Red

Before I punch the code, the iron door chimes and Bastien stalks out with a pistol in hand. I inhale sharply and edge a few steps back, eyes trained on him with caution. He's alone, and behind him is the elevator, not a room as it externally appears. It's the one paved to the basement and that means he's here to stop me from entering.

Well... Not gonna happen.

Automatically, I point my Glock at him. He doesn't flinch—I doubt he ever does. He's a warrior born and raised in one of the civil war villages in Mozambique. Trained to fight the insurgents and protect their people with death from a very tender age. A father dies, a child inherits the gun. I never wish to fight him, but I will if I must.

"We finally meet," he says in baritone, projecting anything but a friendly greeting.

He's effortlessly intimidating as hell. Tall, big, black, fully dressed in a pristine black suit, his bald head glowing like the skin of a black mamba. Sheer confidence surrounds him.

"So it seems," I reply.

"My apology to Kenna. She put on a good fight." He takes a step forward while unholstering his gun dexterously without malice in his cold, unflinching eyes.

"You spared her life; that should mean something." I do the same, striding opposite from him, which turns us in a stalling circular motion as we study each other's willingness and readiness.

"You can't go in there unless you go through me." He throws his gun away; it rattles past me and I frown. "I like you, Red. I don't want this. But I got a job to do," he says, and although subtly, his eyes taunt my every move.

"I expected as much," I return. No surprise that he's unarmed now. He's surprisingly a disciplined fighter. "And neither do I want this, but if that's your choice then so be it." My Glock lands several feet away, following his lead.

There are times even the worst enemies fight with honor. Mutual respect. As they say... May the best man win. We secure our positions, the room metaphorically too small for the two of us. But we both have something to protect.

Every battle and combat I fought in my life has been out of duty, so I understand Bastien's sense of loyalty despite everything. But God knows I can never let him win with my family on the line. Never! 

Enclosed with red brick walls, this lounge is as wide as a home recreational space. There's a long mahogany console and paintings on the wall to my right, and a charm of a long-forgotten speakeasy bar with 80s furniture and HDTV to my back and left side. All too inconspicuous for a vacation home.

Something shady happens here.

Bastien pounces toward me like a lion. Heavy punch flies above me; I dunk. With a leeway on his stomach, I jab him fast and hard. A low grunt resonates from him but he remains steady. Fuck, he's strong! I stagger and recollect, setting my fists as the circle of motion continues to pull us further into the room, blocking and defending his assault.

"You don't want to fight me so why the fuck are you protecting him?" I seethe, sending a high kick to his neck when he goes low after several punches on his ribcage—his weakest point.

His balance flexes but he quickly recovers. Panting, he glares at me angrily as though his life depends on this battle whether winnable or not. But why? Is he that loyal to Patrick beyond reason or is there something else?

"We don't fight because we want to. It's a need." Teeth gritted, he jumps over the console at a lethal speed, lunging my way.

Two chests collide and the next thing I know we're rolling down in turns, grappling, jabbing, and strangling each other. Multiple punches rain simultaneously when he pins me down, but I still believe I've had worse than this.

Furniture breaks, paintings fall, and bones crack. I bleed his nose, he punctures my eyebrow. I slam him on the wall, he throws me on the table. Shards of glass scatter everywhere, but none of us gives in to surrender or retreat.

Despite being older than me, Bastien is as strong as a stallion. Speed is my only advantage. I fall, he falls too. He growls, I grunt. He kicks, I punch. He attacks, I dodge. The endless cycle. But when he stalls, I finish with every little strength left in my body.

"Don't make me do this, Bastien," I pant, arching my back while scissoring his neck between my legs mercilessly.

I feel his bones crashing, and if I twist, his neck breaks instantaneously. But I don't want to kill him. He's not my war and all I need is for him to see it.

Bastien chokes and blood pops with his labored breath. With a broken speech, he manages to say, "He-has-my-family. My daughter... My wife."

Of course, he does. That motherfucker!

"Then we'll find a way to save them. Together! But I'm not letting that monster leave these grounds with Mia! She's my family too!" I say, the taste of iron so heavy in my mouth.

I spit the blood out.

Bastien's implied surrender comes with a "How?"

"I don't know! But we'll find a way. If you don't trust me then trust Eliot! I know you're his inside contact and he knows Patrick better than anyone else," I reply with half-confidence. Yet I add,  "He's always one step ahead of his father. He probably knows where your family could be and he won't let anything happen to them."

Before we reach any sort of agreement, a bullet pierces through my upper arm. Growling, I let go of Bastien who's too bushed to move a finger. The pain shoots through my nerves like hell but I turn around swiftly to where the assault came from.

And of course, it's Patrick fucking Kingston holding Mia at gunpoint like a little slave of his. I could feel my muscles shatter enraged.

"Make a move and I swear I'll blow her head next," Patrick warns as it's exactly what I was about to do.

I hiss painfully, but the pain is not stronger than the frustration of seeing my woman struggling with tears in her eyes. She's terrified. How I want to hug and tell her I'm here for her and everything will be fine.

"Let her go," I say, my chest thumping on and off as I breathe heavily. "You want me, I'm here."

He erupts into laughter. 

"Well," the bastard begins with a crooked smile, "now that we're both here, why don't we go back to the reason why I must kill you today and make her watch you die instead of that cliche bargain of yours, huh?"

From Mia's temple, his gun turns my way.

"Son of a bitch!" I mutter between my clamped teeth.

Mia

This can't be happening. I feel like my heart is being ripped apart into a million little pieces and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Tears barrel down my face as I look at Red all bloody and sweaty and shot and with so much pain and worry registered in his eyes.

And it's all for me.

I want to kill him now. I want to tear Patrick's heart out and feed it to the wolves I've heard howling at night whether it was a dream or not. I can't stand this pain. This helplessness. I can't watch him torture the man I love and not break. No, I can't.

Please make it stop, God!

"Patrick, please," I beg, eyes on the gun that's pointed at Red who's now down on his knees, nursing his bleeding arm by covering the wound with his hand. 

"Oh no, sweetheart. We're past the waterwork play so save it for his funeral because you'll never get to see him again," says Patrick with pure, undiluted contempt. "Look at her!" He seizes my arm, drawing me closer to him like a travel bag. "Look the fuck at her, you bastard!" he shouts at Red, who does exactly that as though he hasn't been doing it from the moment he saw me. "She's mine! You hear me? You had no right to touch her! No one has the right to fuck her but me!" he yells maniacally. 

Red's jaw ticks and I know it's a matter of time before he snaps and defies Patrick's order which may lead to his death. The thought sends dread into my heart and all I do is cry while trying my best to ease the surgical blade into the ropes holding my wrists together.

"You come into my house and sleep with my wife?" Patrick continues.

I keep cutting and I don't care if I sever my skin with it as long as I get to use my hands again.

"Well, that's where you're wrong, Patrick," Red responds with a peal of faint laughter. I shake my head when he looks at me. I beg him to stop but he doesn't. "I didn't come to sleep with your wife. Hell, no, I had a job to do and I did it. But of course, she's a gorgeous woman. A real deal. She was irresistible." He smiles at me so full of love that it hurts.

I break into more tears and Patrick drags me furiously with him as he marches toward Red.

"Spy, huh?" he snaps. "You came to my house to fetch shit about me? About my companies? And feed it to the fucking government, is that it?"

"Hmm, you get that part right," Red replies. All I do is hold onto the blade in my hand so tightly, feeling the rope going sloppy. "Oh, but I fell for her from the very second I saw her. Trust me, I knew right away that you didn't deserve her."

"Shut up!" A click from Patrick's gun makes me gasp. "I've heard enough—"

"No!" Before he touches the trigger, I throw my head and pump him aside. He doesn't fall; he glares my way and slaps me hard.

I fall and slam my face on the wall.

"MIAAAA!" I hear Red's frantic voice.

Then a loud Paah!

I freeze.

Paah! Paah!

My neck cranes around and I see Red flopping down like a dead body. 

"No," I whimper, eyes frozen wide, crawling on my weakened knees feeling puzzled and disoriented.

He doesn't move. He just lays there. Silent. My heart dies a million deaths.

Patrick stands in my way, blocking me from reaching him. Nothing comes from my quivering lips except a wounded whimper, wet eyes at Red. Unable to touch him, I cry at the top of my lungs, inexplicable pain invading all of me.

But nothing happens. He remains there, unresponsive. Bullets in his chest. Dead.

No, that can't be real! No, wake up, Mia! 

But it's real. 

As if the world has lost its momentum, I feel like everything is in slow motion. I want to move but I can't. I remain congealed on the floor, hiccuping, dreading, hurt to my very deep core,
watching my love like a dream.

"I told you I'd make you watch him die, didn't I?" I hear Patrick's voice and my fickled breath begins to shallow.  "How does it feel, butterfly?" he taunts me, looking at me then at Red with pure joy in his eyes.

That's when Adrenaline kicks in. That's when I realize my hands are no longer bound behind me. And that's when I see the blade laying beside me. Without a second breath, I seize it and gather every ounce of strength in my body to get up and reach up to Patrick.

I don't talk. I don't breathe. I just swerve the blade across his jugular vein and cut him up. His gun drops and clatters away almost instantly. I hear him choke, his hands wrapped around his blood-seeping neck with eyes so broad and horror-struck. But it's not enough.

Not even close.

I shove the same blade deeply into his heart. I watch his eyes looking down at me as I pull it out, then back in. Through his mouth, his blood splutters to my face but I don't coil. I stab him more times than I can count, not missing so much as a blink of an eye. His body falls into my arms and that's when I stop and remember to breathe again.

I remember everything as he struggles to hold me, to say something—to live.

And all I do is whisper into his ear, "I'm not Helen of Troy. I'm Mia Vera Diaz of New Orleans and I'm not yours. I never will be. Die!"

I push him and his body topples heavily on the floor. His eyes pop wide open and his choking slowly begins to cease.

As I turn around the switch of pain flicks on. My bloody hands begin to tremble and the blade slides off and clunks loudly against the floor. Bastien is staring at me anyhow but all I see is Red.  My Red. The love of my life. The father of my baby.

Our bodyguard.

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A/N: No Author's note. She disappeared.