Free Killing Sarai by J. A. Redmerski Page B

that this Mexican drug lord was far more brutal than the Order knew.
    I heard the shower shut off and I ran my finger over the screen to turn off the video, shutting the iPad down afterwards.
    The girl will be devastated. If she finds out about this, it will make her unstable.
    But I can use this also to my advantage.
     
    With the recorded video now playing on the screen, I twist the iPad around on the table to face the girl’s direction. She glances down at it for only seconds, the gun shaking in her grasp, and then back at me again, fearful that I might make a move. But when she sees her friend, Lydia, she turns her attention solely on the video, abandoning her upper-hand. I don’t take advantage of it. I slide my hands into my pants pockets and stand here watching the girl’s eyes widen with trepidation as the video plays.
    Javier circles Lydia who sits bound to a chair, a red bandanna is stuffed in her mouth. Tears and sweat soak her face. Her left eye is swollen and bruised. A trickle of blood beads from one nostril.
    “For you, Sarai,” Javier says into the camera as Izel stands next to Lydia, her hair wrenched in Izel’s fist. “I want you back here in thirty-six hours.” The girl clasps her free hand over her trembling lips; the gun hasn’t been pointed directly at me for the past several long seconds. “Or she’ll die and it’ll be your fault.”
    Izel pulls back her fist and buries it in Lydia’s already bruised and beaten face. Lydia’s bound body lurches backward and more tears spring from her eyes. Blood erupts from her bottom lip.
    The girl drops the gun on the floor and reaches for the iPad, shoving it clean off the table and then she falls to the floor onto her knees, sobbing into her hands.
    I sit down on the end of the bed, leaving the gun on the floor and the girl alone in her moment of despair.

CHAPTER NINE
     
     
     
     
    Sarai
     
     
     
     
    I can’t see straight. Through the burning tears, through the blur in front of my eyes, through the anger and hatred and hurt shorting out my nervous system. My body has somehow found its way onto the floor. I lay with my face pressed against the carpet.
    Not Lydia…anyone but her. She’s innocent and frail. She’ll never be able to endure it. Not like me….
    It takes me far too long to come to the realization that I’m no longer the one holding the gun, that I’m no longer the one in control. One moment of weakness, traumatized by the suffering of my friend, has stripped that privilege from me. And I deserve it. I deserve whatever punishment fate deems fit to serve because I got away and Lydia didn’t. I should have used the phone not five feet from me on the nightstand between the beds, to call the police. I should have called them before I forced him awake, but I was too insistent on knowing what information Victor knew that I didn’t. I had still hoped that maybe he would help me, at least by telling me the location of the compound so I’d have something to tell the authorities.
    I should have shot him when I had the chance.
    From the corner of my eye, I see Victor’s black dress socks planted unmoving on the floor. Tilting my head back just a little, my eyes trail from the bottom of his pants up to his waist. His forearms are resting along the length of the tops of his legs, the palms of his hands gently cupping his knees. He sits with his back fairly straight, his gaze fixated out ahead.
    Finally, his head moves as he averts his eyes to me.
    “I am sorry,” he says with absolutely no emotion in his words, yet somehow I detect the faintest hint of emotion hidden behind his eyes.
    “You have to take me back,” I say, rising into a stand. “You can’t let her die.” My voice trembles.
    Victor takes a seat at the table again and begins to sift through his duffle bag. I don’t care to know what he’s doing or what he plans to do from here on out. Mostly what I think about is Lydia and what I saw on that video; that image will be