Breath 25
It’s been minutes since the silver sedan rolled to a stop,
its tires crunched over gravel
settled in a puff of dust.
The desert night stretched wide and empty around them,
the only sounds comes from the gold bangle bracelets
of the Indian guy’s wife, and the distant whistle of wind.
“Stay here,” the agent said, leaning over to kiss the Indian guy’s wife
quickly on the lips.
“I’m gonna find my brother.”
He stepped out and shut the door with a dull thud, then walked into the darkness,
his figure swallowed by the shadows beyond the headlights.
In the back seat, Ploy stirred. She sat up with a wince,
disoriented, her wrists sore from the bindings.
“Where… where are we? What happened?” she croaked.
Her mother’s hand found hers in the dark, trembling.
Ploy turned to her, switching to Thai. “แม่ คุณโอเคมั้ย?” (Mom, are you okay)
Her mother gave the faintest nod,
her face streaked with dust and sweat.
Up front, the Indian guy’s wife flipped down the visor
and smeared on a layer of red lipstick,
checking herself in the cracked mirror.
She looked like someone about to walk into a
cocktail party—detached, glossy, composed.
“Are you deaf?” Ploy snapped. “Why aren’t you answering me?”
The woman arched an eyebrow and tossed the lipstick back into her purse.
“Because I have nothing to say.”
Ploy’s voice rose. “Open the door. Why are we locked in?”
The woman sighed and turned to face her fully.
“Look, it’s not my call. I didn’t bring you here.
Just sit still and wait for him to come back.”
Ploy leaned forward, fury rising in her chest.
“And what if we don’t sit still? What if we don’t wait?”
The woman held her gaze for a long second. Then, with a shrug of her shoulder,
she reached under her coat and pulled out a small gun.
“Then just this.”
She pointed the gun at Ploy’s mother—and fired.
The shot rang out like a firecracker in a tomb.
Ploy screamed as her mother collapsed beside her,
blood blooming through her blouse.
Everything happened in an instant.
The driver’s side door flung open.
“What the hell—”
The Indian guy stood frozen,
blood still soaking through his tops,
staring at his wife as if seeing her for the first time.
She spun toward him, gun still in hand, eyes wide with panic.
She hadn’t expected him to survive—let alone walk up to her with a weapon drawn.
Her hand trembled. Her lips parted, trying to explain—
but no words came.
“I just want to know why,” he said, voice breaking as he took a shaky step forward.
“You’re my wife. You stabbed me. Why? What did I do wrong?”
His voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes.
She blinked hard, jaw tightening.
“You didn’t,” she whispered. “It wasn’t you.
It’s me. I changed. People change, you know?”
“Did you run off with someone? Do you—do you love him?”
Her chin quivered.
A tear spilled down her cheek.
In the backseat, Ploy sobbed softly, holding her mother close,
watching this unraveling nightmare through tear-streaked lashes.
The Indian guy’s hand rose.
The gun didn’t shake.
And neither did he when he pulled the trigger.
His wife dropped like a puppet with its strings cut—dead before she hit the ground.
She never had the chance to say yes.
Footsteps pounded across the sand.
The agent returned, weapon already drawn, breath sharp, eyes scanning the scene.
Blood. Bodies.
No hesitation.
He raised his gun and shot the Indian guy square in the chest.
The man collapsed on top of his wife—
his final thought: She really did love him... the man who killed me.
Ploy screamed.
The agent turned, fired again.
The bullet tore through her shoulder, slamming her back against the car.
She crumpled, groaning, clutching her arm.
“STOP!” a voice boomed.
A single shot cracked like lightning across the desert.
The agent staggered—then dropped.
Behind him stood his brother—the Barista.
He stepped into the headlights, still gripping the smoking gun, horror etched on his face.
“What the hell just happened?” he muttered.
The agent coughed, blood bubbling from his mouth.
He reached for his brother with one shaking arm—
but before he could speak—
CRACK.
A second bullet.
His body jerked, then went limp.
The Barista recoiled, spinning toward the direction of the shot.
Nick stepped out of the shadows, face hard, gun raised—
smoke trailing from the barrel.
His voice was ice and fire at once.
“Where’s Tom?”
The Barista didn’t move.
Nick took a step closer, gun steady, eyes wild with fear and fury.
“Where is he? Where is fucking Tom?”
