The keys are in the car. I don’t know where I am, but I drive. I drive out of the docks, over hills. In the far distance I see lights, the bay, the bridge.
I have no phone. I have no idea where it disappeared to, or when. I head for downtown San Francisco, and when I see a police cruiser at an intersection, I come to a screeching halt next to it and dash out.
“Help!”
Chapter 10
Christian
Listening to Kerry’s fading footsteps, I close my eyes and reach inside, past the searing pain in my chest that’s distracting me from assessing if I’m surviving or if I’m dying. I’m short of breath, so probably a lung shot to hell, collapsed. My heart is beating rapidly but steady which is a good sign. Rapid is probably because of the adrenaline and the pain and not a sign that I’ll go into shock. I cough blood, so airway and vessels damaged. I can bleed out into the lung cavity, which isn’t good news at all.
I pat along my chest for the entrance wound, but the clothes are in the way and I don’t have enough strength to start pulling up my shirt. The shape of my phone in the suit jacket makes my heart jolt. I struggle with it for a while, bloodied fingers slipping on the smooth surface. Finally I get it unlocked and manage to find my contact list.
Eric Reed is one of the most capable people I know. I don’t like him, but he’s one of few I trust to maybe get me out of this mess.
“Yeah?” He sounds a bit stressed. “What’s up? I just got home from a trip. Literally just dropped my bag on the couch”
At first, I only manage a gasp. He should know it’s me. We don’t have each other’s names programmed, but most of us have other, randomly chosen, names.
“Chris?”
“I’m not in good shape,” I manage to whisper.
“Where are you?” He’s suddenly all business. No stupid questions.
“West— Harbor. Far off by—” I cough up a clot of blood, and some fresh. A shudder wracks my body. I don’t think this is a good sign at all. “The warehouse.”
“I’m on my way.”
“I think I’m dying, bro,” I gasp. My heart pounds even faster, a light, rapid thud-thud-thud. Not good. Not good at all. I’m losing blood.
“I’m getting an ambulance for you. Stay alive. I’m disconnecting. You’ll stall me. See you in a bit.”
It goes silent.
It’s me, the sound of the wind and the waves. There’s a chill in the salty air that’s getting worse as the night closes in and the longer I lie on the uneven ground. It’s very symbolic. I don’t dare to move, afraid I’ll do more damage. The thought that I might not make it doesn’t leave my mind, and yes, there’s regret. I have hurt so many people, bulldozed my way through life, fucked up from an early age. I have been looking for something I have never found.
My mind inadvertently strays to Kerry and a stab of pain shoots through my heart. A pain that’s got nothing to do with the bullet wound. Great survival instincts. That lady is one of a fucking kind, and I still need to do her in. If I don’t, someone else will. She’s doomed no matter what. It’s all so beyond fucked.
I wasn’t playing her. I really do like her. What I feel doesn’t matter in this world, though.
Soon nothing will matter to me because I really don’t think I’ll make it. I can only take shallow breaths, and they don’t give me much air anymore. I’m shaking uncontrollably and my heart flutters. The cold, analytical Christian in me concludes that I’m about to go into shock, that I am bleeding out internally.
I can’t believe one tiny woman would be the one who took me down. I don’t know whether to admire her or hate her.
Angela. Who’ll protect her now? I pray my brothers are up for the task.
The faint sound of a siren that keeps getting stronger, and the blue lights bouncing off the facades of the surrounding buildings, give me a ray of hope.
A black Mercedes and an ambulance simultaneously come to a halt right next to me, the headlights hurting my eyes.
“Christian. Talk to me!”
Eric’s voice, as if from a distance.
Slamming of car doors, a rattle of wheels on the ground. People. Needles. Fluids. I’m being lifted. Talked to. I struggle to answer, but no sounds pass my lips. I need to tell them I can barely breathe, but I can’t get enough air.
The sounds become clanky, metallic, fading.
“You’re built like a rock, Christian. Like one of those ancient ones. Grand Canyon. Indestructible.”
I blink against the harsh light.
Carmen’s voice. Carmen Payne. Salvatore’s baby mama in the weirdest arrangement you can think of.
“Grand Canyon is the absence of rocks,” I grit out. “It’s why they call it canyon. What the fuck, they put you on watch duty?”
“Ay Dios mio. As charming as ever. I’m no more pleased than you are.” Despite all her years in the States, she still has a sexy-as-hell Spanish accent, the Colombian beauty by my side.
I scoff. I shouldn’t have done that. Pain shoots through my chest, making me cough.
“What day is it?” I gasp.
“Tuesday.”
I try to think, try to remember what day it was when I tried to… tried to kill Kerry. Thursday. It was fucking Thursday!
“Have I been out five days?”
“Mm… more or less.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“You have the strongest need for control I’ve ever seen. You’ve been awake even though you were unconscious. Your eyes have been open. You’ve freaked me out.”
“Don’t I always freak you out?”
She doesn’t answer.
Carmen isn’t overly fond of any of us. She’s the doting mom of David, and apart from that she stays the hell away from the Salvatore organization. She hates everything we do, what we stand for, but she’s loyal to the last bone to her son, and honors the agreement with his father.
“Who did you piss off to end up with me?”
She sighs. “We’ve taken turns. I ran out of luck.”
“Yeah. Fine. Tell someone else to get here. Eric. Ivan. Someone I can talk to.”
“I love you too, you arrogant piece of shit.”
I close my eyes. The scraping sound of the chair when she stands assaults my ears and I grit my teeth. When I’m alone, I drift back into blessed sleep.
“Chris. You awake?”
I jolt and open my eyes. Nathan.
“They pulled you from whatever corner of the world you had holed up in?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, my brother meeting his maker.”
“I’m feeling loved today. First Carmen got pissy with me, and now you.”
“The way I heard it, it was the other way around, with you being a grumpy shit. She had a go at me over you.”
“You’d be grumpy too with a hole in your chest.” I pat down my side, my skin covered by an ugly blue gown, feeling nothing but a small bandage. “What the fuck? I thought I’d have been cut open from head to toe?”
“Yeah— You were hemorrhaging air, not that heavy on the bleeding. They didn’t have to expose your innards, it was enough with a chest tube apparently.” He pulls the chair to the bed and sits next to me. “What happened?”
My feelings about what happened are a jumbled mess. My body still wants Kerry like I need my next breath. At the same time I carry a dark heavy weight of rage at how she tricked me and beat the shit out of me. My nose and my lips are swollen. I don’t have to check to know I must look like shit. And she shot me. She almost killed me. I fucking like to live. I know for sure I don’t want to know what level of Hell awaits me on the other side. Not yet.
I also know I don’t want to talk about her with anyone. She’s nobody’s business but mine.
“Things went to shit.”
“No kidding,” answers my brother.
“Does Angela know?”
He waits a beat too long.
“She hasn’t visited?”
Nathan s
hakes his head.
Okay. I get it. Too close to our uncle.
“Get me out of here, Nate.”
He doesn’t object. We have medical staff we can call in, and I can recuperate at home. I really need to get out of here, and I really fucking need to talk to Salvatore. Kerry is mine. She’s my responsibility. She’s still on his hit list, maybe even more now than before, and I don’t want anyone else’s filthy hands on her.
Kerry Jackson is fucking mine.
Kerry
I almost faint, falling against the side of the police cruiser. The cop comes darting out, catching me in his arms.
“Miss! What happened? Are you all right?”
My heart screams in sorrow, in pain and fright. No. I’m not all right. Not my soul. Physically, though, I have no idea. The massive adrenaline high has completely blocked out whatever agony I probably should be feeling. Rationally, I know I should hurt. I’m beaten up pretty bad.
I don’t object when he calls for an ambulance. I feel everything and nothing. They ask and ask, examine me, put needles into my veins. It takes me a while to realize that the moans come from me. Then I zone out and sleep claims me.
“You can question her when she comes to, officer. She was given morphine on the way here. She’s asleep.”
“I would have needed to talk to her before that.”
“Her physical well-being comes first. Have you identified her yet? We haven’t gotten a name out of her, only nonsensical mumbling.”
“No. She didn’t have any ID. No phone. Nothing. The car didn’t lead us anywhere. I really do need to talk to her.”
“Later,” she concludes with a very final tone.
I like the nurse. I like how she stands like a rock between me and the cop. Trying to speak doesn’t result in anything as my tongue seems to be stuck to the roof of my mouth, so I stay quiet.
Pretending to still be asleep proves to be a blessing. I listen to feet coming and going, but for the most part I’m being left alone. It sounds as if I’m still in the ER and when I carefully peek at my surroundings, I notice I’m behind a curtain and no one’s by my side. I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but when the drowsiness subsides, my mind starts clearing. I’m frozen inside, the night playing on repeat. I was nearly murdered. Every time I skirt that realization it’s like something stabs my chest, ice cold hurt, fear, disappointment. Suddenly the thought strikes me that I’m not safe here and with a jolt I realize that I can’t talk to the cop. If these men are who I think they are, I really, really can’t talk to the cops. If I’m on a hitlist now, I can only imagine how fundamentally doomed I’ll be if I talk.
Not that it probably makes any difference, but still. And I definitely don’t trust the cops to be able to protect me. I’ve heard too many stories about witness protection failing.
My chest aches in sorrow over my lost life as I begin to take stock of my arms and legs. They haven’t removed my jeans or my bra. I’m dressed in a pale blue hospital paper gown, a blanket pulled up to my chin. I shudder from an inner chill I can’t seem to curb. There’s an IV line in my arm. No electrodes on my chest. Nothing that will set off an alarm.
Glancing around me, I tear a strip off the gown, pull out the catheter from my arm and wrap the strip around the little wound. I twitch when I look at my hands, scraped, bloody and swollen. My throat hurts, my back, my legs—knees especially. I’m afraid to see what the rest of me looks like. Swinging my legs over the edge of the gurney, I look for my shirt, jacket and shoes, and thank God, everything lies in a basket under the gurney. I fight the groan that wants to escape as I struggle to get back into my clothes, then I hold my breath, my heart thudding, as I peek out between the curtains. No one seems to be looking in my direction. People rush around, alarms beep.
The exit is only a corridor down and, squeezing between first responders who come rushing with a stretcher with a man covered in blood, and the wall, I exit through the ambulance garage, and quietly leave the ER.
Chapter 11
Kerry
It’s still night, but the birds in the nearby park have started singing so I’m guessing dawn is near.
Finally alone, it strikes me full on what I’ve been through and I begin to tremble violently. I stumble into the dark park, barely sparing a thought as to whether it is stupid or not, fall on all fours on the lawn and then curl up into a shaking little ball under some bushes. I clutch my aching hands into tight fists and choke the cry that wants to escape.
I need to get home.
No, I shouldn’t go home, they’ll find me there.
If I go to my parents, or friends, I’ll put them in danger.
My mind spins and I ache, raw sorrow and fright tearing a hole inside my chest.
I can’t let anyone know.
I should leave town.
I press my fists to my chest to try to control the panic that’s threatening to take over any rational thought.
Where would I go? I have everything here. I don’t have a single friend or relative anywhere else in the world. I can’t just up and leave. I don’t even own a car.
Christian must be out of commission, maybe even dead. A stab of pain makes me double over. I liked him. I really, really wanted to explore the enticing madness that meeting him was. It was unlike anything else I had ever experienced.
It turned out he only wanted to fuck his kill.
Choking down the cry, swallowing over and over, I fight to push it away. No use dwelling, no matter how much it hurts.
So with Christian not after me… how long before someone else comes?
A part of me wants to stay curled up in the piss-stinking bushes of this park forever. No one knows I’m here. I’d be safe. But of course that’s not an option. I have to get home and see to my wounds, the visible and the invisible.
I have nothing. No money. No phone. No ID. I do have my house keys, though, thank God, buried deep in my jeans pocket.
It takes about forty minutes to walk from here. Thank you, cheating motherfucker Evan, thank you alimony and my desire to live close to the vibrant city life. It’s completely doable.
Taking stock of the dark park, the lit street outside the low iron fence, still heavily trafficked despite the late hour, I decide to stick to the side streets.
Everything aches. I must have twisted my ankle. My knees, elbows and palms itch and sting, my throat feels constricted, as if I have his hands around it still. I shudder every time my thoughts skirt Christian. My hurting body is a powerful reminder of how beaten up I am, but my heart hasn’t even begun to grasp what happened. I see him before me as my feet steer me home, the limp getting worse and worse. I see him smiling, strong, sensual, and I see him vengeful, a vicious grin on his lips, eyes that radiate hate.
When I’m about to enter my street, I’m exhausted beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before. I scan the silent sidewalks, my side, opposite side, try to see through the shadows, if a gun glints, if something moves. Finally I decide I have to take the chance. Maybe they don’t know yet that I’m still alive? Maybe I’ll have a respite before someone comes for me? And when they do, I’ll have a plan. I have to have a plan.
I make use of the very last of my energy and run-limp the last few yards, unlock my front door with violently trembling hands, and sink down on the floor inside it as soon as I’ve slammed it closed and locked it.
I sit there, empty, staring at nothing, listening to the absolute silence. The sound of a gunshot plays on repeat in my mind, and I twitch every time I relive it. I shot a person. I shot someone I cared about, someone I shouldn’t have cared about, but I didn’t know that.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I wince with every step. I clamp my eyes closed from the harsh white light as I flick the switch on the wall. Even my fingertips are sore. I glance at my hand that still rests on the switch, and realize most of my nails are broken.
I lift my gaze to the mirror, recognizing I stood here earlier tonight. In another life. I still don’t feel anything as
I look at what he’s done to me, I just study the facts. There are crescent-shaped, bluish-black bruises under both eyes. My lips are swollen and bruised, as is my nose. There’s dried blood in both nostrils as well as smeared on my chin and both cheeks. I have broad, purplish strangle marks circling my throat.
A sudden wave of nausea surges through me, and I dry retch in the sink several times, my eyes watering from the pain in my throat, the taste of bile sour in my mouth. When I’m done, I lean my forehead against the cold mirror and close my eyes. I’ve seen enough.
I turn on the shower and shed my clothes, step by step, every move pure agony. The pain is getting worse. Maybe the morphine is wearing off? Thank God they drugged me. I’m not sure I could have managed the walk home without it.
The scalding water burns my skin raw, making me whimper, forcing me to focus on the physical pain instead of the shattering heart inside that seems to fall apart more and more with every passing minute.
I stand for a long time with my face turned up in the stream, my eyes closed. Unthinking. Unmoving.
When the first sob wracks my chest, it’s like opening a dam. I can’t stop. I scream hoarsely into the water, gulping for air when I run out of cries. My knees buckle and I slither to the bottom of the tub, drenched in heated steam, in pouring wetness, and in sorrow over what I’ve lost.
My life.
The mafia has put a price on my head, and my life is forfeit. I sit there forever, with the water streaming over me, hugging my knees and cry. I still feel his hands on me, his heart beating against mine, his breath, his scent, his taste in my mouth. I still feel him in me.
I wash, and wash, and wash. Soap, lather, rinse, soap, lather, rinse. Then I dry off, wrap a blanket tightly around my battered body and fall into a restless sleep on the floor in my living room.
I miss by hours when I should have called in sick to work. When I finally do, I call it ‘flu’ and they tell me I sound terrible.
Redemption: Savage Duet: Part One Page 9