Chapter 14 : Father's Sin
820 Words
Elias.
Gun on our daughter.
Barrel inches from her hair.
Black. Like mine.
“Put her down,” he says to me. Voice raw. Broken.
Layla hides in my neck.
Arms tight. Nails in my skin.
“Elias, don’t.” I beg. “Please. She’s yours too.”
“Cross called.” His hand shakes. Sweat down his face. Drips. “Said if I don’t bring her back, he kills my wife. Amira. Tonight.”
Wife.
Not me.
“You married?” I ask.
He flinches. “After you died. After the fire. I had to. To survive. To eat. To not drink myself dead.”
“So you trade our daughter for her?” My voice breaks. “Your first child?”
“Yes!” He cries. Tears now. Snot. “You don’t know what he does to them! What he did to Amira’s sister! He sent her back in pieces!”
I do know.
I can guess.
I’ve seen Cross’s work.
Sabastian moves.
Fast.
Too fast to see.
One second Elias has a gun.
Next second he doesn’t.
Disarms Elias.
Gun clatters.
Metal on concrete.
Puts him on the ground.
Face down.
Knee on his back.
Spine.
Elias sobs into concrete.
Ugly. Loud.
“Yvonne,” Sabastian says. Calm. Dead calm. The calm before he kills. “We need to go. Sirens. Two minutes. Maybe less.”
Cross laughs from the floor.
One hand. Bleeding.
Pool growing.
“Go where? I own the police. I own the airport. I own the mayor. I own the judges. I own this city. You run, you die tired. Like dogs.”
Sabastian looks at me.
Blood on his shirt. His or someone else’s. Can’t tell.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
Simple.
I look at Layla.
Shaking in my arms.
Trauma in her eyes.
Then Elias. Crying.
Weak.
Then Cross. Dying. Smiling.
Evil.
“No,” I tell Sabastian. Honest. No more lies. “I don’t. I can’t.”
He nods.
Once.
“Fair.”
He shoots Cross.
Leg. Not kill.
Thigh. Femoral.
Cross screams.
Howls.
Animal sound.
“Elias,” Sabastian says. Gun still warm. Smoke. “Where is your wife? Amira. Now.”
“I— I don’t—” Elias sobs.
“Where!” Sabastian yells.
“Riad!” Elias yells back. “The blue one. Near the tannery. Leather district. Bab Debbagh. Please don’t kill me! She’s pregnant!”
Sabastian looks at me.
“We get her. Your daughter. His wife. Two for two. Then we burn his empire. Every dirham. Then we disappear. Morocco. Earth. Off grid.”
“We?”
He picks up Layla.
She goes to him. Easy.
No fear.
Arms around his neck.
“He saved me,” she tells me again. Hand on his cheek. Dirty. “From the bad man. Last night. He brought me milk.”
I look at Elias. Crying on the floor.
Pathetic.
Broken.
I look at Cross. Bleeding. Laughing.
Evil.
Pure.
I look at Sabastian. Holding my daughter.
Dangerous.
Safe.
Both.
“Okay,” I say. “We.”
We run.
Outside.
Air. Cold. 5 AM.
Car.
Audi. Black.
Sabastian drives.
One hand on wheel. One holding his side. Bleeding.
Me and Layla in back.
Elias tied up in trunk. Rope. Duct tape. Screaming.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Airport,” he says.
“Cross owns it.”
“I own the tower.” He meets my eyes in the mirror. Black. No light. “My mother’s family. Vance. They run air traffic. Control the skies. All of Morocco. Before your uncle killed them. Twenty years ago. Car bomb.”
My uncle.
My family.
Killed his family.
His family killed mine.
We’re a circle of blood.
No end.
No beginning.
Layla falls asleep.
Finally.
Exhaustion.
Head on my lap.
I touch her hair.
Soft. Black.
Like mine.
Like Sofia’s.
Real.
Alive.
Breathing.
“Yvonne,” Sabastian says.
“What?”
“When this is over.” He pauses. Swallows. Adam’s apple moves. “When she’s safe. When Amira’s safe. Do you want me to leave? To walk away? Forever? Never see you again?”
I look at Layla.
Sleeping.
Safe.
For now.
Five minutes of safe.
Then him.
Bleeding for us.
Killing for us.
Dying for us.
“I don’t know yet,” I say. Honest. “Ask me tomorrow.”
He nods.
“Fair.”
We hit the highway.
Road to airport.
M1.
Headlights behind us.
Black SUVs.
Three.
No plates.
Windows tinted.
Cross’s men.
Death.
Sabastian floors it.
Engine screams.
200 km/h.
“Hold her,” he says.
I hold Layla tight.
Wake her up.
“Baby, hold me tight. Don’t let go.”
The first SUV rams us.
Metal screams.
Glass breaks.
Rear window.
Layla wakes up screaming.
High. Terrified.
Sound I’ll hear forever.
And the road ends.
Sign: DANGER. CLIFF.
500 foot drop.
To rocks.
To death.
- Writer
