NINE
HARD SERVE
At first, I just stare at the dots on the map, growing ever closer. They’re abstract, they mean nothing, and yet my heart is drumming so fast I’m gonna pop an artery at this rate. Then I hear it—the roar of an engine behind us. On the dashboard, the speedometer goes through the roof at the same time that my organs splatter against my rib cage. I hold on to March as hard as I can. Not because I trust him, but because I don’t know if I’ll still be alive in thirty seconds, and all that’s left in me are primal reflexes.
We’re driving way too fast, but still not fast enough: I glimpse a black hood to our left, before another acceleration crushes my lungs and our pursuant disappears from sight, as if swallowed back by the road. I experience five seconds of relief until I look up in the mirror. Two Hummers are following us. The closest is the one that tried to pass us.
March anchors me as Dominik swerves left and right to block them. I have this terrifying epiphany that if we can’t escape them, Stiles will take me again, put me back on the stretcher, and . . . I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my face in the crook of March’s arm. I just want this to be over.
I feel him squeeze me harder. “It’s going to be all right. Trust me.”
I don’t. The car shakes, and we’re being jostled like pinballs. I scream when we take a turn so sharp my body crashes against March’s, and I’m sure the SUV has toppled over. Yet we’re still driving. Loud clattering outside the car makes me peek up. Sweet Jesus, we’re no longer on the road. Snow and dirt fly all around us as we race down a narrow trail leading to God knows where.
“Dominik,” Porho shouts. “They got us.”
“I know,” the driver says through gritted teeth. “We just need to hold on a little longer.”
As he says this, the car drifts to a stop. My eyes automatically dart to the dashboard’s screen to figure out what that means. In my veins, the blood all but freezes when I see a third red dot that should be . . . right in front of us.
“Oh my God! There’s another car . . .” I pop my head up to take a look through the window, only for March to immediately shove it down. A minivan has stopped less than twenty yards ahead of us on the trail. Behind us, the two Hummers have stopped as well. Panic swells inside me, squeezes my lungs. This time we’re trapped.
“Island, stay down!” March barks.
In the passenger seat, Porho asks Dominik, “How long will it hold?”
“One minute tops,” the guy replies, pulling out a gun from his parka.
I have no idea where the realization comes from, but I know with absolute certainty that they mean the car, or more exactly the windows. They’re probably bulletproof, but if those guys outside shoot at us repeatedly . . . On the dashboard, the green dot is still inching closer.
The first shot crashes into Porho’s window, and Sweet Jesus, the guy doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink while inches from his temple, a flower of shattered glass has bloomed. There’s a beat of complete silence before all hell breaks loose. March folds his body over mine and keeps my head down, literally pressing my cheek into the leather seat as a deafening din tears our eardrums. We’re being showered with a barrage of bullets that rattles against the side panels and turns the windows into an abstract pattern of circular impacts.
After several seconds of this treatment, the shooting stops—either because they need to reload or to assess the damage they’ve done so far, I have no idea. Under March, I wait, petrified, counting the seconds. I can feel his breath on my cheek, hot and unsteady. He smells of mints, like he ate an entire tube, really. In his hand, the gun is still here, and his black-gloved index rests on the trigger. Ready.
The last thing I expect to hear at this point is . . . “Jingle Bells.” My eyes slowly widen as, indeed, the melody grows louder. And yes, the bells do jingle. Is this real life, or is someone going to slather their watch with butter and yell it’s teatime? Outside, our attackers must be equally puzzled, because they still haven’t resumed shooting. I squirm under March and see Porho and Dominik slump in their seats with . . . grins on their faces?
I’m not sure what comes first, the sound or the impact. There’s a sort of . . . whoosh, and almost immediately, a massive explosion shakes the SUV, booming through my chest. I peek up at the windshield just in time to witness the surreal sight of one of the Hummers upside down, literally flying over us in a blaze of flames before crashing into the minivan that was barring our way.
Porho lets out a low whistle, and I shift under March to get a better look, but he hisses for me to stay down. Rightly so, since renewed gunshots crackle behind us. The bells keep jingling hard, and a second detonation shakes our car.
Through the windows, I glimpse flaming debris raining all around us.
I register Porho’s laugh. “Didn’t I tell you the truck was a great idea?”
The comment was apparently directed at Dominik, who straightens in his seat. “Not bad.”
Above me, I sense March relax.
“Is it . . . over?” I squeak.
“Yes. But stay in the car, please.”
Like I’d venture so much as a toe outside . . . March moves away from me to step out of the SUV. Porho and Dominik do the same. I can make out burning fragments littering the once-pristine snow, and swirls of acrid black smoke stretch around the car. I inhale some and cough my lungs out. The music sounds much louder now, covering what I recognize as groans of pain.
Painful chills cascade down my spine. What have they done? Those were my father’s guards, men I saw every day. Stiles might even be among them . . . A mixture of emotional and physical distress squeezes my lungs as I try to make sense of the past few hours. These men I thought I knew and trusted would have hurt me. My father ordered them to. Stiles drugged me and let them strap me to that stretcher, and that turd Morgan taped my mouth shut so he wouldn’t have to hear my screams. Enter my kidnappers—because they kidnapped me, right?—who act like they already know me, who technically saved me. But from what, exactly? And why?
The word ransom resounds in my head, loud and clear, like the obvious answer. I need to know what’s going on. Against my best judgment, I crawl toward March’s open door and risk a peek outside. My stomach heaves at the sight of the devastation surrounding me. As I feared, the two Hummers were somehow bombed one after another. There’s the one that flew over our car, now a fuming upside-down carcass that destroyed the other van upon impact. Bloodied limbs dangle from the broken windows. Several men lie wounded in the bloodstained snow, some clutching their arms, their chests. The fog clouding the air around their noses and mouths tells me some of them are still alive. Tears bubble in my eyes, blind me. I can’t handle this. I just wanted to be free; I never wanted this . . .
I let myself roll to the ground to get a better look at the source of the music. I fall face-first in the snow, shake my head, and scramble to my feet. It must be the meds. They put something in that drip. In no sane, rational universe should I be standing thirty feet away from the very same ice-cream truck I saw in Hamina. I stare at the colorful vehicle in a state of complete shock. One that doesn’t get any better when I notice the retractable rocket launcher mounted on the roof.
So that’s what happened. And that’s the truck that was serving ice cream to kids yesterday. No, wait. They were firing ice cream scoops at the kids. My knees wobble. At least it all makes sense now, right? In a daze, I wonder if that kind of equipment is approved by the Finnish food-safety authorities when the truck’s driver door slams open. Why am I not surprised to see the clown step out?
There’s actually nothing funny about this man underneath the rainbow-striped jumpsuit and the red nose. I make note of his graying beard and hard hazel eyes—almost golden—before my eyes train on the gun in his hand. He takes a few steps away from the truck, contemplating his work with a chilling gaze. No trace of fear or remorse to be found there.
I shudder when he calls to the wounded men in a booming voice, “Who wants to live to carry a message for me?”
Without waiting for an answer, he aims at the man lying closest to him and presses the trigger. The single gunshot explodes in my ears. I see the jerk of the man’s head, the crimson stain growing on the snow. None of it feels real. My mouth falls open, but no scream comes out; only icy tears stream down my cheeks as the clown growls, “Never mind. You are the message. All of you.”