Bloody Hands

“Don’t worry, Sasha. You’ll get out of this mess.” I whispered to myself.
“You know what . . .” the terrorist guy says, “I got to go launch an attack. Don’t move.”
 “How do you launch so fast!?”
“We have everything installed before it’s time to launch an attack. In fact, we have several disabled bombs in this complex. Also, we have several different airplanes. The one I crashed was because of the bomb’s power. Don’t worry. I’ll have America wiped out, so then I can put you out of your misery.”
“No! America is a good country. Don’t--don’t judge off of one Secret Service member.”
“I have to leave.” he said.
“Wait!” I yelled.
“What is it this time?”
“Those people you’re killing--they’re innocent. They didn’t contribute to your parents death--they didn’t. Please don’t kill anyone.” I didn’t want to cry, but I began to.
“I don’t care.” He left before I could say anymore.
I didn’t get it. Why didn’t he care? They were just innocent people! I can’t believe no one has found his hideout yet. Still, even I don’t know where we are.
Outside I heard the plane. It was going to take off, and I had no control of stopping it.
Or could I?
Two of the people working for the terrorist (other terrorists) were in another room laughing and talking.
I looked at the keyhole of my chains. Pockets! I pulled out my paperclip I had in these jeans about a month ago. I accidentally left them in. I began to unlock.
I couldn’t believe it had worked. I hid behind most of the stuff, just in case. When I reached the door, I quietly got it open. Then, I ran outside at top speed. I ran at the plane, which just breached air.
It was a good try, right?
 “What the hell are you doing? You wanna get shot in the face?” one of the other terrorists said.
“Uh...” What am I supposed to say. “No. I was going to wish him a happy trip!”
“Your a prisoner,” the other one said, raising an eyebrow.
“But you know, be nice to anyone!”
They began to run after me. I ran as fast as I could. I swear it was miles. My legs began to burn. My head began to hurt. My sight began to blur. I had to get away. Somewhere.
I looked behind me. There were the terrorists I talked to, and the French guys.
“Je suis fatigué!” one yelled. (I am tired!)
I kept running, but I wondered how long I would be running. My legs slowed down.
I tripped, and my heat hit the ground. I cursed. I was trying to get up with all of my might, but I couldn’t. I felt hands on me, and then black.