About fifty yards away was a private desert airstrip. A sleek, twin-engine Cessna was idling on the cracked tarmac, its propellers spinning into a loud, rhythmic blur. Next to the plane stood the black SUV.
Karen was there. She had her wrist wrapped in a makeshift splint. She was standing near the wing of the plane, arguing with a man in a crisp white medical coat. Next to them, one of the masked fixers was tossing heavy duffel bags into the cargo hold.
And then I saw him.
Leo was sitting on the tarmac, slumped against the tire of the SUV. His head was lolling to the side. They had drugged him. He was barely conscious, waiting to be loaded onto the plane to be flown to wherever the surgical team was waiting to strip him for parts.
Karen slapped a clipboard out of the doctor’s hand. “I don’t care if the timeline is tight!” she yelled over the roar of the engines, her voice carrying through the quiet desert night. “I did my part! I brought the donor! The buyer promised me two hundred thousand! I owe the cartel a hundred and fifty, and if I don’t pay them by morning, they’re going to butcher me! Give me my money!”
The doctor calmly reached into the SUV, pulling out a heavy metal briefcase. He popped the latches and handed it to her. Karen ripped it open, her manic eyes scanning the banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills. A twisted smile broke across her face.
I had no time. Once that plane was in the air, Leo was gone forever.
I felt around the dirt floor behind my back with my bound fingers, searching desperately for anything sharp. My hand brushed against the base of the metal wall. The corrugated steel had rusted through at the bottom, leaving a jagged, razor-sharp edge of oxidized iron pointing inward.
I dragged myself backward, pressing the thick plastic zip-ties against the rusted metal edge. I began to saw violently. The jagged metal tore into the skin of my wrists, drawing warm blood that made my hands slick, but I didn’t stop. I poured every ounce of anger, grief, and desperation I had into my muscles. I thought of my daughter, Sarah, lying in a hospital bed, fading away while I watched helplessly. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t protect her.
But I was going to protect Leo.
With a loud snap, the thick plastic tie broke.
I brought my hands forward, ignoring the blood dripping from my wrists. I stood up, kicking the flimsy aluminum door of the shed so hard the hinges ripped out of the frame. The door clattered loudly onto the dirt, but the sound was drowned out by the roar of the Cessna’s engines.
I moved through the darkness like a ghost, sprinting low beneath the beam of the floodlights, using a stack of empty fuel drums for cover. The fixer was walking back toward the SUV to grab Leo. The doctor was already climbing the steps into the plane. Karen was clutching the briefcase, distracted by her own greed.
As the fixer bent down to grab Leo by the shirt, I stepped out from the shadows directly behind him.
I didn’t give him a chance to turn around. I wrapped my massive right forearm around his throat, sinking in a deep, unbreakable chokehold, while my left hand clamped over his mouth to muffle his shout. He thrashed wildly, dropping his rifle to grab at my arm, but I dropped my weight, pulling him backward into the darkness away from the lights. Within ten seconds, his body went entirely limp. I laid him silently in the dirt and picked up his dropped tactical rifle.
I stepped back out into the floodlights, walking directly toward the plane.
Karen turned around, the briefcase clutched to her chest. When she saw me, bloodied, battered, but walking toward her with a rifle in my hands, the color completely drained from her face.
“Stop!” she screamed, backing away toward the spinning propellers. “Don’t shoot! I have the money! Take the money, just let me go!”
“I don’t want your money, Karen,” I said, my voice eerily calm as I racked the bolt of the rifle, chambering a round. I aimed the barrel directly at her chest. “Step away from the kid.”