The gun flew out of his shocked hand, smacking with a thud against Mr. Rodwell's temple and falling to the ground. Frank tottered to the side under my momentum, almost falling over before his reflexes kicked in.

His foot came down firmly to support his body, and he shook his shoulder violently, exclaiming, "Damn you, woman!" when I didn't immediately come off. Once again, as a mockery of before, he flung his hand out to untangle me. This once I wasn't looking to grab him, my push merely for the purpose of getting him away from Mr. Rodwell, so it wasn't very hard for him to toss me to the ground.

On reaching down, the pain didn't even register before I was on my feet again, rushing to Mr. Rodwell.

"You are walking; do you realise that?" Frank commented from the side, but the words meant nothing to me, not at that moment, not at all.

Mr. Rodwell wasn't moving. I slid to his side over the rough stones, my hands shaking. "No, no, please, no..." I kept whispering, realising only unconsciously that I was doing so. I kept shaking my head too, almost as if a physical expression of negation was all that was needed to make everything alright again. My wide eyes skittered over his prone form, searching for some movement, some reassurance.

He lay on his side, head bend so far down to the ground that his face was shadowed. A blindingly white cheek showed through tangles of soaked hair, matted with blood. That wasn't what caught my attention, though. What had me shaking to the core was the wide ripple of dark blood, black in the white light, that spread under him incessantly, growing larger by the second.

"No..." This time my voice was stronger but still muffled, almost ripped out of my throat on its own accord. I wasn't crying anymore, maybe because there was nothing I could feel. I was only a bundle of burned nerves, seeing only what was right in front of me, hearing nothing but the roar in my ears and the thumping of my heart.

When I touched his shoulder, a muffled grunt slithered out from under him, from the general vicinity of where his mouth was. It took me a moment to even realise it for what it was, so steeped was I in my own roil of tumbling and twisting emotions. The sound might have slipped out of my own lips, for all I knew.

Then again, if I had made the sound, I won't have followed it by an explosive shudder and drawing of a long breathe, as if I wished to pull all the air around me in, to fill all my pores and reach every corner of my being.

"Mr. Rodwell?" I questioned, breath hitched in my throat. "Mr. Rodwell?"

My hands moved frantically then, touching here and there, seeking to do I knew not what. My fingers touched his shirt, smoothing themselves over the multitudes of creases, then travelled to his collar, which I pulled slightly, like I wanted to loosen it to make sure he continued breathing. His hair, separated into pointy locks with sweat, tickled the outsides of my fingers. He's alive, he's alive, my brain sang a constant symphony in my head, blocking out everything else. He's alive.

When I couldn't find anything else to touch and feel, I gave in and pushed under his shoulder, bodily flipping him around.

He made a startled grunt at the movement but otherwise remained only dead weight in my hands. When he was firmly placed on his back, I looked with wide eyes at him face. It was mottled black and blue with Frank's attentions. A long gash on his right temple showed where the gun had hit him, a slow trail of blood flowing down; it had made a straight line along his forehead from when he had been lying on the side, but now started to make a detour before my very eyes, to travel into his hair instead. His nose looked croaked, almost certainly broken, and his eyes were rolled back into themselves, as if he gazed into the underworld already.

Not on my watch.

I stroked his chin slowly. "Mr. Rodwell?" I called, lifting his head and placing it on my lap. "Mr. Rodwell, everything is going to be alright. You are fine. Look at me, will you? Look at me, everything is going to be alright..." My voice was curiously flat, quite in contrast to the controlled tremor in my hands, but I knew the explosion lay close to the surface. Focus, I told myself furious, focus already and keep your wits!

"Zara..." he mumbled, a bubble of blood escaping his mouth. "I-" A wet cough shook his body, effectively shutting him up.

I immediately made him sit up, fearing he might choke on his own blood. "Mr. Rodwell, I am right here. You don't have to talk. Just breath, okay? Look at me and breath..."

But he didn't look, didn't focus. His eyes continued to swim unconsciously, eyelids coming down now and then to keep them from drying out. I swept the hair from across his brow, the strands sticky to the touch. "Mr. Rodwell, everything is alright. Alex," I said in desperation, the tears starting to flow again, steaking down my cheeks and detouring till they pooled in the crevice between my lips. My nose ran inelegantly, but I refused to wipe it away. Nothing mattered to me anymore until he looked at me. "Alex, please, don't you fucking do this. Look at me. Look at me!"

No response this time; but his chest moved. He was breathing. Shortly and quickly, but breathing.

It was in that moment that I became aware of a continuous wetness along my legs. I blinked rapidly to see better. One of my hands, the one not cradling his head, went to the breast of his shirt; and that's when I saw it.

The front of his shirt was soaked in blood, but the blood wasn't gushing like one would expect. Tentatively, scared of what I might find but unable to stop regardless, I moved the flap of cloth away from his right shoulder.

In that moment of clarity, I saw and heard it all.

The bullet wound was about an inch in diameter, the flesh around it risen grotesquely, almost like the ground around a bomb crater, the blood pooling out of it frothy. A sucking sound emanated from his chest. He coughed again, chest convulsing with the motion. I watched in wonder as a trail of blood ran down his chin.

A sucking chest wound.

All the world narrowed down in that moment, just as I realised what it was. I had no medical experience, that was true, but I was a well-read person. And damned if a well-read person couldn't see the signs. He wasn't dead. But he was dying.

"Come on, Alexander, come on," I said soothingly, my heart in my mouth as I lifted his shoulders up, trying to keep the blood away from the wound. "Damned if I let you die, Alexander Rodwell, damned if I let you die. You will live, even if I have to wrestle heaven and earth for it. You will live, or I will throttle you." God help me if I knew what I meant by that, but I was rambling freely by now. It did not matter anymore what left my mouth, as long as something did, something coherent for him to latch onto if he was still in there, something solid to pull him back.

I had to contain the bleeding, I knew. I looked around wildly as I pulled him with me along the ground, to get him to the fence again for support. There wasn't anything to help me on the ground, of course, but I felt better for having checked. I won't have been able to forgive myself ever if there had been a conveniently placed first-aid box lying among the broken bottles that I hadn't seen.

As his chest lay draped over my arm, me trying to pull him with the other arm wrapped around his back, I noticed the other wound. The back of his shirt was so soaked in blood that for a moment I almost missed it. But the continuous wetness in the spot, and the fact that when I lifted him up from the ground and moved him, I saw the bullet embedded in the dirt, gave it away. There was an exit wound. The bullet had passed clean through him.

Hands shaking, I settled him against the fence, making the metal tent outwards against his weight. I was oblivious to the rest of the world by then. They might as well have been dead for all I knew or cared.

But they did care about what I did.

Just as I was about to rip the back of my kameez to get cloth to staunch the wound--wounds--, a hand wrapped around my upper arm and forcibly hauled me away from him. "Tsk, tsk, darling, there's no need for that," a voice said, "let's let him die peacefully while we watch now, shall we? You have said your goodbyes. And it was very amusing too." A dark chuckle fouled the air.

"NO!" I screamed, legs flailing wildly as I found myself airborne and then slammed to the ground. "No, let go! Please, he needs me! He's been shot, you filthy bastard, let me go! NO!" My throat was raw with the shouting and it seemed that each word was barbed, scratching against my windpipe as it came out, drawing blood. "NO!"

Blood-lust had descended over my eyes again, eyes that desperately searched for a blue-black face among the churning visions of light and dark that flitted across my sight. But I couldn't find it, and I continued to thrash around like a landed fish as I fought to get back, hitting out with my arms and legs, clawing at anything soft that came in my vicinity.

It was a stinging slap across the cheek, dealt by a heavy hand, that brought me back from wherever it was that I had gone.

When I could see clearly again, my eyes immediately sought out Mr. Rodwell. Instead they found Frank, leaning close to my face. I looked beyond the amber eyes, but found nothing but a brick wall. It seemed that in my frenzied struggles, I had gotten turned around.

My body not my own anymore, I started twisting my head, but Frank grabbed my chin and forced me to look at him. "Enough," he hissed.

"You fucking bastard," I said, and spat on his face. "You filthy son of a bitch, what have you done? Let me go!" I was thrashing wildly again. "He will die!"

He didn't respond, merely squeezing my chin yet tighter and shaking my face hard to stop my movements, forcing me to focus on him again. "Come on," he chiding, wiping at the white pearl-shaped froth moving down his lips and chin with his free sleeve. "That's the very idea. Don't begrudge me. I have waited for this all my life. Let's just enjoy it, hmm?"

"You--" Something caught my eye behind his back. "You can't..." I finished lamely.

Something had moved around the edge of the building. Something over which the white light from above flashed bright. Something pale, something round, something that had long, lank dark hair.

I forced my gaze to centre on the movement, like it held all the answers in the world. The walls swam around, flying in the wind like smoke. I took a deep breath and narrowed my eyes, forcing the dancing walls and jumping roofs to settle down.

They settled down soon enough...to reveal a small figure, crouching down beyond the edge of the building, only her head visible, as silent as a frozen breath, a lock of hair the only thing moving around her, waving like a banner in the wind. She didn't take the chance to push it aside. Her eyes were so wide they would have shamed the moon, and her face as pale as death.

Meg.

When she saw me looking at her, her expression cleared slightly. Her lips, pressed painfully together against some kind of exclamation, I expect, loosened. Keeping her bright eyes on me with an almost singular intent, like it was only her and me in all the wide world, she touched her hand to her lips, imploring me to be silent and not give her away. Then she held up two fingers.

I cocked my head infinitesimally, my guess at what she meant as good as anyone's. She nodded in acknowledgement, smiled dryly, and vanished.

I looked back at Frank, a clammy feeling blooming on my brow despite the cool wind whispering by. My inattention had been merely seconds long, but that was far too long as far as he was concerned. I centred my mind on him resolutely, blinking to dispel Meg's face, burned as it was on my retinas, and replace it with his. I felt as if something had kick-started my heart.

"Frank," I said softly. I started gathering my legs around myself, bringing them close to my body, like if I concentrated my corporeal being, my senses would concentrate too. He moved back to let me do it, hand slipping from my chin, probably figuring I didn't look inclined to explode again. His eyes slithered over my face, brows dipped down in a frown as he watching. "Frank, please let me help him. I will do anything in return."

The frown on his face cleared immediately. A smile, so devoid of emotion someone might as well have drawn it on, stretched over his lips. I was hyper aware of the men all around. They stayed at the edges, having not been ordered to come forward, but remained watching. All this time though, their attention had been riveted on the scene playing before their eyes, diverted from the surroundings. I had to keep it that way.

For that, I needed to make a scene. The kind of scene they weren't used to seeing.

"Frank, I will do anything you want," I said again, dropping my voice down another syllable. "Anything at all. Please let me help him."

I was good at this. And why not? I had practised among some of the best.

Frank might have been cold and distant. He might even have been utterly twisted in the head and dangerous. But he was a man, and a man had needs. Needs it wasn't easy for anyone to ignore, if played skilfully. Unless he was gay, of course, which I was pretty positive he wasn't. "What are you suggesting?" he asked, neatly falling into the hole I dug.

"Anything, Frank," I reiterated in a breathy whisper, voice soft and husky. "Anything at all." I leaned a little closer, not so much, but enough to lay the suggestion down and make my motives perfectly clear. After a moment, timing it just right, I released one lone tear down my cheek. "Please." I bit my lip slightly, pretending it to be an unconscious gesture.

Frank raised a hand and spread his fingers across my cheek, eyes flaming so bright they resembled twin glowing embers. He rubbed my cheekbone softly, and then slid his fingers under my hair. His hold tightened painfully as he pulled my head closer, tilted it back so he could see me better. My hands went involuntarily to his, like I endeavoured to release his hold; but I didn't.

He was mine now, as strongly as a baby was a mother's. An old woman had once told me in a moment to heart-to-heart that a man, no matter how sexually inclined, could never foreswear the comforting touch of a woman when he was hurting. Frank was hurting now. It was of no consequence how delusional his pain was, or how viciously he sought to soothe it. He saw himself in pain, calling out to his dead father and sister as he was, and so he looked for comfort.

Comfort that, in his eyes, I looked more than ready to provide. If only he knew.

"But makes you think I want you?" he asked, tightening his hold further, using his other hand to grab my arm.

"What," I said, my voice wobbling slightly with pain, "what makes you think you don't?"

This caught him by surprise. He chuckled silently to himself. "I can see why that blind fool came after you like that. You are something else, aren't you?"

I forced my lips to curve in what might be mistaken for a seductive smile, all the while conscious that as the time passed, Mr. Rodwell went further and further away from me. "You let me tend to him," I challenged, "and you can see for yourself."

His pupils were terribly dilated by now, turning his eyes into the deepest pits of hell. Suddenly, he jerked my head closer and pressed his lips forcibly against mine. "Maybe I might just take a taste of what he's tasted. I earned it, that's for sure." I forced my body to not jerk in revulsion, to stay soft and pliant, inviting.

He had won his brother's toy. He was victorious, once again. Everything in the world was going his way. Nothing could stop him.

The rumble in the ground started long before it happened. In a slow tremor at first, it gradually grew more insistent, a tremble that seeped up my arms and rattled my teeth. Frank though, was too far gone with triumph and lust to notice.

"Sir?" one of his men said from the side. He was outside my field of vision, but I noticed the shake in his voice. He had felt it too. "Sir, if you plea--"

"Shut up!" Frank bellowed, splattering my face with spittle. He immediately wiped it off with his thumb. "Sorry," he apologised immediately, almost like a tender man might with his love. "I didn't mean to do that." Then he bent down and slowly lay his lips over mine again.

I let him do it, not moving. On finding me unresponsive, he lifted his head, all signs of tenderness vanishing. His lips were pulled back over his teeth and his eyes flashed. "Do it as you do it with him, you bloody slut. Do it!"

"Sir?" The rumble was growing louder. I looked up at Frank calmly.

"Go and look!" I heard one of the men urge another, voice shaking, despairing of getting an executable order from the boss.

Frank bent down once more, this time forcibly pushing his tongue between my teeth, hoping to get my mouth open. I clamped down harder. This only seemed to aggravate him further, for he fisted both hands in my hair, pulling my face closer and biting down on my lip. "Do it!" He was shaking. I remained unmoving.

"Sir!" A voice shouted urgently, desperately rising over the rumble that was almost too loud by now. "There's a--" The sound of a loud crash, like something heavy driven into wall, cut him off.

"Frank," I said then, throwing my arms around his neck and pulling him to me. I opened my mouth and kissed him.

His breath tasted like lemon, sour in the back of my throat. His dry lips scrapped against mine like sandpaper, shredding the already bruising skin painfully. His tongue snaked into my mouth, seeking mine. I forced myself to cooperate though, for it won't be for long.

The shock of my unexpected acquiescence made him loosen his hold on my hair. That was all it took.

The moment he grew lax in my arms, I pushed him with all of my strength. He fell away, eyes still closed in bliss, mouth hanging open slightly, like he knew not what happened, which was exactly how the matter stood. The moment he was far enough away from me, I gathered my legs closer to myself and then, with all the resentment I felt for this particular specimen of humanity, all the desperation and fear of the last few hours fuelling me, I slammed my feet directly into his chest.

He lifted slightly off the ground, I could have sworn, thought I would never be able to tell for sure, for I was too busy throwing myself to the side to notice.

A moment later a heavy, rundown truck, travelling at a ferocious speed, broke through the wall of the building, burying Frank under an avalanche of raining bricks.