Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of a Thing of Happiness [Completed]

Act I, Scene VIII

"Madame needs to go outside to get some fresh air," Dockle said, scooting to stand close next to me, so as to create a barrier to hide my father. Dad silently hid behind one of the columns. I nodded agreement.

"What is with army uniform?" Abadi questioned. I choked on a cough. I had completely forgotten about changing into my ACU.

"Madame will be leaving for Iraq soon. She requests the presence of her footmen," Dockle added. "Would you be so kind as to fetch them for her?"

The farmer looked slightly suspicious, but he went back upstairs. Seconds later, Patrick and Louis slipped down the stairs. I gaped at them.

"How did he not see you?" I whispered.

"Practice," Louis monotoned. Patrick nodded vigorously.

"We need to get out of here NOW," Dockle interrupted. "Everyone's out except us and Iliana's father. You two hurry up and get him out; I don't think he can walk very well."

"Yessir," Patrick said with a grin. Louis and he walked over to Dad and wrapped his arms around their shoulders. "Okay, Captain, you're okay," Patrick soothed.

"Iliana?" Dad muttered, dazed. Moving too fast must have made him dizzy.

"She's right behind us, sir."

I watched Patrick and Louis gently ease Dad outside, then turned and looked over at Dockle. "What now?"

"We need to make sure the farmer doesn't realize what's happening," he replied.

"Doesn't realize what?"

Dockle and I paled and turned around. The farmer stood between us and the door, hands on hips.

"Madame," he greeted with a sneer. Dockle put an arm out in front of me.

"We really need to leave now," Dockle said. I nodded.

"Oh, I not think so," the farmer countered. "You not going anywhere." Without breaking eye contact, he slowly slipped a hand grenade out of the folds of his jacket. I gasped.

"Your head..." the farmer began slowly, pointing at Dockle, "around $100,000 American dollars. Your head," he continued, pointing at me, "around $200,000 American dollars. I will be rich farmer; you will be dead Americans!" His black eyes lit up with more hate than I have ever seen in my life.

"Now, let's not overreact," Dockle said, attempting to be diplomatic, his arm still draped protectively across my chest. He backed us up slowly.

"Iliana," he breathed out of the corner of his mouth. "I suggest we run."

"On the count of three?" I breathed back. He nodded, not breaking eye contact with the farmer.

One.

Two.

Three.

Dockle and I made a mad sprint for the door behind us. I heard a laugh, then heard the sound of metal on wood.

NO....
   
BAM!