Chapter Seven: Hopefully, We’ll Get Some Answers

The begonias' beauty and the laurel tree's myth seem almost cruel in contrast to the dark cloud hanging over us. As Brock suggests, we resolve to talk to the embassy in the morning, but part of me fears even they won't be able to protect us.

Suddenly, a flicker of movement catches my eye. Amid the crowd, a shadow slips away behind a column. Instinctively, I grab Brock's arm, my words choked with a mixture of dread and determination. "Did you see that?"

He follows my gaze, brow furrowed. "See what? I just see tourists...lots of them."

"Someone was watching us," I insist. "There!" I point to where the shadow disappeared. With a shared look of apprehension, we weave through the crowd, eyes scanning frantically.

We reach the column, but no one is there. Only the cold, aged stone remains, silent witness to whatever just vanished. My heart thunders in my chest. "Am I imagining things?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. But then I remember last year when I saw someone in my backyard - Holder - and my instincts are rarely wrong.

Brock grips my hand, his answer as firm as the weathered rock beside us. "Maybe, but it's a risk we can't afford. Something's not right." He glances around, his movements swift and deliberate. "Let's get out of the open. They could be anywhere."

We make our way out of the temple complex, blending in with the departing tourists. Each rustle of leaves and every passerby has me jumping. The sense of being hunted gnaws at what's left of my vacation spirit.

As we finally reach the street below, I feel an oppressive weight descend upon me. The sunlight that was once warm now feels harsh. There is a sense that this isn't some isolated incident but the start of something much darker.

Brock pauses, pulling something from his pocket. It's his phone. He hesitates, finger hovering over the screen, then says, "I need to make a call."

Intuition tightens in my chest. "Who are you calling?"

He meets my gaze, a new kind of seriousness in his eyes. "Gray."

Brock holds the phone to his ear, his expression a mix of determination and grim resignation. He paces nervously, his voice lowered. "Gray...it's Brock. Listen, I need a favor. Something's happening here in Athens...it's not good."

I watch him, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Gray, always cool and collected, was the anchor that steadied us during the chaos surrounding Troy and Melanie. But would he listen this time, with the threat seemingly less concrete?

Brock's voice takes on an edge of desperation as he describes the bellhop, the threats, the lingering sense of danger. He pauses, listening intently to Gray's reply. With a sigh, he nods. "Yeah, I get it. We'll head to the embassy first thing – "

His words are cut short by a sudden commotion across the street. My stomach lurches as a dark sedan screeches to a halt, its tires squealing in protest. Two men, faces obscured by mirrored sunglasses, burst from the car and sprints in our direction.

"Brock, move!" I scream, just as the first shots crackle through the air.

We scatter, tourists erupting into a frenzy of shouts and running feet. I stumble, fear and adrenaline scrambling my thoughts. Brock yanks me behind a street vendor's cart, the flimsy wood providing scant protection from the renewed gunfire.

Through the chaos, a primal terror takes hold. This is no random act – they're intent on silencing us, and they aren't afraid to do it in broad daylight.

Amidst the pandemonium, Brock's voice breaks through the haze. "Run!" He shouts. "Circle around the backside of the market; meet me near the hotel!"

Without hesitation, I take off, weaving through panicked bodies and dodging fallen displays of souvenirs. The smell of cordite hangs heavy in the air, stinging my nostrils with a stark reminder that these bullets are no figment of our paranoia.

My lungs burn, and my legs threaten to give out, but I force myself onward. I need to reach the hotel and pray Brock makes it, too. I have so many questions and a creeping dread that the answers could be far worse than anything we could have imagined. If this all ties back to Troy, then how deep does it run? Who else might be involved?

Finally, I break through to the bustling street, catching a glimpse of the hotel in the distance. A wave of desperate relief washes over me. If I can just get there, maybe there's a chance...

But that hope is cruelly ripped away as a figure materializes directly in my path—a man I hadn't seen before but whose mirrored glasses mark him as part of this terrifying chase. His dark, slicked-back hair and deep blue eyes look dead as the veins in his neck jut out. He blocks my way, a sinister grin stretching across his face. He's at least 6 inches taller than me; there's no way I could outrun him.

And now, trapped and utterly alone, I know the game is truly over.

However, Brock emerges and charges the man before I can act or react. With all the commotion, I can’t tell what’s happening. Time distorts as the attacker stumbles back from Brock's unexpected charge. I seize the second of hesitation and dart past, my heart a frantic drumbeat in my ears. Adrenaline courses through me, fueling a desperate scramble toward the hotel.

Behind me, I hear the sickening thud of bodies colliding, followed by a grunt of pain. Brock's cry hangs in the air, chilling me to the bone. They're fighting, but for how long?

I push myself harder, my vision blurring with tears of fear and strain. The hotel looms closer, its familiar façade a beacon of hope in this terrifying chaos. I burst through the revolving doors, colliding with a surprised guest.

"Help!" I gasp, voice raw with desperation, "My husband's been attacked!"

Confusion swirls behind the front desk. Veronica, eyes wide with shock, fumbles for the phone. Security guards, usually more focused on checking luggage tags, spring into action, their expressions mirroring my terror.

"Where?" A gruff voice booms over my ragged breathing. A man with a thick neck and buzzcut emerges from a back office, taking charge. "Where he is?"

"Outside! I think he's hurt, please..." I trail off, unable to fight the sob building in my throat. They were so close - too close.

The security team doesn't wait for more. Two guards rush with me back outside, guns drawn and shouts filling the air, scattering the remnants of the panicked crowd. I strain to see through the chaos, searching desperately for any sign of Brock amidst the melee.

Then, I see him. He staggers back, clutching his shoulder. Blood stains his shirt, a shocking crimson against the pale fabric. The attacker, having recovered his knife, lunges again. My stomach twists with dread.

Just then, a gunshot rings out. The attacker crumples to the ground, a dark stain spreading across his back. One of the guards lowers his weapon, the other rushes to Brock's side.

I'm frozen in a strange limbo, caught between overwhelming relief and a growing sense of horror. The idyllic vacation spot has shattered, replaced by this brutal reality of blood and violence.

Brock collapses to his knees; the guards lift him as he grimaces, supporting him as they hurry back within the hotel's safety. They sweep past me, headed for the manager's office, likely to make a makeshift medical station.

My legs fail me. I sink to the polished marble floor, the coolness a sharp contrast to the wildfire raging within. The attack, the fear, the shockwave of witnessing Brock’s injury - it all crashes over me.

My sobs echo through the grand lobby, a stark contrast to the cheerful bustle of earlier that morning. This was never just a vacation; it was an escape. An escape from the trauma back home, an attempt to find some semblance of normalcy.

Now, even halfway across the world, that normality lies in bloody tatters at my feet.

I’d give anything to leave this place – now – but Brock is injured and needs medical attention.

I have to suck it up.