by James Tate
But they don't shoot me, these men, the ones my father lovingly calls his cleanup crew. Yeah, he likes pet names for his monsters.
That means that while my dad doesn't mind if I do accidentally end up dead, he's at least asked them to make some attempt to bring me back. Or else, he's told them to have fun with me. That's a possibility, too.
Heart racing, I take off toward a small copse of trees, but I can hear heavy breathing and footsteps behind me. Doing my best to anticipate a tackle of some kind, I come to a sudden stop and throw myself to the ground, tripping the man behind me. He comes up quick though, turning and kicking me so hard in the face that I see stars, the gun falling from my hand to the grass.
A bit of Hawke's training sets in there for a moment, and I take a swing at the guy, hitting him in the face and drawing just a bit of blood from his nostrils. He doesn't look at all put off by the move. Instead, he comes at me again, stopping me as I scramble to pick up the weapon between us. He has his own gun own this time, but he doesn't shoot me, hitting me as hard as he can in the side of the face with it.
When he swings at me again, I grab his arm and, by the grace of God, manage to stop him from hitting me a second time. But holy crap, it's a strain to hold back someone who's rippling with muscles when I'm soft and useless. It's in that moment that I wish I could go back and train with Hawke, that I really could be a part of his group. Because while I've been a mob daughter my whole life, I never belonged. I wasn't a part of anything, just a kept creature along for the ride.
Our struggle doesn't last long because four other men approach, two of them grabbing me under the arms and hauling me up to my feet, tweaking my shoulders and making me cry out in pain. I bite my lip after that because the sound seems to excite the hell out of them.
The men chat with each other in Russian, but I don't bother to pay much attention to what they're saying—it would only scare the crap out of me. Instead, I look around and try to figure out some trick that'll get me out of this. Because brute strength and guns don't work, and that's exactly what these assholes suspect.
I need something else.
As the two men holding me start to move toward the woods—not a good sign—I walk with them, keeping up so that they don't drag me and cause even more pain in my shoulders. I just move willingly and keep my eye out for some distraction I might use to slip free. Outrunning these guys is next to impossible, but if I can come up with something, like I did back at the church, maybe I can make a getaway?
Because now that I'm standing here, I don't feel quite as suicidal as I did before.
I want to live? It's news to me, and it shocks the shit out of me, too.
Catching my foot on some rodent hole, I throw my bodyweight forward. Even though both men are strong and holding me in iron grips, it makes them stumble and distracts them enough for me to lift up both legs and kick the knee of the man on my right. I'm wearing boots that Mace bought me with steel toes and it looks like it hurts.
He loosens his grip enough on my arm that I get a second to yank it free, turning and throwing a punch at the throat of the man on my other side. He's too good for that though, and within seconds, he's got my hand in his and is squeezing my fist so hard, I let out a scream.
With a curse, the man throws me to the ground and drops down, pinning my arms above my head as I kick at him and he throws insults at me in both Russian and English.
"You spoiled little crack whore," he snarls as he tears at his belt. No surprise. Of course I knew they were going to try to rape me. I knew it from moment fucking one. But that doesn't stop me from fighting and screaming, kicking the man in the balls with one of my steel toes. In the distance, I hear the sound of several more cars pulling up, and my captor pauses to look.
There's another vehicle full of my father's men … and a black Cadillac behind it.
He's in there, I think with a jolt of fear. He's fucking in there.
The man untangling his belt pauses and waits while several more of my father's minions make their way over to us.
"Finish up what you're doing and then bring her over," one of the men says, looking down at me like I'm even less than the piece of meat his friend sees me as. Like I'm nothing at all.
So. He's going to let these men have their way with me and then what? If I know Konstantin though, it's because he's curious about the guys I was with in the grocery store parking lot.
Konstantin Petrov does not like to be kept out of the loop on anything. In his world, information trades as well as jewels, weapons, or drugs.
I'm gearing up to kick my would-be rapist in the face when all of a sudden, his head explodes in pink mist and I'm left with slack hands holding me in place, and a body tumbling over and spilling crimson streaks.
Shoving the dead guy off of me, I try not to think too hard about Kisten, and stand up. Legs shaky, I take off toward the woods because there's a good chance my father's just been set upon by some enemies of his. He has a fucking lot of them and rightfully so.
And getting captured by some of Daddy's rivals is as bad or worse than getting kidnapped by him.
As soon as I cross from the light of day into the shadows of the woods, I run full-tilt into a hard chest and bounce off of it.
It's fucking Arsen.
It's disturbing how excited I am to see him, especially when he just said he wanted me dead this morning. That he put a fucking knife to my throat and fucked me the other night. But maybe, like Portia, I can see a glimmer of hope inside the shell of crazy.
"Sorry about the head shot," a voice says from the trees. I glance up to see Mace sitting there with a rifle positioned along a branch, aiming at my father's men and picking them off one by one.
"I'm not," Arsen purrs, taking my wrist in tight fingers and giving me a look with eyes blazing. He pushes me aside, his tattooed arms bulging with the motion, making my mouth water. That's how fucked up I am, from one bad situation to another and I'm shaking like an addict on a comedown. Even a near-rape isn't enough to quell that horrible urge inside of me. Yep, I'm not like an addict, I am one.
"Where are the others?" I ask as Arsen pushes me behind a tree, hands me a weapon and then crouches down, waiting for my father to send some of his men into the woods. They're already coming, too, in a group of over a dozen.
"Going for Konstantin," Arsen growls out, a huge smile on his face as he lifts up a pistol in either hand—not a particularly recommended move, or one that generally works out well for the shooter—but when he rises to his feet and starts firing, people drop. I guess a flashy movie technique like that would work for the sociopath in the group, wouldn't it?
Across the field, I see the Cadillac with its tires shot out, a group of men surrounding the car. Several bullets hit the side of the vehicle as its engine turns over, and it starts to drive, moving on the metal rims over the gravel.
None of the shots penetrate the glass—it's all bulletproof—nor do they do anything but dent the sides of the vehicle.
But he has to know he's not going to make it far on just the rims.
It's a tactic to buy some time. No doubt, even more men are going to show up here … and quick.
"We have to go," I say, moving out from behind the tree and putting my hand on Arsen's shoulder. His white blonde hair is stark in the shadows of the forest, his mouth a morbid little mask. He clearly takes joy in murdering people. "Within minutes, there'll be a hundred, two hundred, or even more men in this very spot."
"We're not going anywhere without Konstantin," Arsen says with a loose shrug of his shoulders, like he doesn't care if he dies.
Maybe none of these men do?
But I care.
Because I want to be a part of this … this, whatever the fuck they have. Even if I'm useless, if I'm not as good as Portia, I want in.
I take Arsen's radio off his belt, and he growls at me, but he's too busy shooting people to stop me from speaking into it.
"Within seconds, this place is going to be swarming," I
say, and there's a bit of a crackle before Hawke answers.
"Natalia, give the radio back to Arsen." Clearly, that's an order, but I'm not part of this stupid team yet—not officially—so I don't take that order.
"If you guys get out of here now, I'll tell you everything I know. My father never thought of me as anything but another accessory for his life, so he didn't hide a lot. I'm not privy to all the nitty-gritty, but I can help."
"Why'd you run away?" Colt asks after a moment, and I can tell he's about to get his ass kicked by Hawke on the other end of the line.
"You guys wrote me off just like my father did," I say, feeling this heat burn deep down inside my belly. I want something different for my life, that's why I ran away the night Kisten died. Not because I wanted to be a nun, but because I needed a change. I don't want to be the helpless princess anymore: I want to be the knight. "I heard you talking."
"I still want to kill you," Arsen says, but I ignore him because I can already hear the sound of cars in the distance, tires on gravel.
"Let's get out of here. You train me, let me on your team, and in exchange ..."
"We get sex?" Arsen interrupts, and if he wasn't a crazy psycho with two guns in his hands, I'd have punched him in the nuts. But yes, sex is on order in this relationship. Err, agreement? Whatever it is that I'm trying to make.
Me, and five guys.
Makes sense that way. One man's never been able to keep up.
"I'll tell you whatever you need to know. Staying here and committing murder-suicide won't bring down the Petrov Crime Syndicate, and you know it."
There's a bit of silence and a cursing from the other end of the line, and I know I've got Hawke to listen to me.
"Get in the Hummer, and we'll meet you on the access road."
Mace retrieves his equipment as Arsen keeps my father's men at bay, backing up until we've got enough distance to turn and run. As I start to spin away, I see my father climb out of the car, mob boss that he is, surrounded suddenly by a dozen vehicles. He lifts his chin and even though I'm across a field and buried in shadows, somehow I know he sees me.
My heart gets stuck in my throat and I turn away, tearing along after Mace. When he sees how far I'm lagging behind, he picks me up and carries me back to the car. Within seconds, we're peeling out of there and heading up a steep hill and around a corner to pick up the other three boys.
As soon as they're all in the car, everything goes silent. I smell sweat and blood and gunpowder.
"Fuck," Hawke curses, like he's lost something major here today. But he has no idea how much he's just gained. I'll make him aware of that though. I fucking swear on Saint Rita, patron saint of the impossible.
For a minute or two there, I really believe things will work out.
Until we come around a corner and find several vehicles blocking our way and one comes up revving hard behind us.
Mace turns the vehicle, puts us nose first into a ditch, and then we start to roll.
I don't remember a lot after that.
To be continued…
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