The Book of Fate

112

Tugged toward the open hole, I frantically backpedal, almost vomiting up my Adam’s apple. The Roman squeezes the headlock tighter, lugging me toward the hole.

“Get off me!” I scream, clawing at his arm and trying to free my neck. He doesn’t budge, pulling the leash even harder. As my feet slide from the path, through the damp grass, and toward the husband-and-wife graves, my arms and legs flail wildly — at the ground, in the air — searching for something to latch onto. At the foot of the matching rectangular headstones, I grab a branch from a nearby bush. I try holding on, but we’re moving so fast, the sharp woody stems stab into my palm. The pain’s too intense. With a final grunt, The Roman yanks me free, dragging me forward.

The freshly dug grave is dead ahead, but as we squeeze between the matching graves, I lunge to my left and clench one of the headstones. My fingers creep like tarantulas across the front, digging into the engraved letter D in the word HUSBAND.

Enraged, The Roman tightens his vise grip around my throat. I feel my face swell with blood. I still don’t let go. He tugs harder, and my fingers start to slide. From the angle he’s pulling, the sharp granite corner of the rectangular headstone scratches the underside of my forearm. The Roman yanks so hard, I feel like my head’s about to come loose from my neck. My shoulder’s burning. My fingertips start to slide. The granite’s already slick with rain.

Stretching out his leg to the foot of the grave behind us, The Roman kicks off the Astroturf covering. I look up just long enough to see the seven-foot hole… the crumbling dirt walls…

I dig my fingers in, but the engraving’s only so deep.

The Roman’s right hand is soaked in blood, useless from being shot. No doubt, he’s in pain. But he knows what’s at stake. Leaning forward and closing the vise, he puts his full weight into it. My feet slowly slide across the grass. I try to take a breath, but it doesn’t come — he’s holding too tight. My arm is numb. My fingers start shaking, skidding from their perch. Darkness again presses in from the sides. Please, God, take care of my mom and d—

Blam! Blam!

Small stones spray across my face. The Roman’s grip loosens. And I fall to the wet grass, coughing and hacking as oxygen reenters my lungs.

Above me, the top edge of the husband’s grave is shattered from one of the bullets. I stare at The Roman, who spins to face me. His blue eyes flit anxiously. There’s a brand-new hole in his shirt, at the center of his chest. But no blood. He staggers backward, but not for long.

On my left, just a few feet away, Lisbeth is on her feet and breathing heavily, her own hand bleeding as she grips The Roman’s gun. As she lowers it, she thinks she’s won.

“Lisbeth…” I cough, fighting to get the words out. “His vest!”

Lisbeth’s eyebrows leap up.

Snarling like a cheetah, The Roman lunges toward her.

Panicking, Lisbeth raises the gun and clenches the trigger. Two shots go off. They both plow into The Roman’s chest. He’s moving so fast, they barely slow him down. Inches away, he grabs for the gun. Lisbeth pulls the trigger one final time, and as the pistol explodes, a single bullet rips through the side of The Roman’s neck. He’s so lost in rage, I don’t think he feels it. Lisbeth steps backward, barely able to get a scream out. He’s all over her within seconds.

Ripping the gun from her hands, The Roman tackles her head-on. As they fall onto the stone path, Lisbeth’s head slams back into the concrete. Her body goes limp. Taking no chances, The Roman pins his forearm against her throat. Her legs aren’t thrashing. Her arms sag at her sides.

Shaking off my own beating, I hop to my feet and run my hands through the grass, my fingers brailling against the scattered shards of broken granite. On any given day, I’d have no chance against a six-foot, 220-pound, Secret Service-trained steel wall of a man. But right now The Roman’s got a fresh wound in his neck and another in his hand. And I’ve got a sharp hunk of granite headstone clenched in my fist. As I run toward him, he’s still bent over Lisbeth. I don’t know if I can take him. But I do know I’ll leave one hell of a dent.

Cocking the jagged shard back, I grit my teeth and swing at the back of The Roman’s head with everything I have left. The shard is shaped like a brick cracked in half, with a tiny point in the corner. It strikes right behind his ear. His scream alone is worth it — a throaty whimpering grunt even he can’t contain.

To his credit, as he slaps his hand against the side of his head, he doesn’t fall over. Instead, he catches his balance, turns back to face me, and lumbers to his feet. Before he can completely turn around, I take another full swing, cracking the granite block across his face. He stumbles back, falling on his ass. I still don’t let up. Stealing from his own playbook, I grip the front of his shirt, pull him toward me, and aim for the cut above his eye. Then I wind up and hit him again. The blood comes quickly.

A strand of drool falls like a silk thread from my bottom lip. He’s the reason my mouth won’t close, I tell myself as I swing again, driving the edge of the granite into his wound and watching the blood cover the side of his face. Like me. Like mine.

His eyes roll back in his head. I hit him again, determined to widen the wound. My drool sags lower, and I pummel him harder than ever. I want him to know. I want him to stare at it. Each granite blow takes another hunk of skin. I want him to live with it. I want him to turn away from his own reflection in storefront windows! I want him t—

I stop right there, my arm in midair, my chest rising and falling as I catch my breath. Lowering my fist, I wipe the saliva from my lip and once again feel the polite rain as it drips from the tip of my nose and chin.

I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

And with that, I let go of The Roman’s shirt. He collapses across my shoes.

The granite block falls from my hand, clunking against the concrete. I spin back to Lisbeth, who’s still lying on the ground behind me. Her arm is twisted awkwardly above her head. Dropping to my knees, I check her chest. It’s not moving.

“Lisbeth, are you—? Can you hear me?” I shout, sliding on my knees next to her.

No response.

Oh, God. No. No, no, no…

I grab her arm and feel for a pulse. There’s nothing there. Wasting no time, I tilt her head back, open her mouth, and—

“Hggggh!”

I jump back at the sound as she violently coughs. Her right hand instinctively covers her mouth. But her left — with the wound — stays stranded awkwardly above her head.

She spits and dry-heaves as the blood rushes back to her face.

“Y-You okay?” I ask.

She coughs hard. Good enough. Glancing sideways without moving her neck, she spots The Roman’s body just a few feet away. “But we need — we hafta—”

“Just relax,” I tell her.

She shakes her head, more insistent than ever. “But wh — what abou—?”

“Slow down. We got him, okay?”

“Not him, Wes—her.” My throat locks as the light rain pats my shoulders. “Where’s the First Lady?”