Tension is running higher than before and we’re all anticipating a death. The countdown has begun with the signal of Yoel. I have maybe ten seconds.

Ten. I inch closer to the table.

Nine. I make eye contact with Neave who refuses to cry.

Eight. I move a little closer unnoticeably.

Seven. I shift my weight.

Six. I move back lightly.

“Don’t move!” says Yoel.

Five. I feel the adrenaline running through my veins more evidently.

Four. I wrap my fingers around the glass.

Three. I aim at Klease without obviously aiming.

Two. I breathe deeply.

One. Now I act.

I fling the glass at Klease, who realizes it a second too late.

Instead, the vase hits Neave on the right temple.

Neave’s head goes limp for a quick second and she almost drops to the ground, but the gunshot comes two seconds later.

The blue light moves from Neave’s chest to Klease’s throat, and fires two rapid, un-aimed shots. One in the sternum. The other in her jugular, sending blood everywhere. Blood does stain the floor, but not Neave’s blood.

Klease’s blood is everywhere. On the carpet. On the bed. On the couch. A drop or two on the table. But most of it is on Neave who wears a startled expression. Then she begins to scream and I act.

Yoel looks at me, wide eyed. He lunges at me, at the same time reaching for his well-hidden gun and wrestles me.

I have the upper hand because I am stronger. I grab his gun from his hand and push Yoel in front of the broken window. Instantly he gets shot several times. I keep the gun, knowing Neave and I will need it.

Neave dodges a bullet as it would’ve hit her in the leg. The poor girl scurries to the other side of the bedside table and covers her ears with her hands. She doesn’t bother trying not to cry now. Be brave, baby girl.

Neave makes eye contact with me for a second and I rush to her quickly, narrowly missing a bullet hitting my brain.

I reach her.

She looks at me. Scared. I’m scared too, so I am not going to hide it. My green eyes stare into her icy blue ones. My blond hair hangs messily in my face.

“Hey Neave! Neave!” I keep repeating. Coaxing her to bravery. I can’t even coax myself. “Neave! Neave! Neave!” She looks at me, breathing unevenly. I don’t want to see her this scared, ever again.

“Neave!” I yell the loudest possible. She removes her hands from her ears and I take them in mine.

“Listen. I don’t have a plan but the only thing I can think of is to run. Okay?” I ask as I feel a cold tear drop from my eye. I didn’t realize I was this scared, too. Neave nods.

“Okay, Neave? Tell me that you understand!” I yell at her, not to scare her, but to get her to use the flight instinct instead of just sitting here in a corner, cowering and hoping for the gunfire to be all over.

“Okay!” She says in the smallest voice I have heard yet.

The gunfire stops for a second and I assume it’s a reload. We have less than two seconds. I grab her hand to set her in motion. She moves instantly. I grab both our suitcases and she follows me.

I hear Neave scream as she gets shot in the shoulder. It’s a mind boggling scream and it throws me off for a second. Now she bleeds from her head where I threw the vase at her and her shoulder where she was shot.

She doesn’t let the new wound stop her. She keeps moving and we both make for the door which hasn’t been closed properly. Bullets fly through curtains and sends shards of glass everywhere. One almost hits me too.

In the hallway, people stand tightly against the wall.

I take a second to give Neave her suitcase and take her hand in the fastest gesture.

The faces around me make me angry. But I don’t– I can’t bother with them now, even if I wanted to. We rush for the staircase because the elevator would be much too slow, and still we might get caught.

We stop in the stairway, and I put Neave securely in a corner. I take her suitcase from her hand and open it. I pull out the first thing I can which is the white jersey with glittering sequins.

“Put this on as fast as you can.” She doesn’t really respond–except to cry– and I begin to grow impatient. “Goddamn it, Neave.” I say, irritated. I grab at the end of her blood stained sweater and pull it over her head hastily. Far from romantic.

I check her arm wound. Just a scratch that’s bleeding slightly too much. I use the sweater and dab it on her arm to get it to stop bleeding but luckily it’s already coagulated.

I battle the vest over her head and she lifts her arms. I pull it down hard. She looks at me. Part of her face is bloody. “We’re going to need to clean that off.” I say, not expecting a response.

She nods. It’s almost too much.

Her pants aren’t that bloody; there are a few drops there but they’re barely noticeable. I find her shades and put them on for her. I force her chin up and look at her. Just her face now.

I leave the Ultramarine striped top on the floor and close Neave’s suitcase. I hand it back to her and take her hand again. There’s a faint noise high, high above us so I figure they must be looking for us. I fling the sweater under the staircase out of sight, grab Neave’s hand and lead her to the ground floor.

In the restaurant there’s a bathroom.

I lead her into the women’s bathroom. I check all the stalls, which are conveniently empty. Neave just stands there, in front of the closed door crying.

I lead her to the sink, grab a huge wad of tissue paper, wet it and quickly begin to clean her brow and her face of blood.

“Stop crying.” I tell her.

She shakes her head.

“Neave, it’s okay. I will get you out of this.” I tell her and grab another piece of paper to dry her face.

“I’m scared, Oli.” Neave says for once, an actual response.

I smile that, in a time like this, she can still call me by my nickname. “Yeah. I am too, Neave. I am too.”

She looks at me. I’ve never seen Neave this scared. I cannot imagine another form of fear for her. I can’t imagine all the forms of fear for myself, even.

She looks almost as if she’s close to the point of being broken and shattered on this bathroom floor. “It’s okay Neave. I’m here with you.” I say to her slowly. She looks at me and nods.

I slide her glasses back on and turn her to the mirror.

“How do you look?” I ask, glancing at myself too. I look absolutely fine, despite the tear stains from my pale green eyes. I inhale through my mouth and exhale, then I lick my lips and push my hair back. “I’m fine.” I say, trying to convince myself. Neave looks at me.

“We have to go.” I say. We pick up our suitcases and walk out of the restaurant. I glace sideways to the bar and see my bartender. His forehead creased as he watches us leave. I would do something in other circumstances, but I have to save my life right now. I have to save Neave’s life, especially.

***

Tell us: Do you trust the bartender? Do you think he will do something to reveal their whereabouts?