Vicious Justice

by Tobi Doyle

  “No.”

  “Alyosha…”

  I faced Daniel, and his eyes widened like he’d just taken a step and the ground was much farther away than expected.

  “She’s not going anywhere.” His tone pragmatic, he shifted his weight, reminding me of a puppy ready to run, but waiting for permission.

  I looked back toward the salon and knew he was right. “Fine.” I’d seen Adrianna there a year ago, her head thrown back with joy, laughing with her client. Intrigued, I’d walked inside and waited. But I was not the kind of man she deserved.

  Daniel rocketed toward the car. I followed, torn between wanting Adrianna to have my phone number, and knowing it was better to forget. But I wouldn’t. I was haunted by the sound of her scream, the image of her on the ground, fiercely fighting a losing battle with a bastard.

  He’d have killed her.

  Daniel drove while I ate my sandwich. His fingers tapped the wheel in a nervous rhythm. He pulled into the warehouse complex and I motioned for him to stop.

  “Stay here, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” I picked up the deli bag and opened the car door.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” I closed the door on the subject and the car. He wasn’t ex-Spetsnatz, and wasn’t ready for what needed to be done. And his soul was still pure.

  I knocked on the warehouse door twice, warning Dima, a brother by choice, our bond forged during our military training and serving Spetsnatz together. I unlocked the door and pushed it open, my hands held up to give him a moment to adjust to the brightness outside and recognize me.

  “That better be lunch,” Dima sounded bored.

  “It is.” I stepped inside. I closed the door and handed the bag to Dima. A metal frame from a collapsible gazebo was covered with thick plastic sheeting and created an insulated room where Herndon sat.

  Dima grinned, the scar bisecting his left cheek puckered giving him the appearance of a cruel villain, worse than any comic book could portray. He excelled at interrogation, his training in the Russian Special Forces capitalized on his sadistic upbringing, creating a tool at the cost of his soul.

  Dima, Vanya, and I—all tools, specialized in cruelty, all soulless. Brothers forged in fear and hate, and loyal until our last breath.

  Herndon sat naked on a metal chair, handcuffed, duct-taped, and cable-tied. The bastard would not be leaving without assistance. And probably not alive.

  “Did you learn anything?” I asked.

  “He has sensitive feet.” Dima’s unenthusiastic answer caused Herndon to shiver.

  Thin purple lines crossed Herndon’s sole. “Whip?”

  “Cane,” Dima said around a mouthful of sandwich.

  I pulled a water bottle out of the bag and twisted the cap off. I held it above Herndon’s face, and yanked on the rag stuffed in his mouth. It fell onto the blue tarp that carpeted the space.

  He moaned, a weak sound, perhaps saving his energy, or maybe the man had given up. I poured a small amount of water and he opened his mouth, greedily chasing the drops. He swallowed and I continued to drizzle the water.

  “Help me, please.” His voice was like sandpaper against my nerves.

  Dima grunted, disgust and anger balled into that one sound. But all I could hear was Adrianna. My hand reached out, but before I touched him Dima’s sharp inhale reminded me to stop. No touching. Leave no trace of DNA.

  “How does it feel to be the victim?” I allowed the hate to bleed into my words.

  His face crumpled. “I’m sorry.”

  “Pathetic,” Dima said.

  “Why are you sorry?” I tossed the water bottle into the garbage.

  “Confess everything.” Dima stood behind me, a thin strip of wood rested in his hands.

  Herndon’s eyes widened, and he shifted, unable to shrink away; stopped by his restraints. “Please. I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” I leaned forward, crowding his face.

  “For everything,” he whimpered.

  Disgusted, I stepped back.

  Dima flinched and struck Herndon’s foot lightning fast with the cane, followed by Herndon’s thunderous wail.

  We waited until he stopped crying. His head hung low. “What do you want me to say?”

  The question hung in the air. Disbelief stupefied me. Was he feigning innocence or that obtuse?

  Dima stepped forward, eyes wide, white-hot against his flushed face. His blood-red mouth gnarled, teeth bared, ready to consume. “Explain why you help rapists.” Dima swung the cane and it struck Herndon’s thigh. “That was for Tania.”

  Herndon’s body bowed.

  Fwack. “For Maria.”

  Herndon screamed, unintelligible noises from an animal.

  Swick. “For Kathryn.”

  Herndon threw his head back, his mouth wide open, sucking in a breath. A breath he would have denied Adrianna.

  “For last night.” Dima’s voice rasped.

  The final strike landed across Herndon’s face.

  Dima dropped the cane, exhaling, his breath blasted between his cheeks, and he growled like a wolf threatening.

  Herndon’s ear turned bright red, a purple stripe swelling, creating a ridge. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” He continued to scream, a high-pitched squeal that scritched in my brain.

  “Enough,” I commanded.

  Herndon sucked in gulps of air, held them tight and released them slowly.

  Dima turned away, refusing to look at him. His fists were balled, shoulders brittle, like the violence had hardened him and he might shatter.

  Herndon’s whimpering continued. I pulled out my phone to check the time and texted Daniel I needed fifteen more minutes.

  Herndon’s head lolled, one side of his face swollen. His good eye peered at me. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Do you deserve to live?” I asked.

  “What do you want?” He sounded like a defeated man with nothing to bargain but still hoped for mercy.

  I crouched down in front of him. “Who paid you to bury the case against Tania’s rapist?”

  He shook his head. “Nobody. There wasn’t enough evidence.”

  Dima snarled, turned and his hand cocked back.

  Herndon squealed. “Nobody. I was never paid.” He rushed the words out.

  Dima’s hand fell and he looked at me. Corruption, his eyes said, blackmail.

  “Blackmail,” I said. “You were exchanging favors.”

  Herndon jerked his head. “Noooo.”

  “From who?” I asked.

  Herndon cried, desperate sobs.

  Dima cursed under his breath and we waited for the worthless piece of flesh to respond.

  “Please, he’ll hurt my wife,” Herndon whimpered.

  “Your widow, you mean,” Dima said.

  “Oh god.” Herndon’s tears annoyed me.

  Dima looked at me. They always pray at the end, his eyes said.

  “You have to believe me. I looked at the rape case, there wasn’t enough evidence. It would have been tough to prosecute. I swear. It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

  I looked at Dima. He’s lying, my eyes said. “What about last night? What was that about?” I asked.

  “She was a mistake. I wouldn’t have really hurt her.” Herndon’s eyes were wide, his eyebrows arched in honest surprise, like he believed himself.

  A haze clouded my vision as I stared at the evil who had no remorse for his actions.

  I picked up the cane Dima dropped and swished it through the air before striking Herndon’s other ear.

  He howled.

  I struck Herndon again. “I can do this all day. Tell me who will kill your wife?”

  Herndon lifted his chin and peered at me through swollen eyes. “Fuck you. I know she’s already dead.”

  Dima’s hand gripped my arm, pulled me back, and prevented me from strangling Herndon with my bare hands.

  “Alyosha, give me a minute with him.” Dima’s other hand held a garrote.

>   I stepped outside, closed the door and breathed the fresh air. My hands shook with the need to kill him. Dima joined me a minute later. He finger-combed his black hair back, sweeping away the death. We both watched an airplane slide low across the horizon, ready to land a mile away.

  “He thinks I was sent to kill him.” Dima pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and dropped one onto his palm. He slid his gaze to me. “This feels…”

  “Unsettling,” I finished for him.

  He nodded and pulled out his lighter. The cigarette bobbed between his lips.

  “I thought you were going to give those up.” I waved away the smoke.

  Dima rolled his eyes. “How is the girl?”

  I exhaled. The image of Adrianna walking away, the way her hair shone, relieved my tension. I faced Dima and smiled, a real smile, that began in my chest and ended with the want to hold her all night.

  Dima chuckled, the sound rusty from his throat. “You saw her today, then?”

  “I talked to her.”

  Dima waited for me to say more. But there was nothing to say. Men like Herndon had friends and enemies that would look for him. Any connection to me would bring her harm.

  “I’ve got this,” Dima said, his chin nodding toward the warehouse. “Your part is over, Alyosha. Go.”

  I cut my eyes to him. “Thank you, mother.”

  He rolled his shoulders back, reminding me he was senior. But that was before we became American civilians. “Vanya will help with clean up. Go raise money for turtles or something.”

  “Turtles?”

  Dima smiled and clapped my back. “Get your ass out of here. I’ve got this, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Daniel looked up from behind the wheel, reading my face and waiting for instruction. I buckled in.

  “The restaurant?” he asked.

  “Sure. Drive by the salon, first.”

  Daniel drove and I watched the scenery outside. San Francisco’s industrial area quickly changed to residential, then business, with pockets of homes haphazardly pushed between old factories and freeways. We passed Vanya’s mattress store. Vanya also owned a fishing boat and a dry cleaning store, too. He lived modestly compared to Dima and me, preferring to remain hidden in the city. Dima’s blood relatives forced him into notoriety, being the nephew of a mafia boss limited his ability to blend in. The scar didn’t help.

  Daniel slowed on the city streets, and I saw Adrianna’s car parked across from the salon. I couldn’t see her but knowing she wouldn’t have to walk far to her car calmed me.

  “Daniel, what does her car need?”

  Daniel cleared his throat. “The power steering isn’t working, the transmission is touchy, the tires are nearly bald, and there’s probably something wrong with the starter.” He looked over at me. “On the positive side, it’s probably paid for and her insurance would be cheap.”

  Adrianna was probably living paycheck to paycheck and working for someone else wasn’t going to help her get ahead. Daniel turned into the parking garage of my building.

  “Look into the cost benefits of owning a salon. Find any currently for sale, the area they serve, a full prospectus.”

  Daniel parked the car and pulled the keys out. He faced me, his lips pinched holding back his thoughts.

  “Spit it out.” I dared him to continue, to bring up the past, to open those wounds.

  “It’s probably cheaper to ask her for a date.” Daniel sat statue-still waiting for my response.

  Never again. “You think your sister would agree with you?” We’d buried her and his parents on a cold day in Russia.

  “Alyosha, Valeria was murdered by a gang.” He slammed the car door and his steps chased mine. “Don’t blame her for your choice to be lonely.”

  I turned and glared.

  Daniel held his ground.

  “She would be alive if she had never met me.” Never again.

  “You don’t know that. She could have died in a car accident. An aneurysm. Maybe it was fate.”

  “Fate didn’t make her a target. I did.” I stood over him now, looking down. He had her eyes.

  “No, a sociopath chose her. She had complained to the police about the gang. That made her a target. Not you.”

  “Are you so sure?” I asked, my voice quiet. The words hit him with power and I could see his pupils retract. The memory of his home riddled with bullets from the drive-by shooting four years ago was still vivid in my memory. The gang had retaliated after Dima and I removed the drug dealers selling outside her home. His parents and Valeria were found at the kitchen table, only Daniel was spared because of an early class that morning.

  Daniel shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t Valeria’s. It was theirs.”

  And yet, even before the worms feasted on Herndon, his wife would be targeted. Her innocence wouldn’t protect her. I would keep Adrianna safe by staying away.

  Chapter Five

  Monday morning, Elena poked her head in my bedroom. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Yeah.” In between nightmares and panic attacks there had been periods of sleep-like numbness.

  She sat on my bed. “You wanna talk?”

  “Not yet.” Not ever.

  She squeezed my hand. “Do you want me to stay?”

  I squeezed her hand back. “Nah. I’m fine.”

  “Okay.” She gave me a sad smile, her lips turned up, but her eyes pinched with worry.

  I didn’t bother faking a return smile. I forced my legs over the bedside, showered, and followed my Monday morning routine. I used to enjoy the solitude, but the hanging plant in the front room cast a Herndon-like shadow, and I was sure he was waiting to attack. I vacuumed the house with a knife tucked in my back pocket, wishing I could channel more Lara Croft and less Betty Crocker.

  And I didn’t want to leave the house. A strange situation considering this was the place I despised growing up. Home is a four-letter word. And stupid things made me flinch; like the sound of the refrigerator kicking on, or the creak of the wood floor. And then came the tears. I blamed PMS, but it was PTSD. A sudden rush of adrenaline that started with a noise, the ticking of my heart, my nerves over-sensitized, making me uncomfortable in my skin, and lead to the feeling of isolation that morphed into helplessness. And then anger. Anger at myself for feeling helpless.

  Monday night, I googled Alexei Bykov and read every article. There wasn’t much, other than the few mentions of his restaurant, the charity dinner, and definitely no mention of his car-driving minion, or life-long friend. And how did that guy get home?

  Not my concern.

  It was better to forget.

  Except my brain kept returning to the alley, to the smell of Herndon, to his manicured fingers tight around my neck, to the sound of his voice. You stupid bitch.

  I pulled up Alyosha’s picture on my phone and slept with him watching over me. I welcomed memories of Alyosha, the image of fierce face, and his deep voice, a melodic cadence that lulled me to sleep. You’re safe.

  Tuesday, Elena did my makeup. She rushed through it, her own hair pulled into a ponytail. She was beautiful, always. She looked like our mother from the nose up. Her eyes tilted up making it look like she was always smiling. She had our father’s mouth, full bottom lip and pretty cupid’s bow that seemed to promise innocence, but her jaw, set in determination, promised to kick your ass.

  “Wear a turtleneck.” She smoothed the foundation along my jawline. “The bruises are fading well. You should hit a tanning salon to camouflage them.”

  “Good idea,” I murmured. She stared at me in the mirror. Worry puckered her forehead and guilt stabbed at me. “I’m better. I’m sorry I was such a…”

  “It’s PTSD. From before. It got triggered.” Elena put her finger under my chin. “Close your eyes.”

  “Don’t go all Dr. Phil on me.”

  “I’m doing your eye makeup. And our crap is more Jerry Springer than Dr. Phil.”

  “True.
” I felt her lightly brush over my eyelids.

  “Still…” Elena’s patient tone washed over me. “It’s PTSD, and therapy fades the scars. It doesn’t make them go away.”

  I opened my eyes and she was inches from me. “You have scars, too.” Like she’d never had a serious boyfriend, although our neighbor, Eric, definitely wanted to change that.

  She nodded. “And I work through them every day. I’m doing it for my future self. You get that, right? Who you are today—bruised, scared, just getting by—you don’t have to be that in the future.” She poked my forehead with her finger, emphasizing each word. “Fix. This. Shit.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I stood and hugged her. “You’re gonna make a good psychologist.”

  She hugged me back. “I left a blank journal on your bed. I want you to write in it.”

  Step number one of the PTSD program, journal your feelings. “Fine.”

  She released me. “Good. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Her phone buzzed and she groaned. “Shit, I’m late. Suzanne’s out front. I’m gonna borrow your brown boots.”

  I combed my hair and listened to her stomping down the hall in my boots, and the slam of the front door.

  She’d left a pretty teal journal on my bed with gold cherry blossoms stamped across the front. I tucked it under my pillow. For my future self. When I wasn’t bruised, scared, and just getting by. I couldn’t even imagine who that person would be? What would she want? I wore my red turtleneck and my black maxi skirt, adding red pumps. My feet would hate me, but I needed more color today. For me.

  I arrived to work and unlocked the salon door. The acrylic tang of nail polish permeated the air, mixed with the scents of bleach and hair dye. I stuffed my purse into my station cubby, moving the jumbo bottle of hair gel to the side. I headed to the laundry room which Marlo liked to call the break space, to make the coffee and fold the clean towels. Marlo purchased the coffee maker from a restaurant supply store and it was ugly, but reliable, and hidden in the back corner of the laundry room. Marlo bought fancy paper cups, but the coffee itself was gross. Some weird blend which resembled coffee in caffeine content, color, and consistency only.