Page 73 of No Hope of Rescue

I look in the grass, find a fist-sized rock, snatch it up, and hurl it hard, ten feet from me, against the metal frame of the hangar.

The impact echoes and then is immediately drowned by the repercussion of shots fired. I can’t count how many, mostly because I’ve forgotten how to. Everything shifts to slow motion. The sound alone sends me out of myself, out of my body. I smell glass cleaner, my mother’s smell, a meth head smell. I drop to the ground in the chaos. Then I begin scrambling to get out of there. Once around the edge of the building, I sprint toward the front of the hangar.

Still no Ross. Where the hell is he?

A siren wails in the distance somewhere. Just as I round the second corner, the sound of propellers whirl from the depths of the hangar. The airplane rolls out and I stand, like a deer in headlights. And then there’s Brock, emerging behind it. And over in the far corner of the entry is Ross, behind some barrels.

Everything stays in slow motion. Brock runs past the airplane, straight toward me each step taking too long. Another shot blasts from somewhere, and then he’s grabbed me away from the path of the plane, shoves me to the side, pivots, and returns to facing it head-on, trying to block its exit. Someone, somewhere fires again.

That fear and hatred from so many years ago rises to the top.

The memory of my mother in my bedroom stealing money from my purse, waving a gun until it went off, has always been poison. Until now.

The anger makes me move—it serves a purpose. Finally. When more shots fire, I duck, instinctually covering my head and scuttle back toward the side. The plane rocks slightly, trying to taxi, trying to build speed. It’s running down Brock.

Ross is on the ground. Brock shouts—Ross tosses his gun to him as Brock trots backward quickly, facing the plane.

It picks up speed.

He fires. A tire blows. Sirens are so much louder, and the rush of four cars, winging it down the concrete, finally end in a wide C as they block the plane’s exit. I’m on all fours now, barely able to breathe, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do.

I can’t account for all the men I saw. I don’t even know what I’m doing, but I’m up off the ground and running toward Brock. He’s haggard, his mouth a thin, dangerous line. Saying nothing, he grabs me as I rush to him, and pushes me behind him with one arm, holding the gun out in front with the other.

The plane is still moving in a straight line.

“Stay back,” he shouts above the propellers. The gun trained on the plane never wavers.

Trent and at least a half dozen agents jettison from cars with weapons drawn.

The engines cut instantly as voices shout from across the concrete. Everything that happens now follows in flash cuts. I have so much sweat dripping into my eyes that they sting. I keep wiping my forehead with my upper arm, with my other hand clinging to the back of Brock’s parka.

Trent has a megaphone, and he calls out directions. I can’t seem to tease apart the words into anything I can understand. I’m having some kind of out-of-body experience, almost looking down on the scene from above. A paralysis seeps into my bones. I can’t move. Brock shoves Ross’s gun behind his back, turns from me for a moment, and moves quickly toward Ross, who’s sitting on the ground thirty feet away, holding his shoulder.

Men and women rush past me as the plane door opens. Only one guy makes an appearance. He’s in a pilot’s uniform.

“Do not exit the plane,” Trent calls over the megaphone. There are more directions for the men inside, for agents, for us. Sentences fall apart, and I can’t understand what he’s saying. Three agents move up to retrieve the pilot. Then agents move inside the plane while others shout from the shadows of the hangar.

I look away. I don’t want to see them again. Ever.

At least I’m back in my body, breathing.

Ross sits on the ground, a hand on his shoulder. There’s blood seeping between his fingers. Squatting down next to him, and with a hand on Ross’s other shoulder, Brock shouts into his phone: “We need an ambulance. Man shot.”

Ross shakes his head and makes a face. Not necessary is what he’s trying to say. The blood on his shirt says something else.

My legs suddenly feel like jelly.

A young man in a suit approaches me, says something, and I hear my voice answer, “I’m okay.”

Brock looks over at me. He hands the gun back to Ross, and then, without shifting his gaze from my face, he rises and comes for me. He sees me. He walks across the cement, closing the space between us with long strides, and slips an arm around me, pressing me to his chest.

My legs finally give out. I cling to him and bury my head in his chest, slowly realizing I’m crying—deep sobs that seem to come from a place beyond me. He stands, holding me so tightly that for a long time, I can’t think of much of anything. He’s alive, I’m alive, I can feel his body, his arms around me, and I am overwhelmed by just being grateful—grateful for his love, his friendship, his kindness.

I understand, in a small, limited way what he must go through when he flashbacks. Those shots triggered that horrible day, made me think of her, my fear of her, how invisible I was to her, my rage—all these feelings rose and linked together in ways I have no idea what to do with.

All I can do is breathe. Big, gulping breaths as if I can’t get enough air. Struggling to pull away from him, I tilt my head up, trying to get more air.

“You’re going to hyperventilate,” he says in my ear. He starts rubbing my back.