who he is. He sent the girl to attack us. He’s not real, though. He’s not real because he wasn’t there that night. My mind is making him up.
But real or not real, I want to kill him for what he did.
I lunge to my feet, regardless of my pain, regardless of anything except the rage that is coursing through me. I wrap my hands around his throat.
“You motherfucker,” I hiss. “She was a child. You’re a f**king murderer. She didn’t have to die for your f**king misguided beliefs. You’re insane.”
I squeeze tighter when he tries to speak.
“Fuck you!” I scream at him. I can see that my hand is covered in blood. “She was just a girl. You’re a f**king murderer!”
I want to snap his neck. And I’m going to do it. But first I want him to suffer.
He needs to suffer for what he did.
I squeeze tighter, enjoying the way the life drains from his eyes, the way the breath squeezes from his helpless lungs. He deserves pain. He deserves all of it.
“Gabriel, please,” he begs in a forced whisper.
I squeeze tighter and the man finally goes limp in my hands.
It’s only then that I realize something.
He shouldn’t have known my name.
I open my eyes to find Madison’s slender neck in my hands, her eyes closed, her body limp. Shock slams into me hard and fast, and I can hardly breathe from the realization of what I’ve done.
Jesus Christ, I’ve killed Madison.
Chapter Seventeen
Madison
I’m in the dark. Floating in a pond. Or I’m at the end of a dark tunnel. Or maybe at the beginning of one. To be honest, I don’t actually know where I’m at. But everything’s cloudy and warm and soft and I never want to leave.
Nothing can hurt me here.
I know that. I can feel it.
But then someone shakes me, grabbing my shoulders, their fingers digging into my arms. There’s harsh breathing in my ear and mumbling.
“Holyfuckholyfuckholyfuck.” The words run together, panicky and fast. And I know that voice.
I’m balanced on a precipice. Because it’s Gabe and he just tried to kill me. He was crazy after all.
If I open my eyes I’ll be back with him. I’ll have to fight for my life. And do I really want to? It’s so comfortable here. It didn’t hurt. It’s all done.
But if I stay here, it’s all done.
I’ll never be anything.
My arms are limp and my body numb as I do the only thing I can do.
I open my eyes.
Chapter Eighteen
Gabriel
“Holyfuckholyfuckholyfuck.”
Madison is limp in my arms, not moving.
“It’s OK, Gabe. I understand. You didn’t mean to hurt me. I see that now.” I know she’s afraid, I can see it in the way her body is shaking, the way her eyes are hooded and guarded, the way she’s ever so slightly curved away from me, like she’s ready to bolt at a moment’s notice if need be.
But even still, in spite of her fear, she’s here.
Comforting me.
“You’re OK,” she says again, and I’m not completely sure if she’s reassuring me or herself.
“But you’re not,” I tell her in anguish, eyeing the already purple marks on her throat. They’re in the perfect shape of my hands. “Jesus Christ.”