September 2
HARRY
My fingers were wrapped tightly in my hair, pulling harshly. I welcomed the pain, pulling harder in my frustration. It was a distraction from the all consuming panic I felt. My heart was hammering in my chest to the point of pain, echoing in my ears like the sound of the ocean. My body felt heavy, weighted down with fear, a tingling running through my limbs.
I had been pacing a frantic strip across my living room floor for over an hour. Constantly, walking, moving, pacing. I was almost certain I had formed an indent in the carpet, but I didn't even fucking care.
What was happening? This couldn't be real. Surely this was all a dream, a new twisted nightmare to change up my monotonous regular horrors. There was no way what I had just seen had really happened. It wasn't possible that my greatest fear of the last four months had actually happened.
Where was she? What happened?
The phone was pressed tightly to my ear, the irritating elevator music flowing through the line doing nothing to ease my mood or panic. If anything, it just irritated me further.
Why hadn't anyone answered my call? I had been on hold for over twenty minutes, this being my third call to the National Geographic office in New York, demanding to know what was happening with my girlfriend. The first call I had been cut off; the second, I had hung up after waiting on hold for what felt like an eternity. This time, I was waiting. I didn't care how long it took, I needed to speak to someone. Anyone.
The girl who originally answered my call was useless. She knew nothing, obviously, just being some girl at a desk. It was possible that no one in New York even knew what had happened yet in Somalia, my only knowledge coming from the coincidence of being online with Lane at the exact moment all fucking hell broke loose.
I released my grip on my hair, rubbing my free hand over my face.
This couldn't be happening. For the love of God, if I lost her, I would have nothing. Had I not lost enough? Was I that horrible of a person that any time I actually cared for someone, they were taken away? They were hurt, pained and killed, for no other reason than they were in my life. I was like a plague, a twisted infliction. And if my relationship with her passed on my fate to her, I would never forgive myself.
"Mr Styles?" a deep, even voice greeted me. I almost tripped over my own feet, surprised and frantic to finally have someone on the end of this line.
"Yes, Im here," I said, my voice clearly panicked.
"This is Mike Ward," he said, and I vaguely recognized his name. "I believe we met at the NYU student exhibit back in the spring."
"Have you heard anything?" I blurted, not in the mood for niceties. "Where is she?"
His momentary silence annoyed me. Either he was taken aback from my abrupt discard of his introduction, or he had bad news. Either way, I wanted to reach through the damn phone and strangle him if he didn't speak soon.
"We haven't heard anything yet," he said calmly. "I am sorry to keep you waiting, but until your call, we knew nothing if the attack. While you were on hold, we have been trying to get in touch with the local military to try and send out a search party."
"So you've heard nothing from them?" I asked, my body sagging back against the back of my couch.
"No," he said solemnly. "It is most likely that they had to leave immediately, and have been unable to find a form of contact. Trust me when I say we have some of the best in the country working to protect our staff and those with DWB. We will be working endlessly to reach them, and to bring them home immediately."
"So this will be over?" I asked, eager. "When you find her, she will be coming home?"
"Most definitely," he assured me. "Our main concern right now is finding them, and getting them out of that region."
I knew his assurance should offer me some comfort, but it did nothing to ease the pain I felt in my chest. She would be coming home, but first, she needed to be found.
"Have you been in touch with her family?" he asked, and I startled.
"No,"
"Would you like to call them, or do you prefer for me to?
Jesus. I hadn't even thought about calling her parents. I had only met them once. They probably didn't even remember me. How the hell was I supposed to call them up and explain something like this to them?
"I...I'm not..."
"That's fine," he interrupted, sensing my turmoil. "I will call them once I am off the phone with you."
"Thank you," I sighed, feeling so completely helpless and useless at this moment. I could do nothing. I couldn't find my girl, I couldn't help her, and apparently I couldn't even contact her fucking parents to let them know what may or may not have happened to her.
I was a complete shit.
"If I hear anything, I will be sure to contact you," he assured me, the tension in his own voice mimicking that of mine.
"Thank you,"
After hanging up, I felt no better for this contact. I had prayed, albeit stupidly, that he would have answers. It had been a little over an hour since I lost contact with Lane, and I suppose in that time I had assumed that someone from her team would have contacted someone. Surely, they had to reach out somewhere. And wouldn't word reach back to New York, providing updates on the team and their safety?
Yes, I was certain all those things would happen. But with time. Unfortunately, time was a heartless bitch, seemingly intent on doing nothing but tormenting me, causing me pain, and filling my ragged mind with horrific and frightening possibilities.
Leaning back against the couch again, I clutched the back with my hands. I could tell I was holding on a little too tightly, my knuckles turning white. But I didn't care. I needed to hold on to something. Anything. Because I felt like I was falling, drowning and dying, and if I didn't hold on to something I would just disappear.
What was I supposed to do? It was Sunday, and thank fucking God I didn't have to go to work today. I couldn't even think of trying to function at work tomorrow, or the next day. Or, if I was being honest, any day until I knew she was okay. Until I had her with me.
Quickly, my phone was in my hand again, dialing the number of my supervisor. We had been told to contact him if any concerns arose, and I figured this counted as a big assed concern. The conversation was short, and I kept it to only the direct, important parts.
My girlfriend is in Somalia. Her camp has been attacked. I don't know where she is. I'm going back to New York until I get word from her.
Needless to say, my leave was granted without exception. I was certain that of all the excuses for absence he had ever heard, mine was undoubtedly a first.
The moment I finished that call, I was back on my computer, searching for a flight back to New York. Simultaneously, I was on the phone with Niall, telling him I would be back that night, and need to crash with him. His reaction was unmistakably Niall, a flurry of Irish accented curse words, worrying, and promises to 'clean all his shit out of my old room'.
By the end of the hour, I had a flight booked, and was throwing random items into a carryon. I didn't even have the time or patience to deal with checking a bag. I could make due living out of a carry on for however long it took. And if heaven forbid it took longer, I would just buy what I needed. My only concern at the moment was getting back to New York, knowing that once found, that would be where they would return.
Storming into my small bathroom, I started gathering the few items I would need. Razor, toothbrush, whatever. I could hardly even think straight, my mind a blur. I was foggy, unable to think of anything clearly for more than a few moments. My thoughts were intermixed with horrific images of unknown possibilities, flashed with whether or not I would need to bring that extra pair of jeans.
My arms were filled with all the annoying little items from my bathroom, as my phone vibrated in my pocket. I all but threw the razor, toothbrush and deodorant onto the bed, pulling my phone out quickly.
"Hello?"
"Harry?" an unfamiliar voice called.
"Yes?"
A small shutter sounded through the phone, and I furrowed my brow in confusion. "This is Cathy Jennings," she continued. "Lanes mom,"
Oh fuck.
"We just spoke with Mike Ward. He told us what happened."
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"He said you were talking to her...at the time,"
Clearing my throat, I tried to even my voice. This poor woman was clearly distraught. Just as I was. The last thing I needed was to make this worse for her, to show her my panic.
"I was,"
"Do you know what happened?" she asked, and I closed my eyes at the pleading in her voice. "Is she alright."
"I wish I knew," I admitted. "I just heard the gunfire, and the iPad was knocked to the floor. I couldn't see or hear anything more other than the fighting."
She stifled a sob, and I mentally smacked myself in the face. Nothing I said, if it held any honesty, would make this better for her. Because the truth of the scene was terrifying, and I had no answers that would offer her any support.
"I am flying back to New York now," I said, wanting to get off the image of Lane. "I want to be there when she comes home."
"That's good," she swallowed, obviously struggling. "She will want to see you." She was silent for a long moment, and I could tell she was trying to compose herself. "She loves you very much."
The pain that stabbed through my chest at her mothers declaration made me weak, and I had no choice but to sit back onto my bed with a bounce.
She had talked to her parents about me. They did know how I was, and that I was a part of her life. As if this all didn't feel too horribly real, now I was also contending with the presence of her family, along side my own fear and grief.
How did I do this?
"Please let us know when you get to New York, son," she said, her voce only marginally stronger. "And if you hear anything from our baby,"
"I will," I assured her, the lump in my throat making it so fucking difficult to talk.
Hanging up from her mother, I sat on the edge of my bed. How had this day turned on a dime so God damn fast? This morning, I was planning a stupid romantic Skype date, swearing at the fucking wax streak on my wall, and worrying about my lack of vase.
Now, I was worrying about whether or not I would ever see Lane again.