Rebel

by Callie Hart

  I cry out, but no one says a word. Hands find me, more than one pair, and they lift me roughly to my feet, pulling me forward. I hear nothing but Mexican rap music and the frantic staccato of my own heartbeat. I stumble after whoever is dragging me behind them, tripping on unseen obstacles and rolling my ankles. The music fades away, and my heartbeat grows even louder.

  “Now, you’ll keep your fucking mouth shut, you hear me?” a voice commands. Raphael. Of course, Raphael. “If you want to live, you don’t breathe a fucking word.” He yanks on my arm, unbalancing me, and I drop to one knee, only to have my arm almost wrenched out of its socket as I’m tugged to my feet again.

  Without being able to see, my other senses have come alive. A saccharine sweet smell hits me—the smell of sugared almonds and cotton candy. There’s a screeching sound—a screen door opening?—and then I’m jerked to a halt.

  “And what is this?” a male voice asks. The timbre of that voice is low and rumbling, husky with a thick accent. Spanish, but not Mexican Spanish. It’s softer, more muted than Raphael’s hard intonation.

  “This is mine,” Raphael replies. “I picked her up along the way. The judge is dead, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t wondering. I gave you a job to do, and I expected you to do it. What I didn’t expect you to do is bring a stranger back to my home.”

  The way this person speaks makes something very clear; he is pissed. Seriously pissed. It’s the quiet, careful way he parts with his words that gives me that impression. I’ve had a severe case of mouth sweats ever since I threw up back in the van, but now my throat is miraculously dry.

  “She’s been blindfolded the whole time. She doesn’t know anything,” Raphael says.

  A cracking sound, and then the dull, slow thudding of feet against wood. One step. Two. Three. The voice is closer now.

  “Has she seen your face?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she know your name?”

  There’s a brief pause. And then, “Yes.”

  “Does she know…my name?” The malice in this question makes my palms break out in a sweat. I’m beginning to get the feeling Raphael’s fucked up in kidnapping me, and I’m going to be the one paying the price.

  “Yes,” Raphael answers. “She does. But she’s never gonna be out of my sight, Padre. She won’t be a problem.”

  “The girl isn’t the problem here, Raphi. You are currently the problem. You do shit without thinking, and that is a really fucking big problem for me, you understand?”

  So I know this guy’s name? That must make him Hector, surely? He is Raphael’s boss. Raphael doesn’t say anything to him in return, though his hand tightens around my arm, fingernails digging into my skin. I squirm, trying to free myself, but it’s a complete waste of energy.

  “Take the blindfold off her,” Hector commands.

  A piercing light stabs into my head, making me gasp. Daylight? Daylight? It was eight thirty in the evening when I first came across the unfortunate Judge Conahue. I blink up at the sky, horrified when I see the sun’s position directly overhead. That would make it almost midday, or around that time anyway. How the hell is that possible? I was dazed after being hit on the head, but I thought I’d been mostly conscious. Obviously I was wrong, otherwise I wouldn’t be surprised by the fact that at least eighteen hours have passed since I was taken.

  Eighteen hours. That means I could literally be anywhere. Definitely out of Washington State. Any hope of rescue I might have been harboring plummets.

  “I see why you risked pissing me off, Raphi,” Hector says. I lower my gaze and I see him—a tall, dark-haired man with startling green eyes. He’s clearly of some Latin descent, though his skin is more golden than olive. Maybe in his mid forties, he reminds me of the pediatrician I used to see when I was a kid. Except there’s an air of something not-quite-right about this man that Dr. Hereford didn’t have. Something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

  He holds out a hand to me, his cool mint-green irises locked firmly on my face. I don’t know what the hell he expects me to do. My hands are still firmly tied behind my back. Hector doesn’t even turn his head; his eyes simply travel from me to Raphael, and then my captor is moving quickly, hands fumbling to pull a small knife from his belt so he can free me. I’m in instant pain. It’s like my hands are on fire. Blood rushes back into my fingers so quickly and intensely, the piercing sensation takes my breath away. Hector reaches down and takes my right hand in his, and massages his fingers over mine, making a clucking sound at the back of his throat.

  “You’ll have to excuse my friend here. He can be very uncivilized when the mood takes him.”

  Raphael’s getting antsy in my peripheral vision—he clearly doesn’t like anyone else playing with a toy he considers his—but something primal within me is warning not to look away from Hector. He’s beautiful in an odd way.

  And terrifying in every other.

  Despite his consideration for my screaming wrists and his apparently sincere apology over my treatment, I haven’t forgotten what I heard back in that alleyway. This man is suspected of murder. The murder of a woman. And I am currently at his mercy.

  “What’s your name, sweet girl?” he asks, smiling, head tipped to one side, as though I’m a delightful mystery he’s looking forward to unraveling.

  I clench my jaw, torn for a moment. I shouldn’t tell him my name. I shouldn’t tell him who I am. I don’t know why, but I know it with a certainty that makes my heart race in my chest. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not say,” I inform him. Hector’s smile fades. A flicker of disappointment flashes across his face—I have been a bad girl. Hector’s focus flits to Raphael again, this time accompanied with a single arched eyebrow.

  “Sophia Letitia Marne,” Raphael reels off. “Twenty-one years old. Student at the Cornish College of the Arts in Seattle.”

  I can’t avoid my reaction now; my head whips around so I can look Raphael full in the face. He’s lying to his boss. Sophia isn’t my name. I sure as hell don’t study at Cornish. I recognize the information, though. Raphael’s almost black eyes are glinting with a barely suppressed fury that confirms my suspicions: he hates having to answer to someone else. Hates it with a vengeance. Hector holds out a hand to Raphael; he seems to know what his employer is requesting from him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an intimately familiar object —my wallet.

  He snaps the clasp open and fishes out a card, which he hands over to Hector. I’m hardly a party girl, but last year a group of my friends wanted to hit a club to see a DJ play, and I was the only one underage at the time. Luke, the boyfriend of one of the other girls, made up a fake driving license for me. I’d memorized the card’s details before going in, chanting my borrowed name and date of birth over and over again in case any of the doormen asked me, only to be let in without even having to produce the damn thing. I then proceeded to forget my fake persona altogether.

  My real driving license is sitting on my bedside table at home, snapped in two. I broke it at least a month ago, and since I’m living on campus and don’t have a car at the moment, replacing it has been very low on my list of priorities. There are no credit cards in my wallet, either. Nothing else to give away my real identity. A cold sweat of relief breaks out across my face. Hector studies the license, studies me, studies the license again. He grunts, handing it back to Raphael.

  “Well, Sophia,” he says, giving me a small smile. “It would appear you’ve gotten yourself into a bit of a situation. Are you content with Raphael as your new master?”

  Am I content with Raphael as my…? I’m at a loss for words. I’m pretty sure I’m covered in my own blood from where I was hit over the head. I reek of vomit, and my wrists are banded with a deep purple ribbon of bruising. I hardly look like the sort of person who came willingly to their newfound servitude. My mouth opens, but I struggle to find the right response to the question.

  “Let me p
ut it this way,” Hector says. “Are you going to make trouble inside my home, Sophia? Because I have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to trouble within in my home.”

  I haven’t given much thought to the building Hector is standing in front of, but now I take a closer look at the place. The two-story Colonial, white weatherboard with green shutters, looks like something out of Little House On The Prairie. It’s quaint, with its wrap-around porch, swing bench, and multitude of potted flowers balancing on the windowsills. I’d expect this place to belong to some frail, little old Southern lady. I can picture her rocking slowly on the swing, drinking her endless glasses of sweet tea. There are no bars on the windows, and no security gates or armed guards. But…there is also nothing else out here. Not a single building for as far as the eye can see. Just desert. A burnt, alien landscape with no roadways, no stores, or any way of making contact with civilization.

  “Well?” Hector asks.

  “What if I say yes? What if I am going to make trouble?” I don’t really need to ask this question, though. I know all too well what he’s going to tell me before the words have a chance to leave his lips. Raphael snickers, a wickedly sharp, crackling laugh. Hector just shrugs his shoulders.

  “One of the many bonuses of living out in the desert, so far from prying eyes, is that shallow graves are easy to come by, my dear. Should you wish to incite chaos here, to disrupt my peaceful life, you can bank on finding some permanent real estate of your own out here.”

  Somehow, I’ve strangely been holding myself together since I was grabbed from the side of the street. I’ve cried, yes, but I haven’t completely lost it. Until now. My legs buckle out from underneath me, ditching me in a heap at Hector’s feet.

  “I need to go home. I have to go back to Seattle. My family...my family will be worried about me. The police—”

  My head is kicked to one side, pain slamming through my already delicate skull. I didn’t see the hit coming, but I can certainly feel the echo of it relaying around my body. I can’t breathe. I can’t see through the tears welling in my eyes.

  “You’d be wise not to mention the police in my presence again, Sophia. They aren’t a group of people I like to discuss.” Hector sinks down into a crouch. He reaches into his pocket and then holds his hand out to me, offering me something inside—almonds. I was right about the smell. Candied almonds. “Why don’t we just say…no kind of law enforcement should be spoken of from this point forward? It will make a happier life for you, and a happier life for me. Don’t you agree?”

  I nod, cautiously touching my hand my face, trying to cup the stinging sensation. To make it go away. Hector’s eyes narrow at me. “Why don’t you take an almond? They’re delicious. Don’t you find them delicious? And then Raphael will take you inside so you can speak to Ramona. If you’re polite to her, she may find you some fresh clothes.”

  This man is insane.

  Certifiably insane.

  He flipped so quickly, violence surging out of him like the unexpected eruption of a geyser. He’s unstable, and I don’t want to risk pissing him off again. I get the feeling he wouldn’t flinch away from killing me if he thought I wasn’t going to be compliant. I reach out and take a sugared almond between shaking fingers.

  “Good girl. Eat it,” Hector coaxes.

  I force the small almond past my lips, and the explosion of sugar that follows makes my mouth ache.

  “That’s it. Perfect.” Hector nods appreciatively. He stands, the action so quick and fluid that he makes me jump. He strokes one hand against the top of my head, shhhing me, and then turns his attention to Raphael.

  “Get her inside. Make sure she’s given a room on the south side of the house.” He turns and climbs back up the steps that lead up to the wrap-around porch, opens the screen door, and disappears back inside the house.

  That leaves Raphael and me, with my stomachful of knife-wielding butterflies. “On your feet, girl,” he snaps at me. The insanity is back in his eyes again. I want to turn and run. I want to blindly flee this malevolent, charming house and run until my legs can’t carry me any further. I would do it too, if it weren’t for the group of grim-looking men leaning up against the van I arrived here in. They all have weapons—a vast array of differently shaped guns and knives, small and large. But mostly, I don’t do it because of the baiting edge in Raphael’s words. It’s almost as if he’s willing me to disobey him, to run, to try and free myself…so he can have the pleasure of capturing me all over again and teaching me a lesson.

  I get to my feet.

  I go inside the house.

  I think, perhaps, I will never see my family again.

  REBEL

  SEVEN YEARS AGO

  “Get down, get down, get down! Watch your fucking head, Duke. You nearly caught that round to the face.” Hands pull at me, bringing me to the ground. I’ve been trained, but boy am I fucking green. My lungs are burning with adrenalin and dust and the shitty realization that I nearly just died.

  Cade is on his back beside me, choking on the dirt. Overhead, the powerful blades of the helo that just dropped us into the middle of this shitfight thump at the air, blasting us with even more dirt and dust as it gets the hell out of dodge.

  “On your feet, boys. Keep low!” Richter hollers. So far, I’ve followed Richter from the academy, through basic training, all the way across to the other side of the world, and now it would seem I’ve followed him straight into hell.

  They warned us how bad it would be. We believed them, too, but the reality of what we’re facing is beyond anything we could possibly have comprehended. Richter’s grabbing at my flak jacket, jerking me upright. He’s signalling to me, tipping two fingers to my right. “Got company, Duke. You’re on right flank. Shoot anything that moves. You okay, son?”

  “Five by five.” I nod frantically, my finger on the trigger of my M4 Carbine, but I’m screaming inside my own head.

  “You’re on point,” Richter yells. “Take a deep breath and accept this.” That’s his thing—accept that you are where you are. Accept that only you are in control of whether you come out on the other side alive. I push myself up onto my feet, my boots scraping against a fallen street sign half buried in the dirt road. Then we’re moving. Cade’s at my rear, gun aimed over my shoulder, protecting me. That’s our way. We always protect the man in front. In this instance, my heart is in my throat and my dick is hard, and I am in charge of protecting everybody. There are seven men at my back, counting on me to choose a safe passage for them through this madness.

  We’ve navigated our way down three streets, choked with burned out cars and building rubble before we make contact. Gunfire rains down from overhead, immediately making my job almost impossible. “Down, down, down,” I yell. I can’t see a fucking thing. The narrow street we find ourselves in is being used to dry sheets—the stained white and yellow and salmon-pink cotton barely shifts on the slight breeze, blocking whatever may lie at the other end of the street from view.

  Could be anything back there. We can’t pull through this way. I hold up my closed fist: freeze. All eyes will be on me back there. I know they’ll have already stopped moving and are crouched low behind me. More shots fire overhead, really fucking close. Like right on top of us, close. I hold my hand up in the air, my index finger raised, and I circle it over my head: rally point. Move back to the rally point. We need to find another way. I’m backing up, crouched low, scanning to find the shooters on the roofs over our heads when we hit smoke.

  Smoke on the ground means another unit must be close; they’re trying to conceal their whereabouts, too. Couldn’t have come at a better time. I see Cade’s pack in front of me, PRESTON in big black letters across the material. There’s shouting up ahead, along with the rattle of more shots fired.

  A cloud of smoke blows across our path, and then I’m stumbling, tripping, falling forward. I’m cursing myself out when I hear the metallic zip of a round firing no more than two feet over my head—exactly where I was standin
g a second ago.

  “Fuck.” Get up, get, up, get up. You need to move. Get your ass up now. I push myself back, onto my feet and I can just about make out the faint shapes of my unit ahead of me. They haven’t realized I’ve fallen behind. I’m less than a second away from calling out to Cade when a darker, more solid shape is rushing toward me, materializing out of the smoke.

  Non-American, military age male. He’s holding something in his hands. Takes me the length of a heartbeat to recognize it as a weapon—an AK47. And he’s pointing the fucking thing straight at me. My training kicks in, and I’m lifting, aiming, firing my own weapon before I can think straight. The guy who was rushing toward me falls back, not making a sound. I hear his weapon clatter to the ground, but aside from that the only noise comes from up ahead, from people shouting in English and Farsi. And from their guns.

  My blood is raging through me as I hurry forward, my cheek pressed up against the sight on my M4. I keep low, and I stay on my toes. I don’t know where I hit him. Could have been in the heart. Could have been in the shoulder, for all I know. The last thing I need is for him to sit up and start shooting as soon as I draw close enough.

  The guy doesn’t sit up, though. He’s flat out on his back, eyes fixed upward, his chest hitching up and down as he chokes on his own blood. I got him in the neck. The motherfucking neck. Jesus. He’s holding both hands up to the raw wound across his throat, trying to stem the blood that’s pumping out of him, but it’s a futile task. He might as well be trying to hold back an ocean’s tide. I’d nicked his carotid, barely scratched it, but it’s enough to be the reason why he dies. His eyes swivel in his head, staring at me, showing way too much white.

  He says something to me in Farsi, his voice gurgling out of his mouth, and then he drops his right hand, patting loosely at his side for something. He’s looking for his gun.