Trafficked -- Beaten -- Trapped
When eighteen-year-old Stacy Degray sets off to visit Felipe, a charming guy she met on the internet, she has no idea that she is being lured to his home country Malaguay to be auctioned off as a soldier's bride. All...
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During basic training, Tomás always asserted we'd remember his crap when we groaned about the detailed lectures that spelled out every possible future combat scenario we could face. Challenged now with the prospect of being shot in the head, I have to grudgingly admit he had a point. His words echo in my ears as if he were standing next to me—distract, attack, disarm. Piece of cake, according to him.
Chewing on my lip, I ponder how to accomplish point one. Precious seconds trickle away. Emilien's hand is shaking; it won't take much.
"Look, Emilien. Miguel is trying to set Pearson up since he suspects he's working with the Americans. It's a trap."
"I don't believe you." Sweat has formed on top of the young boy's lip. "Everyone knows Pearson works for the Americans. What do you need to trap him for?"
I change direction. "Tomás can confirm I'm telling the truth. He's right outside. If you don't believe me, let's go ask him."
This visibly trips him up and his eyes turn doubtful. For a second, he lowers the gun, but that's all the time I need. Without hesitation, I lunge forward.
Grab the opponent's wrist and push upward, were Tomás's instructions.
I firmly seize Emilien's lower arm, but before I can complete step two, he tears away from my grip. I ram my shoulder into his side, taking him off his feet. He fumbles with the gun but is able to hold on to it. When I kick him in his side, he finally loses control of the weapon. Another kick sends the gun into a corner.
He's back on his feet, his fist connecting with the center of my stomach. Pain waves radiate through my torso; my breath fails me and I double over. When he sprints toward the gun, a spurt of adrenaline is released into my bloodstream. Both the throbbing and lack of oxygen are forgotten. I tackle him to the ground with a low growl, just as he reaches for the gun.
He rams his elbow into the side of my head, causing a minor explosion that leaves stars in front of my eyes. I gasp for air.
In close combat, go for soft spots. Eyes, nose, and especially the groin.
Following Tomás's advice, I bury my knee deep into Emilien's manly parts. His shout rings like music in my ears. He still manages to get control of the gun, but before he can swing it around, I smash my elbow into his upper back. His grip loosens, the weapon back in play.
My fingertips scrape the grip of the gun when my head is jerked back by my hair. I scream, my scalp on fire. His kick finds its mark in my ribcage and the familiar feeling of bones severing in two explodes. I groan but still force my body onto my knees. Two quick crawls and I reach the weapon. Already turning to get into position, he crushes me. A single gunshot goes off, followed by silence. His frame lays rigid on top of me.
When I realize he's not moving, a yelp escapes my mouth. Something warm soaks into my shirt. Although he lies absolutely still, the pain in my abdomen rages so strongly that I can't be sure I wasn't the one who was hit. Tears and nausea mess with my mind—I'm frozen in place, unable to form even one comprehensible thought.
