Noted

Chapter 26

"Quinn, wake up!" I heard Troy whisper through the bars. Before I could ask him what was wrong, my question got answered. Suddenly, I was wide-awake and terrified.

A couple of men came walking down the hallways with keys in their hands, and soon they opened the cell door. They were going to let us out; or, force us out. "It's your lucky day," one man said as he looked into my eyes, which were already tear-filled. "Or unlucky; depending on your father."

I hadn't had a dry eye since I arrived to that place,   or since I left New York. I was tired of crying. Tired of being scared. Tired of being tired. I wanted to give up, but I didn't know exactly what giving up looked like. But, now that Troy had a plan, and that we had managed to survive up to that point, it wasn't the time to give up. So, I got up off the ground, not picked up or dragged.

While one man took my by the arm; and wasn't gentle about it, another man took Troy out of his cell. I could hear from his groans that Troy was still in tremendous pain. I, too, was in pain, and my hands shook with fear, and I felt as if I was going to collapse, but, I needed to stay strong; if not for myself and my own liberation, at least for Troy.

The men lead us out of the cold, damp, pit of a room and down the hall, until we reached the same familiar room to which I had already been brought into one too many times. As if it were a regular routine, the men tied both of us to the chairs and waited for Philip Moore to arrive on screen. This time, Jack wasn't present. At least, not yet.

Several men were in the room with us, and it seemed as if they waited over several hours, but it had actually been only forty-five minutes. The more the minutes passed, the more my heart palpitated. Troy constantly gave me reassuring looks, but none of them helped. I knew Troy had a plan, but it still made me anxious to not be mentally or physically prepared for whatever he was going to do. Every person in the room had their eyes glued on us. I wasn't sure why. It wasn't as if we were able to escape the binds that were so tight that they cut the circulation in  our wrists and legs.

Eventually, Jack showed up, and, thanks to the laptop, once again, so did my father. He appeared on the screen, and he was shocked by the state I was in. My face was slightly bruised, and my eyes wore dark circles. In order for me to be saved, my father needed to get on with the transfer. He then went straight to business.

"I have your money," he said with a worried glance as he observed me through his webcam. I could only reply with a squint of my eyes. "I'll transfer it now."

"I'm waiting," replied assassin, with the impatience of a spoiled child awaiting an ice cream cone at the fair.

"How do you plan to not get caught once you receive the money?" my dad asked, as the transfer was taking place.

"An innovative inscription program that not even the banks know about," replied Jack with a confident laugh as he moved behind the chairs where we sat. "Don't worry, Mr. Moore, you're money's safe with me."

"Not long now..." Philip said. I could see his terrified look. "You should get it in a few minutes."

Jack wrapped looked into his laptop and slowly wrapped his hands around our necks, choking us slightly. "Did you really think I was just going to let these two free once you sent the money?" he asked, laughing as he tightened his grip. "They know too much..."

I looked over to Troy, but his gaze was on the laptop and not on me. I tried to yell out muffled noises through my gag to get Troy's attention, but he was focused. Even in my state of panic, I knew that he must have been commencing the plan he had prepared with the police. I sat still in my chair, paralyzed by the idea of my life ending in such a way, and placing all my faith in Troy's plan.

My father frantically tried to abort the transfer. Everybody could hear him press multiple keys on his keyboard. "You can't do this!" he pleaded as he fought to reverse the transfer process in a last ditch effort to save our lives.

"Why are you defending your murderer-daughter?" asked Jack, still gripping throats, just tightly enough to allow oxygen to still get to our lungs. "Let her die...Less shame for the family from having their precious sweet-heart in jail for the rest of her life."

My dad stopped everything for a moment. He looked at me through the screen, but Jack's hand was too tight around my neck for me to do anything but squirm in my chair. "She's not a murderer!" he exclaimed. "She didn't kill Olivia!"

"Is that so?" replied Jack.

"Yes." Mr. Moore insisted. "I know my daughter...I know my Quinn...She could never have killed anybody."

"Oh, wait...you're absolutely right," replied Jack, calmly. "She's not the one who killed her." He paused and gave a sinister smile, as if he was feeding on the suspense he was creating. "I did." he blurted out almost joy-fully. He nodded now with a boisterous laugh. "I killed her. I killed Olivia Swan." He laughed some more, and then suddenly became very serious as he released our throats and looked intensely at the laptop and added, "And you should've known better than to be so quick at pointing fingers when it comes to murder...Philip Moore...Especially a murder implicating your own kid."

Troy turned his head and gave me a smirk, and then he looked down at his chest where the mic was taped, and then looked back at me again. We got the confession.

"I knew she wasn't guilty all along," said Mr. Moore. "I knew it had to be scum like you who took Olivia's life."

"Either way, Quinn here and her boyfriend are going to die," replied Jack. "So whoever gets accused for murdering that dimwit won't matter."

Finally an electronic chime rang throughout the silent room, and a red banner appeared over the top right corner of Jack's laptop screen, with a message that read: TRANSFER COMPLETE.

Just as Jack was about to move back behind the chairs with the intention of snapping our necks (or whatever else he had in mind), Troy leaped up from his seat. I couldn't understand how he got out of his constraints, but he was free and up on his feet.

"GO!" he yelled to me as he violently pushed the laptop off of the table, causing it to break into pieces as soon as it hit the ground.

I was supposed to run, but I was still tied to the chair and could barely even move.

Jack's men took out their guns and fired. Gunshots and rebounding bullets filled the room, sparks flew, and the sound was so deafening, I thought for sure I had lost hearing for good; that is, if I'd survive the barrage of bullets that passed by me and grazed my clothing and hair and the very ropes that held me in place.

No sooner had the gunshots started, that over a dozen policemen flooded the room. They all targeted Jack, but they didn't shoot; instead, all warning him to freeze, but, he fell to the floor, surrounded by his own men, and by the cops, and right in front of me. Jack–professionally trained eagle eye sharpshooter–had been shot dead by a rebounding bullet which had been discharged from his very own gun.

I was frozen in place. Now that the gunfire had ceased, a police officer pulled me away, while still sitting in the chair–away from the scene, and away from Jack. Once he had me far enough, he removed my gag, and I immediately screamed when I saw Troy on the ground with a gunshot wound to his back.

"Troy!" I yelled. I called his name as they gently pulled me away from the bloody room. I tried my best to get out of my restraints, but the officers demanded I stay put. "I need to go back there!" I pleaded. "He's hurt! He's been shot! You can't leave him there; he needs help!"

"We'll get to him, Miss Moore," an officer assured me. "But we have to take care of your injuries, too, and you have to let us untie you."

I couldn't stop crying. I cried in a way I'd never cried in my whole entire life, in a way I didn't think was even humanly possible. It felt as if my own heart had been hit by a bullet. After laying on an ambulance stretcher, the paramedics administered a shot of morphine to help ease the pain of my broken hands and obvious broken ribs, and soon I just passed out from it all.

The last thing I saw before completely closing my eyes was two paramedics respectfully preparing a stretcher in preparation to accommodate Troy's lifeless body.