obvious in his voice.
“Good. Remember this. Remember the pain.” The gunman drove the sole of his black combat boot into the back of Ryan’s knees, unlocking them and causing him to drop to a kneeling position.
Ryan struggled for balance, to keep from toppling over onto his face. “What did—”
“SILENCE!” This time, the gunman’s voice reverberated in the tiny room.
Ryan fell silent.
“Do not beg,” the man warned. “Do not cry, do not say a word or I will hurt you.”
The man reached out his hand, and one of the other masked invaders handed him what looked to be a black pillowcase. He shook it open and slipped it over Ryan’s head. The edge drooped below the points of his shoulders.
Something broke inside Christyne as she watched them abuse her son. Bound and kneeling, he was so helpless, so vulnerable, even as he kept his posture straight while clearly trying to control his fear through deep, sometimes shaky breaths.
If only she hadn’t been so—
The gunman turned to Christyne. He allowed his rifle to hang limply from the strap that attached it to his neck as he walked closer. The other guns remained pointed at Ryan’s head.
As he closed to within a few inches of her face—well inside her personal space—she could see even in the dim light that the eyes behind his mask were hooded and creased. This gunman was much older than those they’d dealt with the night before.
“Woman,” he said. “Are you frightened of me?”
“Yes.”
“As you should be. The whole world should be frightened of me. Do you believe that I am capable of killing your boy?”
Christyne’s heart skipped. What did he want to hear? What was the answer that would save her son, and which was the one that would harm him?
“I would like to think that no one is capable of killing a child,” she said.
“Ah,” he said. His eyes darkened. “A non-answer. Would you care to try again?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think you are capable of killing my boy.”
“So you must think me to be some kind of monster.”
He was building a box for her, a logical trap for which there could never be a correct answer. She nearly begged him to stop, but then she remembered the warning against begging.
“Is that what you think?” the man pressed. “Do you think I am some kind of monster?”
She looked at her feet. “I think the willingness to kill a child is as good a definition of monster as any.”
The man chuckled, releasing a blast of cigarette breath. “What would you be willing to do to save his life?”
Something icy formed in her stomach. “Anything,” she said. It was simply the truth.
He lightly brushed his gloved hand across her breast. “I want you to think more about that over the next couple of hours.”
He turned abruptly. “Take the boy,” he said.
Time stopped for Aafia, the events slowing to a crawl that allowed her brain to record the details in exquisite, horrifying detail. She caught the flash out of the corner of her left eye, and it synched perfectly with the bright shadow she saw thrown onto the front wall of the school, far on her right. A giant invisible fist punched the ground under her feet hard enough to make her fall.
Even as her knees were collapsing under her, the closest school bus—still fifty yards distant—seemed to bend for a fraction of a heartbeat before all of the glass exploded in a glittering rain and a fireball consumed everything. The bus itself, now on fire, left the ground, tumbled once in the air along its own axis, and then landed on its side.
She had just fallen to her hands and knees when she saw what could only be their minivan reduced to a fiery ball in the midst of hundreds of pounds of twisted, erupted metal. She knew that her father was dead.
Burning, white-hot shards of steel and aluminum whistled through the air, one of them passing over her head. Three feet ahead of her, and a little to the right, Mr. McMillan, the English teacher, made a terrible
“Good. Remember this. Remember the pain.” The gunman drove the sole of his black combat boot into the back of Ryan’s knees, unlocking them and causing him to drop to a kneeling position.
Ryan struggled for balance, to keep from toppling over onto his face. “What did—”
“SILENCE!” This time, the gunman’s voice reverberated in the tiny room.
Ryan fell silent.
“Do not beg,” the man warned. “Do not cry, do not say a word or I will hurt you.”
The man reached out his hand, and one of the other masked invaders handed him what looked to be a black pillowcase. He shook it open and slipped it over Ryan’s head. The edge drooped below the points of his shoulders.
Something broke inside Christyne as she watched them abuse her son. Bound and kneeling, he was so helpless, so vulnerable, even as he kept his posture straight while clearly trying to control his fear through deep, sometimes shaky breaths.
If only she hadn’t been so—
The gunman turned to Christyne. He allowed his rifle to hang limply from the strap that attached it to his neck as he walked closer. The other guns remained pointed at Ryan’s head.
As he closed to within a few inches of her face—well inside her personal space—she could see even in the dim light that the eyes behind his mask were hooded and creased. This gunman was much older than those they’d dealt with the night before.
“Woman,” he said. “Are you frightened of me?”
“Yes.”
“As you should be. The whole world should be frightened of me. Do you believe that I am capable of killing your boy?”
Christyne’s heart skipped. What did he want to hear? What was the answer that would save her son, and which was the one that would harm him?
“I would like to think that no one is capable of killing a child,” she said.
“Ah,” he said. His eyes darkened. “A non-answer. Would you care to try again?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think you are capable of killing my boy.”
“So you must think me to be some kind of monster.”
He was building a box for her, a logical trap for which there could never be a correct answer. She nearly begged him to stop, but then she remembered the warning against begging.
“Is that what you think?” the man pressed. “Do you think I am some kind of monster?”
She looked at her feet. “I think the willingness to kill a child is as good a definition of monster as any.”
The man chuckled, releasing a blast of cigarette breath. “What would you be willing to do to save his life?”
Something icy formed in her stomach. “Anything,” she said. It was simply the truth.
He lightly brushed his gloved hand across her breast. “I want you to think more about that over the next couple of hours.”
He turned abruptly. “Take the boy,” he said.
Time stopped for Aafia, the events slowing to a crawl that allowed her brain to record the details in exquisite, horrifying detail. She caught the flash out of the corner of her left eye, and it synched perfectly with the bright shadow she saw thrown onto the front wall of the school, far on her right. A giant invisible fist punched the ground under her feet hard enough to make her fall.
Even as her knees were collapsing under her, the closest school bus—still fifty yards distant—seemed to bend for a fraction of a heartbeat before all of the glass exploded in a glittering rain and a fireball consumed everything. The bus itself, now on fire, left the ground, tumbled once in the air along its own axis, and then landed on its side.
She had just fallen to her hands and knees when she saw what could only be their minivan reduced to a fiery ball in the midst of hundreds of pounds of twisted, erupted metal. She knew that her father was dead.
Burning, white-hot shards of steel and aluminum whistled through the air, one of them passing over her head. Three feet ahead of her, and a little to the right, Mr. McMillan, the English teacher, made a terrible
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