The memory has as many moods as the temper, and shifts its scenery like a diorama.
― George Eliot
Sweat slicked Cici’s palms and sides, pooling around her waistband. “I take it you don’t like me,” she said.
The man tipped his head, making the sun glint off the threads of silver in his brown hair. She squinted, unsure why a sense of familiarity snuggled over her—because the man’s eyes terrified her. They were devoid of emotion, flatter than Donald Johnson’s that afternoon she and Sam had found him dead on the Aspen Vista Trail.
She shuddered. Donald’s eyes permeated her dreams. His and the Bratva soldier’s. If she lived, Cici believed this man’s eyes would plague her for years. They were empty, not just of empathy or compassion but of a soul.
That realization, more than anything else, terrified her.
“May I ask why you’re abducting me?”
“You can ask. I won’t tell you. What I will say is shut up. If you don’t, I’ll make you, and you won’t like it.”
Cici shivered harder, huddling into herself, but she kept her mouth shut. He nudged the gun into her temple hard enough to make her flinch. Much as she wanted to cry out, she clamped her jaw tight to refrain.
“Get in the car. We’re going for a ride.”
Cici’s stomach rolled, and something tight and hot settled in her guts. Her life depended on remaining out of the car. Most victims died if they disappeared.
He pressed the gun into her temple again and said, “You can fight me, and I promise you’ll die sooner.”
She stiffened, but the shivering stopped. Perhaps her body had passed the point of fear. Or maybe she simply knew this was the end. Her phone was in her front right pocket. She slid her hand into the material and clutched it.
“No,” she said. She flicked the switch on the phone’s side to silent mode.
He frowned, confusion darkening his features. She depressed the buttons on both sides of the phone. She tried to count the seconds, but her heart pounded as his face morphed into pure frustration.
“I don’t want to go with you,” Cici screamed. Part of it was fear; part of it was to cover the possible alert sound. Since the phone was on silent, she wasn’t sure if it would beep.
His eyes gleamed with fear for a moment.
Cici inhaled to scream again. “Help m—”
Something hard slammed into her temple. She whimpered, her eyes rolling back. Then her eyes sank. He lifted the pistol, aiming it at her head.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sterling said from nearby.
Sterling. Good. He’d handle Michael.
Cici collapsed as gunfire exploded around her. She felt herself being tugged, no, hoisted upward onto a shoulder.
“How the hell did he find out?” Michael muttered. His breathing was labored.
A warm, wet substance saturated her shirt, soaking into her belly. Cici struggled, letting out a feeble cry. She managed to fall off and stumbled away.
Back toward Sterling… Oh no. No, no, no. He was bleeding from his side. But he rose, gun leveled at the man behind her. She could feel his malevolence.
“Did you kill Rebecca?” Sterling asked.
“You know I did,” Michael said.
He grabbed Cici by the hair. Still too far from Sterling. Now Michael used her as a shield.
No, she didn’t want this. Sterling couldn’t die, not for her.
Shoot him, Cici mouthed.
She didn’t want to die, but Sterling couldn’t either. He’d suffered so much. None of this should have happened.
The air around her seemed to tremble.
“What are you doing?” Michael asked, yanking her head back, tearing a scream from her throat as the follicles popped from her head.
“Trying to help people,” she whispered.
Sterling fired. Michael grunted, the bullet flinging him back. The wind roared.
Come on, Aci, Lydia…somebody out there. You have to help me. Help Sterling.
Michael snarled. He let go of her long enough to fire three more times, emptying his clip. Sterling collapsed. A blow slammed into Cici’s jaw so hard she never felt her nerve endings burn in agony.
She felt nothing.
Darkness swallowed her.