He’d stretched and asked to use the restroom. Someone in a black bandanna came and pulled him up, causing the room to spin; he would have vomited if there had been anything in his stomach. The man escorted him out into the hallway and into the men’s bathroom, standing guard with a flashlight as Gregor relieved himself and splashed cold water on his face and scooped it into his mouth. He could hear the sounds of sirens and bullhorns outside, negotiating their release: the police had finally shown up! He knew it wouldn’t be long now and settled back into his corner of the cage, concentrating on eating his chips one by one. Then he’d fallen back asleep.
He sat on the floor, drowsy but awake enough to know that he was angry. Angry with the rioters that held them hostage, for not giving them real food or water, for hurting his friends. Angry at the police for taking so damn long. Angry that he’d worked his whole life to be faced with this. Angry with himself for not listening to his wife, for coming to work yesterday, for not buying that gun beforehand. The rage bubbled up inside of him as he stared at those three men in the generator room who stood in the glow of a lamplight, their guns in their pockets, standing smugly in their power. Gregor felt his hands grip the cage wall behind him, pushing his body up to stand. He wasn’t as dizzy as he was earlier.
“Greg, what are you doing?” Libby whispered, her voice hoarse.
“Shh,” replied Arthur, “Gregor, just sit down man. It won’t be long now.”
“No. I’ve had enough.”
His fingers rested on the door, sliding it slowly open enough for him to creep outside. So far the insurgents hadn’t noticed, and Arthur got to his feet as well to follow. The two men tiptoed out to the left of the cage, just out of view. Unfortunately, the closest way out of that room was through the main doors—the back doors were too far in the other direction and they’d risk being seen. They both just hoped there wasn’t something awful waiting on the other side.
“We’ll be safe behind the station, but then we’ll have to sprint the last part,” Greg murmured to his friend. “It’s wide open.”
“You sure you want to do this?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then. Come on.”
They slid along soundlessly, keeping the brick safety station between themselves and their captors. Arthur peered around the other side when they reached it, eyeing the distance to the door.
“We’ll have to run. Then once we’re through the doors, turn right. There’s an exit door at the end of that hallway.”
“Let’s just hope nobody is standing there.”
“Yep. Ready?”
“Ready. You first.”
Gregor put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, readying himself for the sprint. There was a split second of hesitation, and then his friend shot out from behind the station, his long legs pumping towards freedom. Gregor followed, his stride only slightly shorter, keeping his eyes fixed ahead—it was too risky to turn and look back. There was no quiet way to get through those doors, and so as Arthur slammed the lever open, there was a shout from behind. They’d finally been spotted.
“Hey!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!”
There were boots hitting the ground, coming for them. Gregor’s fingers were inches away from the lever when he heard a loud popping sound. Suddenly he felt like he’d been kicked in the back and his legs crumpled beneath him. His chest and face slammed hard into the concrete, his injured hand unable to break his fall. Libby’s scream echoed in his ears.
“What the fuck, Rowen?!” A man was yelling.
“Shit! Shit! I didn’t mean to shoot him.”
Gregor couldn’t feel his legs anymore, only a suffocating pain rising in him like floodwaters.
“Fuck!”
“The other one got away.”
“Shit. Shit. Shit. Now what? We just let him die?”
There was shuffling, bringing the argument closer.
The throbbing in his temples was finally subsiding, like all the pain receptors had decided to gather in his back. He felt like he was on fire and his shirt felt uncomfortably sticky. It wasn’t until he heard the word ‘die’ that Gregor realized that he’d been shot. His heart missed a couple of beats, fluttering to keep him alive, but it was too late.
There was now a pool of blood surrounding him and filling his nostrils with a sharp metallic smell, and his arms had gone numb as well. The feeling was draining away, replaced with a strange leaden sensation. It was like going underwater. His hearing muffled over and his brain began making up images that his eyes thought were real. The last thing he heard was a woman crying. Maybe it was Alice. She’d come to say goodbye. Then things went quiet.
He really should have stayed home.
11. March 9, 2017. 2:51 P.M. Istanbul, Turkey
Smoke and dust choked his nostrils and inflamed his mind. There was rubble everywhere, chunks of concrete and plaster scattered around him, some pieces as large as cars, some small enough to pass through his fingers. Photographs could do this no justice: there was nothing like seeing the effects of a bomb in person. Altan could barely recognize the street he was standing on, but he knew he was close to what used to be his home. He staggered up and over mounds of steel and brick, tears blinding his eyes and his heart in his feet. He knew the chances of finding them alive were slim.
After confirming his worst fears yesterday, he’d asked Sule to pack up their most precious possessions and prepare for a journey. They had to get out. Stay with friends in Italy until this whole thing blew over. The financial secrets of the company had been compromised when rebel hackers had infiltrated their system and exposed their secrets. Their private notes, underground relationships, oil reserve sites… all their dirty laundry had been aired. And their CFO was now dead. Altan knew it wouldn’t be long before they came for him, but he had overestimated the time they had to escape.
He’d gone into work one last time this morning, cleaning his office of personal things and shredding some of the last documents. All their phone lines had been bugged and their computer hard drives compromised. He was planning to leave on the last ferry out of Istanbul that night, traveling under the cover of night, sailing as tourists.
They’d had it all planned out. He’d told Sule to stay home and ready the children, but now he stood in the remains of his estate, mere hours before their departure time. Turkish soldiers and medics were now combing the area, working to pull bodies from the blast sites. All he could do was sit and watch them, praying to Allah to spare his family as the shock seeped into every corner of his body and soul. It was impossible to recognize the layout of his home now that it was in pieces, but he knew they were nearing the spot where the kitchen might have stood.
One of the German Shepherds barked, signaling her handler. She’d found someone. They began digging where she had marked, lifting stones and cutting metal as they went, desperate for a live find. It would be their first of the day. Suddenly the air was filled with shouts and medics ran to the area with gurney in tow. Altan’s heart leapt into his throat and he held his breath. He couldn’t see around the mass of people, but then he spotted something between the mix of legs. A hand. Then an arm. The gurney was moved into position. Then a flash of turquoise and gold, matted in dust and blood. It was Sule’s favorite dress. Every cell in his body screamed at him to move and he lifted his shaking limbs towards his wife. He made it only ten paces when the rest of her was freed from the stones, and he saw that her body was limp. The medics didn’t put on an oxygen mask on her seeing that she was already gone. They must move their resources elsewhere. He fell to his knees as he watched his wife carried away to the other side of the street and lay in the line of the others. His Sule, his queen; her life snuffed out.