by Callie Hart
All thoughts of escape fly out of the window.
Through the mugginess clouding my head, I glimpse at the clock on the dash at some point in the afternoon to find that it’s coming up on four p.m. I think that’s when I realize something’s not quite right. Or it might be later, when I wake to darkness out of the passenger window, and country music playing low on the radio.
I manage four words before I slip into unconsciousness again. “Drugged me, you fucker.” The words bleed into one another, barely audible.
I hear Cade laughing just fine, though. “Sorry, sweetheart. Easier this way all round, I’m afraid.”
I come to briefly when I’m being carried somewhere, carried in the dark. The sound of a motorcycle roaring to life, and voices, talking voices filter in and out as I sway with the motion of someone’s gait. And then nothing.
My head feels like it’s splitting apart when I wake next. Morning. It must be morning. Bright light blares through a set of thin voile curtains above…above the bed I’m sprawled out across. “What the…?” I’m not wearing the hideous, torn dress anymore. I’m wearing an oversized black T-shirt that says It Isn’t Going To Suck Itself with an arrow pointing downward. Clearly not something meant to be worn by a woman. So clichéd.
I’m already buzzing with anger as I throw my legs over the side of the bed. That anger swiftly makes way for panic as I realize I’m going to throw up. “Oh, no. Oh, no. No, no, no, no.” I get to my feet, the room pitching violently like a ship on rough seas. I don’t know where the hell I am. I don’t know where the damn bathroom is. I don’t have time to look for it, either. I scramble frantically, searching until I find something appropriate, and then I collapse onto my knees, puking up my guts.
The moment is brief but unpleasant. My body is trembling by the time I’m done. I look down at what I’m clutching in my hands, and my stomach drops all over again. A motorcycle helmet. I just threw up in a full-face motorcycle helmet. Great. Why the hell couldn’t it have been a trashcan?
I get up, holding the damn thing in both hands, cringing when I pluck up the courage to check out how bad it is. Because it’s bad. Really bad. The drugged food that Cade plied me with yesterday has mostly been digested, but what remained in my stomach is now seeping into the foam cushioning of what looks like a really expensive piece of equipment.
“Fuck.” I look around, properly taking in my surroundings for the first time. The place isn’t that big: a timber-built cabin made up of two rooms, the first and largest being a bedroom/living area. The second is a modern bathroom, complete with wet area and an overhead shower, tiled in slate. Very manly. I dump the helmet into the sink and turn on the tap, wincing as the water starts to fill inside it. Back in the main area, I try to figure out where the hell I am.
The huge bed I just slept in resides in the corner. A considerably large leather sofa, soft and cracked with age, divides the space into two. On the far side of the room, a monstrous flat screen television has been bolted to the wall. Bookcases, shelves, a desk with a stool shoved underneath it—the place is full of books and pictures and stacks of magazines. Odd bits and pieces dot the cabin. A snow globe—Welcome to Chicago!—sits next to a jumbled sheaf of papers, the skyline of the city in miniature inside, the roofs of the buildings already painted white. A photograph of a slim, beautiful woman with crystal clear blue eyes and a mass of almost-black hair butts up against a coffee maker on the narrow desk underneath the window. The woman in the picture is smiling, flashing teeth as she looks over her shoulder at whoever was taking the image. You can tell she’s laughing from the way her mouth is slightly open, her head tilted back. She looks familiar, for some reason. I touch my fingers lightly to the glass of the frame, feeling a bizarre sense of déjà vu.
When I look out of the window, there’s nothing but scrubby plant life, orange dirt and shale-like rocks for as far as the eye can see. In the distance, the ridgeline of a mountain range spears up out of the flat plains, made hazy and blue by the miles between us. The landscape is like nothing I’ve seen before in the flesh—not a place I’ve ever visited before. Not that I can remember. I’m about to try the handle on the door to the left of the window, ready to see if I am well and truly trapped here or not, when I hear the sound of splashing water.
“Shit!” I rush back to the bathroom; the helmet’s rolled onto its side and the flow of the tap is splashing off its surface, going everywhere. All over the mirror above the sink, all over the tiled floor. I turn off the tap and grab a towel from one of the racks by the toilet, throwing it on the ground and mopping madly with my foot. I’ve always been a little accident prone, but this is ridiculous. I’m trashing the place. Not that I should care—I’ve been bundled up and stolen, drugged and taken here against my will—but I’m not an idiot. I don’t want to make the situation worse for myself by breaking or throwing up on everything I touch.
“Hello?”
I stop scrubbing at the floor with my foot, every part of me going still.
“Hello? I brought you some breakfast.” My heart’s hammering in my chest. Someone’s in the other room. I hear the door close, and then heavy boots scuffing on the wooden floorboards. I peek cautiously around the bathroom door, hoping to see who it is without being seen myself. No such luck, though. Cade’s staring straight at me, a plate stacked high with pancakes in his right hand. He has some sort of dust in his hair. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Rebel’s going to be back in an hour or so. Thought you might like to get some breakfast into you and some clothes on before he steamrolls in here, wanting to talk to you.”
I slide my body through the barely open bathroom doorway and pull it closed behind me. “This is his place?” I ask.
Cade nods, setting the plate of food down on the narrow desk next to the coffee machine. “Yeah. Built it himself. He’s not like the other guys. He prefers the peace and quiet.”
“What other guys?” I need to figure out what my situation is right now. How many people are here, wherever we are? Who are they? How far to the next town? What are my chances of breaking out of this cabin and making it to civilization on foot? Cade just smiles at me, wiping his hands down the front of his already grease-stained jeans. He’s a good looking guy—dark brown hair, cropped close, warm brown eyes, always with a half-entertained look on his face—but I don’t see any of that. I just see a brick wall of stacked muscle standing between me and my freedom.
“No one you need worry yourself about, sweetheart,” he says. “You won’t be bothered over here.”
“When can I go home?” I’ve somehow managed to keep my cool since waking up, but it feels like the walls are closing in now. I have to get out of here. I have to get back to Seattle.
“I told you, as soon as you’ve done what Rebel needs you to do, you’ll be able to go.”
“And when will that be? How long with that take? Hours? Days? Weeks?” My chest feels tight, gripped by the concept that I might be trapped here for so long. And even then, Cade could be lying. They could have no intention of letting me go, ever.
Cade purses his lips, shoving his right hand into his pocket. “Look. Wait for Rebel to get back. He’ll answer all your questions.”
“He said I should direct all my questions to you in his absence.”
Cade laughs, glancing back out of the door. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” Turning back to look at me, he smiles. “You know why he said that?”
“No.”
“Because it entertains him to screw with people every once in a while. I don’t have any answers. Only he knows when all this will be over. For you. For me. For him.”
“Sounds like a great guy.” I lean back against the bathroom door, my head thumping dully against the wood. I want to cry. I really want to breakdown and sob my heart out, but I’m proud. Before I ran into Raphael in the street, it had been years and years since I’d allowed myself to look weak like that. I cried in front of Ramona, too. I do not want to cry in front of Cade.
“H
e may be a total asshole sometimes and he does like to fuck with people, but he’s not who you think he is, sweetheart. You’ll realize that soon enough. Now, you gonna tell me your name or what?”
“No.” I won’t do it. Giving them a name to call me by, any name, real or false, seems like I’m giving them power over me.
Cade blows out a deep breath, giving me a look my father used to give me when I was being stubborn as a kid. “Have it your way, then. I’ll make sure I come back when Rebel gets here.”
I just stare at the ground, feeling hollow inside. I don’t know if I want Cade to come back or not. He hasn’t exactly been helpful. Not really. The advice he gave me back in that alleyway in Seattle did save me from Raphael’s unwelcome attentions, but they also landed me in the situation I find myself in now. Only time will tell if this is better or worse.
I don’t look up as Cade leaves. I slowly slide down the bathroom door, covering my face with my hands, and I dare myself not to cry. I manage it, even as I hear the door to the cabin lock behind him.
A bizarre sensation washes over me—a true how is this real? moment. I want Matt. I want to curl up in his arms and feel like everything is okay again. I look around this unfamiliar room, nothing making sense, and I’m sure I must be imagining it all. Things like this don’t happen. This is the stuff of nightmares and movies, and horror stories young women are told by their elders to keep them safe. It was sure as hell never supposed to happen to me.
REBEL
FIVE YEARS AGO
“Are you fucking crazy? Get that thing outta here,” Cade hollers. The boys have found a vat of oil from somewhere, and the lid is off. I spin on them, not sure I can trust what I’m seeing with my own two eyes. We’re smack bang in the middle of fucking Kabul, perched on the roof of a barely standing building, and my men are screwing around with flammable liquids.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing with that, assholes?”
Thompson stops laughing, the smile freezing on his face when he sees the look on mine. Both he and Ramon quit attempting to drag the huge, rusted barrel toward the edge of the roof; they stand up straight, Ramon wiping the sweat out of his eyes.
“Well. We was thinking that, instead of wasting ammo on these fuckheads, we could get medieval on their asses. They used to do this in England, y’know? Back when people holed up in castles and shit. They’d pour fuel over the sides of the castles and set it on fire. Very effective.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”
“So you’re telling me you want to wait for the enemy to pass by underneath us? And then you want to take this barrel here,” I kick the barrel, “and you want to pour it contents over the side on top of the enemy. And you want it to be on fire at the time?”
Ramon and Thompson look at each other warily, obviously unsure what the correct answer is. “Yeeees?” Thompson says.
“And you don’t think that’s slightly fucked up. That you want to burn people alive, Thompson?”
“It’s no worse than they’d do to us, Duke.”
“But that’s the whole fucking point, isn’t it? That’s the whole reason why we’re here. These people do shit we would never do. Because we’re marines, not fucking medieval English castle owners, you fucking moron.”
The rest of the squad—Baggs, Paulie, Saunders and Cade—all burst into laughter. I throw my arms over Thompson and Ramon’s shoulders, pulling them in close. “Get rid of that fucking thing now, before we set you on fire and throw you over the side of the roof, huh?” I’m grinning as I say this, but I know how dangerous this place is. I know all too well what it can do to a man’s morals. What it could do to my morals if I’m not careful.
When I turn around, Cade is watching me with a small smile on his face. He nods at me, scrubbing his hand across his jaw. I’m seriously fucking lucky to have my best friend at my back through this, just as he’s been at my back through everything else.
If he weren’t here, reminding me of who I am, who I want to be, then god knows. Maybe I’d have been throwing that barrel over the edge of the roof after all.
Maybe I’d have been lighting the match.
REBEL
NOW
My body has that delicious burning ache to it as I climb off my motorcycle. It’s taken me far too fucking long to ride from Vegas to New Mexico, but I wasn’t exactly rushing. I had a lot to think about. I have approximately ten hours until I need to give Maria Rosa her answer. Either yes, I will kill this DEA agent who has pissed her off so much, or alternatively me and my boys are gonna become her runners, operating on her behalf for, well, forever. When you start working for Maria Rosa, there’s only one way you ever end up stopping. And I don’t particularly want to die just yet. I have a number of things I plan on doing yet, and I’ll be fucked if I let her mess that up for me.
There is one other option: go this thing alone. But Hector’s amassed an army over the past few years, ramping up his personal protection. Increasing the volume of his business, which means more hired guns. More people on his payroll. Ergo, less chance of us sweeping in and smashing his operation to bits. Three or four years ago, maybe, but not now. Now, we have to approach things differently. We need backup, and Maria Rosa is the most sensible option. She has as much to gain from Hector Ramirez’s downfall as the Widow Makers do.
“You still need me, Prez?” Carnie’s still got a shit-eating grin on his face, twelve hours after the end of our meeting with Maria Rosa. The guy has no shame. Usually the dynamic between two guys shifts a little after one of them watches the other get his cock sucked, but things are exactly the same with Carnie. He’s a total extrovert. And that wasn’t the first time I’ve seen his dick, either. The guy barely wears any clothes at the best of times.
“No, man, we’re good,” I tell him. He jogs off across the compound, laughing to himself, shaking his head—my money’s on him heading straight to Fee to tell her what happened. She’s gonna punch him in his stupid, grinning face.
I think about heading over to the clubhouse, the low-lying, squat building at the far end of the compound, to see if there’s anything left over from last meal, but that would mean facing everyone. Dealing with the chatter and having at least three shots of Jack poured down my throat. I don’t feel like that right now. I feel like taking a moment. Clearing my head. Breathing, just for a second.
I head in the opposite direction, instead, toward my place. The cabin’s outside of the compound proper, over the small ridge that curves naturally around the Widow Makers’ HQ. That ridge was part of the reason why I set up out here in the first place. A good natural defense in case anyone tries to fuck with us.
It’s winter but I’m still sweating by the time I summit the top of the ridge. The sun’s setting to my right, casting angry, long red shadows across the plane in front of me. It’s gonna be cold, tonight.
Behind me, the four buildings that make up the compound—the clubhouse, the workshop, the storehouse and the barn—are all lit up. I can hear Carnie somewhere down there, shouting something loud and obnoxious. Laughter follows. Cheering and shouting. I smile to myself as I make my way down the other side of the slope toward the cabin. It doesn’t register as odd that the lights are on inside my place. It doesn’t seem strange that the door is locked and I have to use my key to get in. The first thing I do when I see the girl sitting on my couch, watching my television, is pull my gun. Force of habit. She scrambles away from me, backing into the corner of the couch. Her eyes are so big I can practically see myself reflected in her irises. She looks terrified.
I catch myself, then—a gun shoved in her face is the last thing this girl needs. But she shouldn’t be here. I tell her as much. “You shouldn’t be in here. Who put you in here?” Carnie joked about this on the way to Vegas—her needing to bunk in with me. I never gave it serious thought, though. This is so not happening. I lower my gun, tucking it back into my waistband. The girl visibly sags, though it’s obvious she’s still afraid.
“Cade. Cade put me in here when I was passed out,” she says. “After he drugged me, that is.” It doesn’t sound like she’s too impressed about that. I know people who’d pay good money for the high she received, but it looks like she’s not one of them.
“Yeah, sorry about that. We’ve found in the past that being a little sleepy often keeps the people we’re transporting calm. And calm is something we value around these parts.”
“How old are you?” she asks. The question catches me off guard.
“Why do you ask?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“When you’ve figured out why you wanna know, tell me and I’ll decide whether your reasoning’s valid enough for me to share that information with you. In the meantime, I need to talk to my V.P.” I kick the door closed behind me, scowling as I bring up Cade’s number on my cell. He answers quickly, on the second ring.
“Hey, man, what’s up. Are you almost back?”
“I’m already back. And I’m standing in my cabin. Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Ahhh shit. I thought for sure I’d be back before you. Don’t blow a gasket, all right? There was nowhere else to put her.”
“What about the barn? That’s where we usually keep people, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, when we plan on keeping them cuffed to the water tank and beating the shit out of them twenty-four-seven. You really think this situation warrants that?” When he puts it like that, I suppose he’s right. That does seem a little excessive.
“What about the room at the far end of the clubhouse? The one I used to use?”
Cade huffs—I think I’m pissing him off. Well, tough shit. He knows this place is strictly off limits. “You said you didn’t want anyone to know she was here, dude. If I’d dragged her through the clubhouse and up the stairs, someone would have spotted her. And they sure as hell would have wanted to know who she was and why we won’t let her out of the room.”