Free Do-Gooder by j. leigh bailey

whispered, not taking my eyes off the men ahead of us.
    Two more men in fatigues approached from either side of the Range Rover. The one closest to me tapped the door window with the barrel of his gun.
    “Get out of the vehicle.”

Chapter 8
     
     
    SOMEWHERE, SOMEONE with a giant remote control hit Pause. Everything froze in that instant, just stopped exactly where it was. My heart didn’t beat, my lungs didn’t expand.
    The gun tapped on the window again. A voice said, “Get out.”
    The ominous clank , clank set everything back into motion. In fast-forward. A fifty-foot roller coaster drop, like someone pulled my blood and guts out through my nose and left a gaping chasm of nothingness in my stomach. “What do we do?” I asked.
    “We get out, I guess.” Henry’s voice shook. I hadn’t expected him to be as scared as I was. He seemed to know what he was doing in every situation, so to hear him as shaky as me made it somehow worse. If he was scared, we were screwed.
    My hands trembled, and I fumbled with the door handle. Hot, heavy air poured in through the open door, but my blood still ran ice cold. The seat belt, which I had forgotten, trapped me, so I reached down to unlatch it.
    “Hands!” the guy with the gun barked.
    My hands flew up. “Seat belt.” A dry mouth and a throat closed in fear made it nearly impossible to get the words out.
    He nodded and took half a step back, but the gun didn’t waver.
    My left hand stayed up and I slowly undid the seat belt with my right, trying to avoid any sudden movements. Next to me, Henry did the same.
    The—soldiers?—motioned us forward until we stood in front of the Range Rover with the first four. The shortest of the guys—still at least six feet tall—signaled to the side of the road, and even more camo-clad men came out of the trees. “Hands on head.” He spoke in a rough voice, heavily accented by something Eastern European, maybe Russian.
    Three men surrounded each of us, two with those wicked-looking guns pointed at each of us. One man, unarmed, clamped a hand on my shoulder and kicked my feet until they were shoulder width apart. Then a thorough pat-down. He found my insulin pump right away and pulled my shirt up to identify the small contraption. He said something to the short guy in a language I didn’t know and pulled the monitor from my waistband. The pinch of needle and tubing being removed barely registered under the sting of tape ripping from skin.
    Four of the men huddled together, inspecting the insulin pump. I don’t know if they thought it was some kind of listening device or an explosive of some kind or what. “It’s medicine.” I snapped my mouth closed at a glare from one of the gun holders.
    The short guy wrapped the clear tubing around the monitor and tucked it in his pocket.
    “I need—” A glare cut me off. My hands clenched with the need to grab the device back.
    The pat-down resumed; the stranger’s hands glided across every part of my body, stopping periodically to examine my pants’ pockets and my socks and shoes. Next to me, one of the men made Henry remove his boots. Henry didn’t protest, but he stood wide-eyed and gray faced as the man searched him. When the search was done, they allowed Henry to put his boots back on, a consideration I hadn’t expected.
    “Kneel.” Shorty gestured the ground with his rifle. Strong arms pushed me to my knees. It was an awkward movement with my hands still linked atop my head and fear making my muscles stiff. I glanced at Henry who was kneeling next to me, execution-style.
    We were going to die.
    I closed my eyes. Tears leaked down my cheek, and I waited for the bullet.
    I don’t want to die cycled through my head, over and over again.
    Dozens of images joined the repetition. Mom, laughing at something I’d said. Wendy’s tear-streaked face filled with shame and guilt. Dad bandaging a little girl’s knee when I was six. Henry smiling. There was so much I hadn’t done,