Page 109 of Call Me Anytime
Out of the three of us, Sherry is the only one not freaking out. She’s in her goddamn element as we sit here tied up in a hotel room with a woman swinging a gun around in the air like it’s a victory flag.
I know why I’m in this mess, but I have no idea how my mother managed to get into this room too. I told her to stay in the lobby!
“Why are you here?” I whisper to her, and she just smiles and shrugs. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Figured you might need some backup since Tony and Gibbs were taking so long.”
Oh my God.A shaky sigh leaves my throat as I lean my head against the wall. My mother’s mind has latched on to herNCISsafety blanket, convinced her big heroes Tony and Gibbs are going to come save us. But I know better. I know the stark reality of our situation.
“Hannah, we need help,” Monica whispers to me, tears still spilling down her cheeks. Her sweet, innocent face is wrought with so much fear she looks like she’s aged ten years.
“Help is coming, honey,” my mom answers, and it’s all too much. I am overstimulated with fear and panic and throat-clutching anxiety that I can’t just go along with her delusions.
“They’re not coming!” I whisper-yell toward her. “They’re not fucking coming!”
But Sherry is undeterred by my outburst. Her demeanor is cool, calm, and collected. Honestly, I don’t know the last time I saw this big of a smile on her face. “Ziva, get a hold of yourself. You were in a Somalia terrorist camp, for goodness’ sake. And who saved you, Ziva? Who?”
I just stare at her.
“Tony, Ziva! Tony,” she answers with an exasperated shake of her head. Like I’m the one being ridiculous here. Like I’m overreacting while this woman has us captive at gunpoint.
“I told you to shut up!” the woman screams at the top of her lungs and storms over to where all three of us are bound against the wall. She looks every bit the part of old money—tailored slacks, a silk blouse that probably costs more than most people’s rent, and pearls that rest just below the hollow of her throat—but fury has her coming undone. Strands of silver hair, once neatly secured in an elegant bun, have slipped free and frame her face in wild disarray.
Monica whimpers. My heart threatens to pound out of my chest. But my mother decides now is a good time to shit-talk the only person in the room with a gun.
“A word of advice—let us go before Gibbs and Tony get here,” my mom says. “That tiny little gun of yours isn’t going to do anything when they walk into this room.”
The woman lets out a harsh scream and storms over to get right in my mother’s face.
“Stop!” I scream, my hands trying to reach out toward the woman. When my fingers make contact with her shoulder, she whips the hand with the gun toward my face with a cracking connection to my cheek.
Pain shoots from my cheekbone to my skull, and Monica screams.
“Tony is going to kill you,” my mother says, her voice now angry. “He’s going to kill you for hitting Ziva like that. She’s the love of his life.”
The woman stomps away from us, her movements uncertain as she heads back over to the window. She paces and runs her free hand aggressively through her hair. The soft gray bun she was sporting when I first met her eyes on the other side of this hotel room’s door becomes a messy display of hair that sticks out from the sides of her head and hangs in front of her eyes. She brushes the rogue strands out of her face and starts ranting as she paces back and forth between the windows and the bed.
“Felix said he would stop! He said he would fucking stop and he didn’t stop!” she shouts into the air. “It’s the only reason why I have to do this! Because of him! Because he couldn’t stop talking to these women. Because he wouldn’t stop calling them!” Her eyes are crazed when she looks over at Monica. “It’s all his fault! He’s the reason I have to kill you!” Her gaze moves to me and then my mother. “You weren’t supposed to be here! It was just supposed to be me and this fucking phone slut!”
“Please just let us go!” Monica cries. “Just let us go and we won’t tell anyone! We won’t say anything!”
“It’s too late!” the woman screams. “It’s too fucking late!” She storms over to the table with the roses and the strawberries and starts pulling items from a small bag sitting on one of the black leather chairs.
When I see one of those items is a syringe, I’m reminded of the details of Heather’s and Gwen’s cases that I’ve overheard Shane and Dom talking about.Drug overdose. Fentanyl. Hotel room.
My eyes dart around the room, desperately trying to search for something, anything, that would help us get out of here.
But when I see the woman insert the syringe into a vial, I know that time is not on my side. And the realization that these could be the final moments of all three of our lives hits me square in the chest.
God help us.
46
Dominic
10:25 p.m.
“Slow down!” Shane shouts toward me as I race off the elevator and onto the thirty-fifth floor, which the woman in reception verified as the floor we needed to go to.
