Chapter 24

TWENTY-FOUR

Sabella

Ipace in the lounge as the sky turns from clear blue to deep purple, but there's no word from Angelo. I consider calling a hundred times, but I don't want to distract him. His focus needs to be on finding the kids.

For most of the day, I wait in front of the window, going out of my mind with worry. I feel physically sick. My thoughts are scattered and disjointed. They jump from one subject to the next, unable to stay focused. Everything turns around in circles in my mind.

He'll find the kids.

I have to believe that.

They'll come home, and things will go back to normal.

Normal.

What is that?

How will we pick up the pieces and make a home for the children?

He wants me to move back to the old house.

Not so long ago, I vowed I'd never live in that house. He banished me, and I swore I'd never go back. But everything is different now. It's not just about him and me any longer. There are children to consider—the unborn baby I carry and the ones I love like my own. I can't let my pride stand in the way of what's best for the kids. However, I'm not going back to be locked up in a room. I refuse to return as his prisoner. If I go back, it's to take my place at his side as his wife.

To build a family.

A family.

It's crazy how you only realize what's truly important when you risk losing the people you love. The dream job and independence I mourned so much seem trivial in the light of the situation we're facing. As long as we can have the kids back, I don't care about those objectives that once upon a time meant everything to me. Passions and professional goals can be adapted and replaced. People can't. I just want to hug Sophie and hold her in my arms. I want to cook for the boys and watch them play soccer in the yard. I want to rock my baby in my arms and hush her cries. In the face of this terrible danger, all I want is to be a good mother.

A good mother.

The responsibility scares me. I haven't had a family for a long time. Not really. Not since my dad died. My dad was my pillar. I've never been as close to my mom, not like Mattie. At that time, Mattie was already married and living with Jared in Stellenbosch. I was living alone in Cape Town. The nasty uncovering of my dad's secret family hung like a dark cloud over our heads. Dad's death left scars on all of us, but the revelation of his affair shattered the foundations of our family.

Ever since, I've been adrift. I thought my friendship with Colin was the anchor I needed. Just as well we didn't go through with the wedding. Colin and I would never have made it as lovers. Now that I had a taste of how raw, fierce, and devastating passion can be in the arms of my husband, I know it with certainty. I can never touch another man in the same way I touch Angelo. My husband alone can make my body come alive. There's always been only one man for me.

Angelo Russo.

Right from the start.

The love I felt for him is still there, lying dormant under fertile soil like a grain of seed. My guilt wouldn't allow it to germinate and grow into its potential with the strength of a pure, beautiful flower. And as I wait in the most anxious moment of my life, the last thread that keeps me from embracing my feelings falls away. As I shed my guilt, a sense of calmness washes over me. I already chose Angelo, but I'm finally free to love him.

By dusk, I force myself to have dinner as I was too nervous to eat lunch. Even though I'm not hungry, I have to think about the baby growing inside me. A dull headache is building behind my temples from the stress. I go upstairs and take the box of painkillers from the medicine kit. After reading the instructions to ensure it's safe to take during pregnancy, I drink a pill with a glass of water.

I look at the phone in my hand. I've been carrying it everywhere with me, refusing to put it down for a second.

It's been hours.

What's going on?

Shall I call again?

What if Angelo is in the middle of something dangerous?

No. He'll let me know what's happening when he can.

Too scared I'll miss a call from him, I don't shower. I only dress in a clean T-shirt and yoga pants, wanting to be ready when Angelo comes home. In my head, I keep on repeating that he'll arrive soon with the kids. I can't think about the alternative.

In the reflection of the mirror, my face is pale and my hair disheveled from dragging my fingers through the strands in a nervous reaction all day. I can't let the children see me like this. I'll frighten them looking like a mad, wild woman.

I'm brushing out my hair in front of the mirror when I hear it.

Pop.

I freeze.

It sounds like a gunshot.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

My stomach contracts into a ball. That's definitely gunfire. The echo ripples through the valley. The sounds come from a distance, but that doesn't reassure me, not when a war breaks out and shots are fired left, right, and center.

Dropping the hairbrush, I grab the phone from the dresser and dial Angelo's number. A beep sounds in my ear before a voice recording comes through the line.

The number you dialed does not exist. Please consult your telephone directory.

What?

The phone shakes in my hand as I stare dumbfoundedly at it.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The bedroom windows look out over the sea. I throw down the phone and run to the guest room on the opposite side of the hallway where the windows give a view of the hills and the road. I peer out into the darkness, not switching on the light, and then I break out in a cold sweat.

The forest is alight with the sparks of a gunfight. Like a string of firecrackers, the lights blast through the denseness of the trees. I'm frozen to the spot, taken over by terror. It's much closer than I thought, just a few hundred meters from the house.

Shit.

Plastering my back against the wall, I try to think through my panic. I have no idea what's happening out there, but I can't stay to find out.

I have to run.

I'll grab the other phone, call Roch, and sneak out the back. I can make my way to the beach via the secret path and use the bike to escape to the village. Hopefully, by then, Roch would've figured out a way of warning Angelo.

There's no time to dress in something warmer. I sprint to the dressing room and grab the first jacket my hand falls on. It's one of Angelo's jackets, but I don't stop to find something more suitable. I only pause long enough to fit a pair of sneakers without socks. Making my way down the stairs, I pull the jacket on in the run. The nights are still freezing cold. It would be stupid to risk it outside in nothing but a thin T-shirt.

The ground level lights are on, but the blinds are closed. I skid to a halt in the lounge and go down on my knees in front of the air vent. Hooking my fingers through the gaps in the metal lid, I pull. Damn. It's stuck. I yank so hard I nearly tear off a nail when I fall back and land on my ass. Blood pools under the nail that's lifted off the nail bed, but I barely feel it. I look around frantically for something to use. Nothing.

Shit, shit, shit.

Taking a calming breath, I try again. I wiggle the lid until it gives in one corner. Finally, the cover comes off, hitting the floor with a clang. I jerk at the noise. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest. I feel inside for the phone, but in my haste to grab it, I only shove it deeper into the vent.

Fuck.

Something strikes me then. I stop to listen. The gunfire has gone quiet. Only an eerie silence stretches.

Almost hyperventilating with fear, I stick my arm into the vent and extend it as far as I can. Finally, my fingertips brush over the rounded edge of the phone. I stretch until it feels as if I'm tearing my arm from its socket and finally manage to close my fingers around the phone. I'm pulling it out with a shaky hand when the deafening sound of splintering wood explodes in the space and the front door falls inward with a bang. Cold air gushes inside, and then, quietness.

I slam a hand over my mouth to prevent myself from screaming. My body trembles convulsively as I make myself small behind the sofa, but my shadow falls under the side table over the floor.

Please, don't let them see me.

I repeat the silent prayer as I try not to breathe for fear of making a sound. If they go upstairs, I can run through the door.

Heavy footsteps fall on the floor. The first person is followed by a second and a third. It sounds like three men and big ones judging by how hard their soles are pounding the wooden boards. It's impossible to remain calm, but I force myself to act, to push the on-button on the phone and wait for the screen to come to life.

The worst mistake I made was not familiarizing myself with the functions. It takes me another three seconds to find the caller list. My fingers don't cooperate. I'm shaking too much to type a message on the press buttons.

"Check upstairs," a deep voice says. "You go that way. She must be inside."

Oh my God.

My torn nail immobilizes my finger with pain. I press on Roch's number but miss twice before getting it right. I almost forget to turn down the volume before the ringing of his phone gives me away. The beat of my heart is like the hooves of a horse trampling my chest as I dare a peek around the sofa. Two men in black combat gear are making their way up the stairs. The third is heading toward the guest bathroom at the back.

I'm so scared. I just want to hide here and hope they don't find me, but that's a futile wish. It's now or never. Clutching the phone tightly, I take a deep breath, count to three, and make a run for it.

My sneakers are quiet on the floor. A shudder slithers down my spine in the few seconds that I'm exposed, but then I'm in the kitchen. Just as I'm about to unlock the door, it crashes open with a loud thud, hitting me so hard on the forehead that sparks explode behind my eyelids.

I stumble, my back hitting the wall. The phone drops from my hand and slides under the table. For a moment, I'm disoriented and dizzy. I'm fighting the urge to sink to my knees. To be sick. The pain is blinding. White spots pop in my vision as I blink to clear my eyes. The face that comes into focus is square with harsh lines. Black eyes. Thin lips. Deep grooves. Shaved head.

I suck in a breath, realizing I'm starved for air. At the same time, he folds a meaty hand around my throat and pins me in place.

His voice is sickeningly mocking as he sing-songs with a heavy accent, "Found her."

I try to speak, to ask what they want, but when I open my mouth, he clicks his tongue and shakes his head. I take in the cross that dangles from his ear—silver with blackened edges. A dagger earring hangs from the second piercing.

The three other men enter the kitchen. I glance at them from the corner of my eye. They look the same. All of them have shaved heads. They must be part of an army or gang. Mercenaries maybe. My brain registers the information, but my mind doesn't make sense of anything. My mind only knows that I have to fight for survival. Pure instinct takes over as I claw at the hand that's wrapped around my throat.

"Found her," the man repeats with a grin, revealing perfect white teeth. His gaze drops to my chest. "And what a find she is."

I swallow.

He squeezes.

I dig my nails into his skin, leaving long bloody scratches that don't affect him. He only closes his fingers harder. When he raises his other hand and makes a fist, I home in on the cross and dagger that are tattooed on the back. On the need to breathe. To survive.

I no longer think. I'm fighting like an animal, fighting for my life and the fragile one growing inside me. Before he can bring down his fist, I lift my leg and knee him hard in the balls. He grunts and lets me go to cup his groin. The moment I'm free, I dash for the door, but my momentum is broken with a sharp sting on my skull. I lose my balance as I'm yanked back violently. I go down screaming. I swear I'm being scalped. It takes me a moment to realize one of the men is dragging me away from the door by my hair.

The immediate pain lets up, letting me know he's no longer pulling me, but the sting lingers. Before I have time to process that agony, he pulls back his leg and plants his boot in my stomach.

The kick steals my breath. I howl, but not in pain. I scream in anguish for my baby. I curl in a ball and wrap my arms around my womb to protect the tiny life from the onslaught of the kicks raining down on me, four pairs of boots that assault my arms, my back, and my head. I take those merciless kicks everywhere they fall, anywhere but on my baby, but it's the kick between my legs that make me collapse in a heap of boneless agony, gasping for air.

I'm an open target now. They kick me again and again. Until I can't breathe. Until I hear my ribs crack. The tip of a boot collides with my temple. Pain slices through my brain. My vision splinters. I grapple for life, clinging to consciousness and fighting the darkness.

The man with the dagger and the cross tattoo unzips his pants. "Wait. Don't kill her before I've had my fun. I don't like to fuck a corpse."

Laughter.

"Who wants a turn?"

My body is jerked roughly. Every movement threatens to make me pass out in pain. The darkness bleeds deeper. It tears farther into my sight. Then there's nothing, not light or pain.

I come to with the tattooed man on top of me. Knowing what he's doing. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. I may as well be dead. I hope I am. No. I can't think like that. I must fight. For my baby. For the father of my child.

Blackness again.

Then light and pain. So much pain.

I turn my face to the night where freedom taunts me. I don't think about the man on top of me. It's not the one with the tattoos. It's one of the others. My gaze connects with a familiar pair of eyes that appear from the darkness. I've seen those eyes before somewhere in my past when a boy tried to kiss me at a silly teenager party.

Roch.

I register the fury in those eyes as he raises a gun and fires.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Wetness splatters my face. The man on top of me stills. His weight suffocates me.

Another shot goes off. Roch's body jerks as if he took a punch in the stomach. Blood oozes from a hole in the sleeve of his jacket below his bicep. He rights himself and points his gun somewhere over my head.

Pop.

My ears ring. Roch appears above me, yanking the heaviness aside. I turn my face the other way, wiping the warm liquid from my eyes. The man with the tattoo pushes to his feet, stumbling as he pulls a gun. I want to tell Roch. Scream. Warn him. But my voice is gone. I look at Roch. He throws someone's jacket over me.

Pop.

He kneels. Roch. Hits the floor sideways.

"What the fuck?" someone says from the door.

The man with the tattoo presses a hand on his shoulder. Blood gushes through his fingers. "The cocksucker fucking shot me. I think the bullet went right through."

"You're pissing blood. We better get you to a doctor." The newcomer looks at me, head tilted. "She dead?"

"Just about. She won't see the morning."

"Want me to finish her?"

The man with the tattoo spits on my face. "Nah. Let her suffer. It'll send a stronger message."

The other one swings a rifle over his shoulder and drapes an arm around the man with the tattoo, helping him to the door. They vanish into the darkness, letting the cold in, and I float away.

When I wake up again, my mouth is so dry I can't swallow. I'm aching everywhere. My memory is gone, unable to fit the pieces together. I'm lying on the floor. My lower body is naked, my shredded yoga pants discarded on the side. Angelo's jacket, the one I pulled on earlier, covers my chest. I don't know who took it off.

I push up on my elbows, nearly passing out from the pain. A puddle of blood pools between my wide-spread legs. It's not the blood from the bodies around me. It's mine.

I turn my face and look for the phone. It's lying in pieces next to the table. Crushed. They found it.

When I sit up, I nearly vomit. The pain is everywhere, but it's the worst in my head. I look at their faces. Roch lies on his side next to me with his knees bent. His eyes are closed. He appears strange, like a grown man sleeping in a fetal position.

Reaching over, I feel his pulse. I think there's something. I may be wrong.

I grip his shoulder and shake him. "Roch."

Nothing.

Blood colors his sweater around his midriff. I feel his pocket for a phone. Moving hurts so much that I break out in a sweat.

Empty.

I cry out in agony as I use all my strength to push him onto his back so I can search his other pocket.

Same.

They took his phone before they left.

I think I'm dying. I know I am. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to live. A wave of nausea builds inside me as I get on my hands and feet. I have to get up or I'm dead. A sick feeling pushes up in my throat. Saliva pools on my tongue. When my body convulses and I empty my stomach, the hell reaches a new crescendo. My head feels as if it's about to split down the middle. The cramping of my womb folds me double. My ribs protest with every breath I take, so I inhale slowly and shallowly.

Beneath all the physical torture, there's a much worse pain, something irreparable that threatens to break through the surface. I don't think about it now. If I do, I'll never make it onto my feet.

Using the table for support, I clutch the jacket in one hand and drag myself into an upright position. I want to be sick again, so I try to inhale and exhale as much as the pain in my chest allows. Wetness runs down my thighs. I look down. Blood. Too much blood.

I don't know where I get the strength from to pull on the jacket and to walk to the door. With every step I take, exhaustion threatens to force me back to my knees. Blissful nothingness pulls at me again. It's so tempting, but I can't give in. I can't stop. I can't lie down and drift away.

One step at a time.

I'm still wearing the sneakers.

I stop in the open door, bent double. I'm shivering but not only from the cold outside. The cold is everywhere. It's in my bones and in my core. In my heart. Yet something burns underneath the ice, something I can't let out now. Hatred. Anger. Terrible grief.

One step.

I pause again to think. I won't make it down the steep, slippery stairs to the beach. I'm too weak, too close to passing out. I'll fall to my death. The best option is walking straight down the valley like I did it when I first arrived here when I caught lice. I know the way. I can find it in the dark.

Another step.

It's funny how I thought back then that catching lice was the worst thing that could happen to me. The most important goal in my life was keeping Angelo out of my heart. All I want now is him. I don't want to die alone.

It's hard. So hard.

Cold.

The shivering makes my feet coordination tougher. I can't walk a few meters, let alone kilometers. But then I think about him, about Angelo. About deep, dark, comfortable water. About floating on my back and letting the tide carry me. It's easier when I pretend.

I stumble over a rock and go down, blocking my fall with my hands. My palms burn. I don't think about it. I don't think about the nausea or my unraveling vision as I crawl and get up again.

I think about the sea.

My husband.

I don't know how long it takes or how many times I fall. Night cuts to black and back to a moonlit landscape as I hover on the precipice of unconsciousness, dipping my toes into that dark, beckoning water with increasing frequency.

Finally, the mill comes into view. It's the first building on the outskirts of the village. Tears of relief and fatigue freeze on my cheeks. The river flows like a silver ribbon through the inkiness of the night. An owl hoots close by. It all seems so peaceful. So normal. Like nothing is wrong. Like I'm just caught in a bad dream.

Just a few more steps.

The big old wooden door looms up in front of me. I raise my hand, using my last dregs of strength to knock, but my knuckles barely make a sound.

One more time.

I try.

I try again.

But it's one time too many.

I can't hold my breath any longer. I collapse on the threshold, drifting away like a ribbon on the silver water.