I scrambled across the floor, grabbing the heavy, dead weight of the assassin by his boots, dragging him into the deep shadows behind the velvet curtains. My red bridal sari was stained with the assassin’s blood. I rushed back to Arnav, grabbing him under his arms, using every ounce of my strength to haul his heavy, muscular frame back into the wheelchair.
Just as his limp legs settled onto the footrests, the lock gave way with a deafening CRACK.
The door flew open, and Vikram burst into the room, his gun drawn, followed by three heavily armed guards. They flooded the room, flashlights cutting through the darkness, illuminating the chaos.
They saw the shattered wardrobe. They saw the blood on the floor.
And then, the flashlights hit us.
I was on my knees, sobbing hysterically, my red sari soaked in blood, clutching the wheels of the chair. Arnav sat there, his head slumped back, his eyes closed, his shirt torn open to reveal a bleeding, vicious stab wound to his chest, looking entirely like a helpless, paralyzed victim who had been brutally assaulted in his own seat.
“Oh my god! Sir!” Vikram shouted, rushing forward. “Secure the perimeter! Call the medical team now!“
Two guards rushed to Arnav, while Vikram knelt beside me, his hands on my shaking shoulders. “Ma’am! What happened? Who did this?!“
I forced the tears to stream down my face, letting out a primal, terrified shriek. “A man… a man came through the window! He had a knife! He… he tried to kill Arnav! He stabbed him!“
“Where is he?!” Vikram demanded, his eyes scanning the room.
I was about to point toward the balcony to create a fake escape route, when suddenly, a faint, metallic clink sounded from behind the velvet curtains just a few feet away.
Everyone froze.
The guards slowly turned their flashlights toward the heavy curtains. The fabric wasn’t still. It was moving.
The assassin wasn’t dead. And he was standing right behind me.
Before Vikram could raise his weapon, a hand shot out from behind the curtain, grabbing me by my hair and yanking me backward with brutal force. A cold, sharp blade pressed tightly against my jugular.
“Back off!” a raspy, blood-choked voice snarled into my ear. “Back off or I cut her throat right now!“
Vikram and his guards raised their weapons, their faces tight with tension. “Drop the weapon! You have nowhere to go!“
“I go through the front door, or she dies!” the assassin screamed, dragging me backward toward the balcony, the blade cutting a tiny line into my skin. A warm trickle of blood ran down my neck.
I gasped, looking frantically across the room at Arnav. He was still slumped in his wheelchair, playing the part of the unconscious, paralyzed husband. His eyes were half-closed, his head tilted back.
But beneath the shadow of his long eyelashes, I saw it. His amber eyes were wide open, staring directly at the assassin’s exposed throat. His right hand, hidden from the guards’ view by the armrest of the wheelchair, was slowly slipping back toward the tactical silencer pistol hidden in his vest.
If he fired, he would save my life, but he would reveal his secret to Vikram and his entire security team, destroying his five-year war and exposing himself to every cartel in Mexico. If he stayed still, I would die.
