She knew she had to turn around and face whatever was about to happen. But God—she couldn’t move. She was aware of scuffling, of thumps and groans, but it was as if someone had hit the Mute button. She needed a moment—a lifetime, or an all-inclusive therapy session—to center herself. It took everything she had to lever her shell-shocked, blood-splattered body off the wall. Feeling a thousand years old and as fragile as glass, Acadia turned around and numbly observed that the room now contained more armed men than there’d been moments before. A tall, skinny guy in cargo fatigues lowered his gun to his side as he surveyed the room with clear displeasure. “Porqué lleva tanto tiempo?” No, not a man at all. A woman, with a low, rough voice that rang through the small room and stopped everyone in their tracks more effectively than the last gunshot had. After a brief pause, all the men started talking at once, their voices tumbling over one another in an unintelligible babble. The woman stopped that by firing a round into the ceiling.
