Moment of Truth

by Emrys Apollo

  “Precautions.” The guy whose voice Desmond had heard so much from the Motorola said, stepping forwards and reloading his gun. Desmond recognized him instantly and kicked himself for not putting two and two together earlier. “How much power are you hiding?”

  “Enough.” Desmond said curtly. The guy twitched his eyebrows in amusement before aiming his gun at Antony, clicking off the safety. Desmond flinched to move, but the aim of all the other henchmen on him tightened. Both Antony and he would be dead before he could take a step.

  “Too much is what I think.” The guy smirked. “So how about we take it off you, remove temptation of thinking you can use it.” He moved closer to Desmond, his aim unwavering from Antony. “This is still my game.”

  “It always was, Michelle .” Desmond gritted as Michelle took the pistol from his hand. The Italian didn’t have a visible reaction to Desmond using his name, just turned Desmond’s gun on the other man.

  “Don’t do anything stupid now.” Michelle said, a hint of a smile in his eyes. Desmond swallowed uncomfortably, not sure what was coming next. The curt nod from Michelle was followed by Antony being shoved unceremoniously forwards. The guy with his head covered by a bag jumped at the sudden movement and noise near him. Michelle turned to face Antony.

  “You’ll know his body best.” Michelle spat, distain leaking through his words. “Know what doesn’t feel normal . Search him.” Antony’s eyes found Desmond’s with nothing but fear shining from them. Desmond wanted to rush forwards and catch him in his arms, promise this was nearly over and that he was nearly safe, that Desmond would never let anything happen to him ever again, but he knew too well that any movement from him would see a bullet in Antony’s head. He just couldn’t let that happen now he was this close.

  Michelle tutted.

  “NO!” Antony’s muffled scream came as Michelle pressed the pistol that had been trained on Antony roughly into Desmond’s temple. Desmond’s breath caught at the sudden movement.

  “You do as I say or I blow out his brain, right now, and let you live with the fact it’s your fault he’s dead.” Michelle said coldly. Antony whimpered in response.

  “Antony,” Desmond said calmly, his eyes not leaving Antony’s. “It’s okay.” Antony’s response was muffled by his gag and his tears. “Just do what he says and I promise you we’ll be fine.” Michelle scoffed from Desmond’s left, but Desmond ignored him. He reached his hand towards Antony.

  Antony got shakily to his feet, and it was the first time Desmond had really got to see what this whole ordeal had done to the man. He looked smaller, heavy dark circles stood out under his bloodshot eyes. His whole body seemed to shake with the pressure of even just standing, the smallest noise had him on edge. Ignoring the blood on his face, he could see the hints of dark bruises blooming under the edges of Antony’s clothes.

  Desmond’s jaw set. He was going to kill all of them.

  As if it was going to be the last time, Antony rushed towards Desmond, throwing himself into his embrace and sobbing uncontrollably. Desmond caught him, supporting him up and hating how wrong he felt in his arms, how much Antony didn’t feel like his Antony. Like this was some worn down, broken version of the man he loved. Desmond cradled him closer, promising internally to never let him go again.

  “Shh, it’s okay…” Desmond muttered, brushing his fingers through Antony’s hair. Antony gripped to him tighter, his fingers brushing over the gun Desmond had concealed at the back of his trousers. Desmond tipped his head back, finally looking at him properly, finally feeling at peace that Antony was back in his arms. He brushed his thumb under Antony’s eyes, catching the tears, before moving to inspect his nose.

  “Okay.” Michelle cut in, forcing another gasp out of Antony as he pressed the pistol to be back of Antony’s head. “This isn’t a reunion. You search him. And you make sure you get everything.” Desmond glared over Antony at Michelle as the Italian took a step back, giving Antony room to inspect Desmond. Desmond returned his gaze to Antony, kissing his forehead lightly.

  “Deep breath.” Desmond whispered. “We’ll be fine.”

  Shaky hands reached for the zipper on Desmond’s jacket. With an encouraging nod from Desmond, Antony pulled the zipper down, revealing the stash of weapons Desmond had there. Antony’s eyes roamed the selection that Desmond had strapped to his torso, disbelief overcoming him.

  “Not quite the man you thought he was, huh, Antony?” Michelle sneered. Desmond ignored him.

  “It’s alright.” He encouraged as Antony’s shaky hand reached for the grip of his Glock 21.

  “Looks like we’re not the only bad guys.” Michelle piped. Desmond cupped Antony’s face in his hands, ignoring how weird it was to see Antony holding a gun.

  “I’m sorry.” Desmond gasped, tears springing to his eyes. “This was never supposed to happen, you were never supposed to-”

  “Know?” Michelle interrupted. “Get captured? Be hurt? Be used as a pawn in a bigger game? Come on, Desmond. You must have known you couldn’t keep him hidden forever.” Michelle had a look of idle curiosity on his face. Desmond just closed his eyes, resting his forehead on Antony’s. “On the floor is fine.” Michelle bit, slapping at Antony’s arm to get the man to drop the gun. “And let’s make it a bit snappy.”

  Quietly, Antony continued to remove all of the carefully chosen weapons that Desmond had concealed on his body. All of the guns from cleverly hidden gun holsters, the knife from Desmond’s sock, the many cartridges from many places that Antony would have never dreamed to hide weaponry. The tears fell silently down Antony’s face but however much Desmond tried he couldn’t get the man to look back up at him. This was possibly the hardest part; making Antony realize just how little he actually knew about Desmond.

  “Well, you certainly came prepared, Desmond.” Michelle said once Antony had rid him of every weapon he had concealed. “What were you aiming for? Mass killing? Were you going to take us all out in front of your precious Antony?” Antony shuddered in front of Desmond. “Never mind, I guess it doesn’t matter now.” Michelle smirked, nodding again. He kept one gun trained on Desmond as two guys moved forwards. Desmond grabbed Antony, pushing him behind him. He wasn’t going to lose him again. Not now not ever. No way.

  Michelle laughed.

  “You are defenseless.” He sneered. Desmond eyed the approaching men.

  “Want to bet.” Desmond countered, keeping one arm out across Antony. Michelle rolled his eyes.

  Two shots rang through the air, one connecting with Desmond’s outstretched arm, causing him to fold away from Antony, The other grazing across Antony’s leg, the man dropping to the floor.

  “Next time I won’t miss.” Michelle said, resetting his gun as the guys dragged Antony to his feet. Blood was already weeping from the graze the bullet had made on Antony’s leg, but with the pain rippling through his shoulder Desmond could do nothing but weakly reach out. Stepping deliberately towards Desmond, Michelle crouched low next to him. “This is still my game.”

  Desmond watched as they hauled Antony up onto the railings of the bridge were something was sat waiting. He couldn’t work out what the hell it was, but he did know they were tying Antony to it. He tried to push himself up to his feet.

  “It’s a simple rule to pass this round.” Michelle declared, pacing by Desmond as another guard collected up Desmond’s weapons and put them in a bag. “Prove you’re on our side. Prove that you will do anything to protect him without question.”

  “What is that?” Desmond muttered, holding his shoulder tightly as he tried to work out what they were tying Antony to.

  “I’m glad you asked, Desmond.” Michelle smiled. “That there is a weighted block.”

  “What-?”

  “So many questions.” Michelle sighed, turning his back to Antony and putting his full attention on Desmond. “If you listen to the rules, you might not have so many. It’s fairly simple.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Desmond muttered sarcastically.r />
  “I want your blind allegiance. So tonight, we discover what really matters to you.” Michelle continued as if Desmond hadn’t spoken. “You will kill this person, or that block is going to end up in the river.” The guy with the bag over his head was pushed forwards, falling to his knees between Desmond and Antony. Desmond frowned.

  “Who is that?”

  “So many questions.” Michelle shook his head. “I honestly thought you loved him, but clearly that was one sided.” He shrugged, raising his hand.

  “Wait!” Desmond hollered, stopping Michelle from signaling the guys who had Antony to push the block into the river. Michelle turned to him.

  “You better not have another question.” Desmond pursed his lips together. “Good.” Michelle pulled Desmond to his feet, pressing the pistol into his hands. Desmond looked down at it, grabbing it with the hand that didn’t have an injured shoulder. He positioned Desmond in front of the bag-covered man, now on his knees, and raised Desmond’s hand so the gun was pointing at his head.

  “Very simple. Even you can understand this.” Michelle muttered in Desmond’s ear. “You shoot this person; we untie the ropes.” Desmond looked across at Antony, now sitting on top of the bridge railings with his hands clamped behind his back. Desmond assumed they were bound in place by the rope that was tightly around Antony’s waist, the other end tied to the block sitting to his left. “You’ve already proved to him you’re a killer. He knows what you planned to do here tonight. What’s the harm in proving him right, saving his life? This is your job at the end of the day. Blindly take orders that see you taking others’ lives. What’s the difference?”

  Desmond blinked the tears out of his eyes. No, this was not his job. He did not have questions when he took orders for his job. This was crazed idiocy. Michelle wanted to paint him as a killer to Antony.

  He looked down at his hand; the gun pointed at probably some random that Michelle had unfortunately come across. Just another pawn in Michelle’s game. Well Desmond had had enough. He wasn’t going to be forced to play it any more. Whoever was under the bag surely didn’t deserve to die.

  He would have four seconds to make this work. Any longer and he would probably lose Antony.

  Desmond took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

  The guy who had been holding the block crumbled to the floor, the weighted brick slipping from his hands and off the side of the bridge. Desmond pushed away from Michelle, sprinting as hard as he could to close the gap between Antony and him. The rope was snaking into the darkness, almost in slow motion as Desmond reached forwards, his hand ready to grab Antony.

  He was a millisecond too late.

  The world seemed to stop as Antony was yanked away from him, so close that Desmond’s fingers brushed the soft material of his shirt. The panic in Antony’s eyes was dazzlingly wide as his body slipped away from Desmond, slowly descending into the cold darkness of the river below. The wind whipped passed Desmond as he felt powerless to watch Antony sink further from him.

  He would not lose him again.

  Shots rang out behind him, but Desmond had already climbed the railing and dove towards Antony. It was like smashing through a sheet of ice as he disappeared into the river, cold pain streaking across his body as his muscles protested. Desmond couldn’t make out his hands in front of his face as he pushed his body to swim lower, always reaching forwards in hope he would make contact with Antony.

  The shot wound in his shoulder nearly blinded him with pain and he forced himself lower and lower. He could not lose Antony again. Not this close. The harder he pushed, the more futile this all felt. He couldn’t see, could barely move and desperately needed to breathe.

  “Antony!” Desmond screamed, but only bubbles shot from his mouth. Bubbles of oxygen he should have held onto. His head was feeling light, throat tight and lungs burning. He needed to breathe, badly. His brain was screaming at him to breathe. He knew breathing meant losing Antony. He knew breathing right now meant losing himself.

  Bright light filled his eyes as the suffocating feeling threatened to strangle him, cold water rushing into his lungs and forcing him to convulse.

  His last thought was of Antony.

  CHAPTER 11

  He was cold. He knew that much. Something felt heavy on his skin, causing all the hairs on his arm to stand on edge. But the heaviness was weighing him down, causing him to be stuck lying on his back.

  Was he lying? Or was he standing? He tried to flex his feet, feel for the ground below him but he couldn’t. His back was resting on something, but whether he was lying down or being forced back into a wall by the heaviness on his chest he didn’t know and couldn’t decipher.

  Taking a deep breath, the heaviness increased on his chest. Sharp pain shot through him, racing to find an escape out of his fingertips. He gasped at the suddenness of it, causing more spikes to shoot across his body. Was this normal? Had he always been like this? Was the weight that was heavy on his chest causing him this pain when he tried to breathe?

  He had a sudden urge to move. He hated this feeling of being trapped, of being stuck and unable to control his body. He wanted to understand; understand the weight on him, understand where he was, understand how he had gotten here. He tried to force his unresponsive body to do anything: twitch his fingers, wiggle his toes, open his eyes, but no matter how loud his brain screamed nothing was happening.

  Was he in a coma? Was he paralyzed? Was that why he couldn’t move a muscle? Panic was clawing up his throat, making him very aware of the roughness he felt there. It was like someone had exchanged his windpipe for sandpaper. The raspiness of the air pushing through him making him feel like he was choking.

  It did tell him one thing, however; he was breathing. And that meant in one way, shape or form, he was alive. Nodding mentally, as his neck muscles still refused to listen to his brain, he tried to deduce how he could have ended up in a coma, and what events had occurred that had led him here. He steadied himself, breathing slowly to get used to the sharp stabbing pain that led to the itch of air passing over the sandpaper in his throat. He was okay, he was breathing. He reminded himself over and over that although he couldn’t move these signs meant he was alive.

  He tried to think back, think over how he had gotten here. What had been happening before this? What was his life before the darkness surrounded him and he couldn’t move? His head started to throb as he tried to process this. Why was trying to remember so hard? Was there a life before this? Had this always been his life?

  No, he couldn’t believe that. He couldn’t believe he had only ever known darkness and pain. And he knew that because he could feel this wasn’t usual. He knew he had been able to move because he was trying to move now. He knew that life should have colors because he was trying to see. He knew his life hadn’t always been pain because he was trying to find the source of his current discomfort.

  This realization made him more antsy to move. He felt stiff, like he hadn’t moved or tried to move for a very long time. How long had it been? How long had he been like this, lying or pushed up against a wall? He needed to move, to stretch or roll his neck or something. Anything to feel like he had more purpose than just being where he was.

  Concentrating hard, he focused his mind on opening his eyes. If he could just work out where he was, maybe some of the other answer would come without him having to use too much energy. This in itself felt like it was going to tear him in two. He might not even have enough energy after he opened his eyes to keep them open. Hopefully he could stay with it long enough to work out where he was and how he got here, what life was before this. He jaw tensed as he focused harder. Nothing else mattered but opening his eyes.

  A small gap cracked in his eyelids and bright light streamed in. It was blinding, and on reflex he slammed his lids shut. That was uncomfortably bright, too much light being poured into his tired irises. What was that? What could be producing that brightness?

  A cold shiver sent down his spine at the thought
of the light. Was he dead? Was this the afterlife? Did he have to suffer through pain before he was allowed to the next stage of whatever this may be? He didn’t want that. There was a reason he couldn’t be dead, and although he couldn’t think of it he knew that would be bad. He shook his head slightly, a low raspy moan of no fighting to tear out of his throat. He couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t. He had a mission to finish. He couldn’t die until his mission was complete.

  Someone grabbed his hand.

  That mission was important. There was a mission, he concluded, so did that make him a spy? An agent? A soldier? What other occupation would give him a mission he had to complete? He decided that had to be right. He was a soldier, spy or agent with a mission. That at least gave explanation for his pain.

  He had been hurt, he was maybe dead, but the mission wasn’t complete. Someone had his hand and was squeezing his fingers tightly. He wondered momentarily if they knew they were starting to hurt him, if they knew how hard they were holding on.

  Maybe he wasn’t dead, but dying. Maybe this person didn’t want him dead. Well of course they wouldn’t; the mission was still going on. If he died he couldn’t complete the mission and this person must have known that. Relief flooded him as things started to click into place. He was a soldier, spy or agent with an incomplete mission. The mission was important to complete. He’d been in an incident that had nearly killed him, but he hadn’t died. This must be a fellow agent, spy or soldier holding his hand, hoping he wasn’t dead.

  He tried to squeeze the fingers back, nod or even vocalize that he was alive, that he needed help because something heavy was on him and it was stopping him from moving. Nothing seemed to be working though. The fingers still squeezed tightly and he was starting to lose feeling in them. That would be bad. If he lost feeling in his fingers he wouldn’t know if the hand was still holding his. He needed that to keep him grounded, needed that to make sure he remembered everything he worked out.