Not So Prince Charming: A Dirty Fairy Tale

by Lauren Landish

  “What do we do?” Mia asks as she regains control of herself. “Call the police?”

  Thomas and I lock eyes, and I know we’re thinking the same thing. “No police,” I reply, gripping the edge of the countertop. “I’ll get her back.”

  Mia’s eyes widen, looking from me to Thomas. “What? She’s been kidnapped. We need to call the police.”

  I know that I’m about to piss off Thomas, but I need to make sure we’re all on the same page here. “Mia, do you understand what I do, who I am? Because I’m going to get Bella back, and I do not want police anywhere near this when I do it. This is going to get ugly, fast.”

  Mia gasps, and Thomas’ eyes are tight, but they seem to fully grasp my intentions now, which was my point. Thomas blinks his agreement and I continue.

  “This man, Jericho, he has her now, under contract for sure. He’s the sadistic type who enjoys his work and has no code other than completing a job. Bella will be like a shiny new toy to him, something to play with and test out her limits.”

  I swallow thickly, the thought making my stomach roil.

  “You know him?” Thomas asks. “Personally?”

  “No,” I reply with a shake of my head, “only of him and his work. We’re, well I guess you’d say we’re competitors for the same contracts. But I’m careful about the jobs I accept. For Jericho, it’s not about the money or making someone pay for a wrongdoing, it’s about sanctioned brutality.”

  “And he’s got Izzy?” Mia sighs, rubbing at her streaked hair. “What can we do?”

  “I need your brains and your computers,” I tell Mia bluntly. “I need intel.”

  Thomas raises an eyebrow even as Mia nods, her eyes setting firmly. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but he did get the drop on you. You sure you don’t need help, backup of some sort?”

  I shake my head, looking Thomas in the eye. “No. And this isn’t up for debate, Thomas. I’m not taking you with me. While you might handle yourself just fine in a bar fight, you’re dealing with a trained killer here. This is the point where guys like you hire guys like me. And I need to do this job alone.”

  Mia takes Thomas’s hand, solidifying my decision. Thomas needs to stay here for Mia because to some degree, this is still about them, pawns being sacrificed to weaken the King and Queen. Thomas looks at Mia, then back at me. “I fucking hate this.”

  “I know. And I appreciate the offer, but I can do this. I just have to figure out where he took her.”

  “Then let’s get to work,” Mia says, her eyes narrowing as she disappears into the back. She comes out a minute later in some yoga pants and the same shirt before throwing a pair of sweats to Thomas. “My office will be faster.”

  Mia’s basement office is a shrine to all things computer nerdy, and she puts her three displays to work, pulling data as quickly as she can type.

  By the time the clock on the wall ticks midnight, we’re looking over detailed maps of Roseboro, calculating possible hideout points where Jericho might’ve taken Bella. Mia’s a machine, correlating tax records, population density, police coverage, and more, but even with all of that, there are simply too many possibilities.

  “Seven,” Mia says, hitting Print on her machine. “It’s . . . it’s the best I can do, Gabriel. If I had—”

  “You reduced my load from thousands to seven,” I reassure her. “If I have to, I’ll—”

  That’s when we catch a break of the worst sort. My phone dings with an incoming text. It’s my burner phone. Only one man, and Bella, have that particular number.

  I open it and anger flashes hot and bright-white in my veins. It’s a picture of Bella, her hands zip-tied to a chair, her head lolling to the side. Is she dead or unconscious?

  “Fuck.”

  “What is it?” Thomas asks, his jaw clenching as I show them the picture and Mia cries out softly. Underneath the picture is an address, and I note with some satisfaction that it’s on Mia’s list of seven properties.

  The final words are the only possible hope. ‘Come and get her’ blinks on and off, with a grinning, laughing animated emoji.

  He’s enjoying this. The fucker is getting off on torturing her and taunting me.

  I stand. “I have to go.”

  “It’s a trap, you know that,” Thomas says, surprisingly reasonable under pressure. “And you don’t know anything about the building.”

  “I know, but this is my fault,” I reply. “I have to save her.”

  Mia’s brows crinkle and she wipes at her eyes. “Your fault? It’s not your fault there’s a fucking madman with a weird hard-on for hurting Thomas.”

  “I knew something was off about this contract from the beginning. It’s why I delayed,” I admit with a shake of my head. “I should’ve never taken her from the safety of this penthouse tonight, but I was weak. And while Blackwell wants to hurt her to get at you, Jericho is definitely taking satisfaction in doing this to me.”

  Thomas’s voice is deep, controlled. “You said you didn’t know him personally.”

  “I don’t, but I can judge the man by . . . by the way he kills, if that makes sense. My guess is, Jericho’s contract is for both Bella and me, because Blackwell will not take kindly to my defection from our deal. But either Jericho or Blackwell, or maybe both, want me to suffer. I was unconscious on the floor, Jericho could’ve just taken me out then, walked outside and double tapped Bella, and the job would’ve been done. But he didn’t.”

  I imagine that scenario, my Bella splayed out in the grass, dead in the dark night, and pray that whatever Jericho’s doing to her now doesn’t make a quick and easy death a preferable, peaceful option.

  I think about what I know of Jericho. Despite his sadism, and his reputation for cruelty, he’s also known for his detailed planning and precise execution. It’s why he’s often hired to extract information, because by the time he’s done having his fun, his victims will spill their guts just to get a final release from the pain he’s put them through. Though sometimes he’s hired simply for the torture aspect, no information needed, his depravity simply providing a painful death to the target of his contract.

  Evil. That’s the only word to describe him.

  “Gabriel?” Mia asks, and I clear my throat.

  “We’re not friends, or even colleagues, but there’s a certain level of respect given to other pros. By taking the contract against me, he’s saying that I’ve betrayed the profession, and he’ll want to back it up. But he wants to draw this out for his own pleasure, torment me by getting at Bella. That’s the only reason he would’ve taken her and left me, to make it hurt because he’s a cruel bastard. And once he’s had his fun, he’ll kill us both to complete his contract."

  I say it matter-of-factly because if I’m going to make this work, I have to get in touch with the cold, heartless side of me again. Discussing hits for hire is par for the course for that part, even though this contract is as different as can be.

  But Thomas and Mia look horrified at my casual discussion of death.

  “Oh, my God, I’m going to be sick,” Mia says, her hand covering her mouth. Thomas rubs her back soothingly.

  “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can,” I say at the door. “Mia, if you can, I need you by the phone, ready to send me information.”

  “I can do you one better,” Thomas says, reaching over and swiping a tablet computer from a docking station next to Mia’s desk. “This is tied to her systems, a little gadget we worked up for business trips. She types it, it’ll pop on your screen.”

  “Good . . . then I need any information you can gather in the next ten minutes,” I reply. “Video feeds, traffic cams, anything. And I’d suggest you stay here. If Blackwell is escalating, who knows if he still considers you off limits.”

  Thomas purses his lips, nodding. “I’m trusting you to take care of Izzy. You can trust me to handle Blackwell.”

  “If I fail . . . turn this place into a fortress,” I advise him. “At least until you can get out of town
.”

  The drive to the address Jericho gave me is quiet, the tablet beeping from time to time as Mia sends me information. I use every beep as a chance to separate myself, to shut down my humanity and to become the cold, relentless killer I know is inside me. My emotions close off, my heart slows, and my blood ices.

  I become the Fallen Angel once again.

  No . . . I must become more. Or is it less? More monster, less man, more evil, less salvageable.

  Because tonight, I cannot stop. Not until Jericho is dead.

  I only hope that I can come out the other side of tonight with Bella and my soul intact.

  Chapter 36

  Isabella

  The first thing I’m aware of is the chill. It seems to be everywhere, on my skin, in my bones . . . even my hair feels chilly somehow.

  I try to reach up, needing to wipe the tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. But when I go to lift my hands, they don’t move and I realize I’m tied to a metal chair. I fight the restraint, but I can only wiggle a little bit before chafing my wrists. The same is true for my ankles. Blinking until I can see, I look down, seeing that both are bound with plastic zip-ties.

  Shit.

  “Hello?” I murmur, my mouth tasting like chemicals. My mind’s fuzzy, but I have a vague memory of a cloth over my face and darkness.

  I look around the room, trying to figure out where I am. I can’t see much. The lights are so dim that I can’t see the walls of the room, so I try again. “HELLO!”

  The sound bounces off the walls, echoing and reverberating loud enough to make my ears ring. Well, at least I know that wherever I am, the room’s not that big.

  I wince, wishing I could put my hands over my ears, but all I succeed in doing is making my forearms hurt.

  “It won’t help you,” a voice with a slight accent that I can’t place says from the darkness. “You can scream until your voice gives out. Nobody will hear you. This building is a mile away from anything.”

  “Who . . . who are you? What do you want?” I ask, trying to keep the fear out of my voice, but the tremble is obvious.

  The lights suddenly brighten, and I see where I am. Or at least, I see where, but that doesn’t mean I understand.

  It looks like an office, the sort of place you’d find in a mechanic’s shop or something industrial.

  I can’t tell anything else because every surface of the room is covered in plastic drop cloths, the kind you get when you’re painting a room and you know you’re going to make a mess. Thick ones, too, slightly opaque clear plastic that covers every wall, the window, which I can tell is there only because a dim light shines through it, the floor, the door . . . looking up, I can even see the ceiling is covered in plastic.

  The idea of being surrounded by so much plastic chills me to the bone, bringing to mind all sorts of images from the worst of the late-night horror movies.

  But then I sense someone behind me, and slowly, a tall blond man, his hair neatly styled and his face looking cold and aristocratic, walks around me, coming to a stop directly in front of where I’m sitting.

  He’s dressed all in black, but where Gabe and I were wearing jeans and hoodies, this man is wearing slacks and a button-down dress shirt. And black leather gloves, filling my heart with a sick, desperate feeling of dread. He tilts his head, lifting an eyebrow, and after a moment, I realize he expects me to speak.

  “Who are you?” I repeat.

  “My name is Jericho,” the man says. “And you’re Isabella Turner.”

  He smiles, and another chill goes down my spine. It’s the smile of a man who would have no qualms about ending my life. My heart stills in my chest because in his eyes I see no mercy, no humanity.

  It’s even worse than seeing Gabriel when he was ready to kill Russell.

  “You amuse me,” he says, but his face shows no sign of joy. “So please tell me, how did such a worthless thing happen to create so much drama? I don’t understand it.”

  He brushes the back of a finger along my cheekbone, and I recoil, trying to get away. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t touch me.”

  From somewhere far away, I hear my name. “Bella?”

  I can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from. It’s muffled by either the walls or the plastic, I don’t know which. But I know who it is.

  It’s Gabe! He’s come for me. Thank God, I think. But then I see the glee on Jericho’s face and I rethink my hope that Gabe can save me.

  “Gabe! Run!” I shout, wanting at least one of us to get out of this and strongly doubting there’s any way I am leaving this room alive.

  Jericho turns back to me, his eyes alight, and I realize just how dead inside he looked before. But this . . . this look is so much worse. “Ah . . . he was a little faster than I anticipated. I’m not done setting the scene for him. Too bad, but we will continue this conversation later. Time to get to work.”

  I’ve heard the saying that if you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life. Watching him hustle over to the desk, I suspect that’s true for Jericho. He loves his work, as twisted and awful as it is. And I’ll be the one to pay for that bloodlust. Me and Gabe, if I can’t get him to leave me.

  Jericho picks up something from a toolbox on the plastic-covered desk. At first, I can’t see what it is, but then he turns and shows me, the anticipation part of the terror he’s after. It’s a pair of pliers, just like the pair I’ve used at The Gravy Train for helping Henry in the back with minor repairs, but these have sharp blades. He clicks them together, mimicking the movement with his mouth, teeth chomping at the air.

  “What’s that? What are you doing?” I say, my voice stuttering with fear and my eyes wide.

  He doesn’t answer, coming closer step by step, and I thrash in the chair. But he’s got me trussed up tightly, with my feet off the ground, and the chair’s hard to tip over. All I do is abrade my wrists and slam my shoulder blades into the back of the chair hard enough to make me scream.

  Jericho grabs my left hand, and though I try to pull it away, it’s locked in place by the zip-tie restraint. He runs the cold metal down the back of my fingers, sending shivers through my whole body.

  “No, no, no—” I plead, not even fully grasping what he intends but knowing it won’t be good.

  “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe—”

  My cry turns to a blood-curdling scream as Jericho, in a blur of speed, fastens the pliers onto my pinkie finger and twists it to the side.

  The pain is instant and overwhelming. “Aaaaaahhhhhh!”

  Tears run, and a new level of terror fills me. Fear of the unknown is one thing, but this is the first step of destruction in Jericho’s plan, and the reality is beyond anything I’ve ever known. I thought I knew pain, emotional devastation from the losses I’ve suffered, and even physical discomfort from hardship. But this is sharp and bright and hurts so fucking much.

  “Delightful . . . I love that sound,” Jericho says conversationally. He bends closer, as if inspecting his handiwork. I can’t help but look too, even though I desperately don’t want to.

  I’m half-expecting to see my finger dangling loosely, but instead I find it’s not there at all. Jericho cut it clean off from my palm and the room spins as I feel faint at the sight. Even through the dizziness, I swear I see the flash of Jericho’s tongue as he licks his lips, delighted at the rivulets of blood running from the gnarled nub where my finger used to be.

  “Bella!”

  I hear Gabe, his footsteps pounding. My courage, telling him to go, evaporates in the fiery pain, and I look around wildly, trying to find him, shamefully wanting him to save me, help me, rescue me.

  In a haze, I see Jericho’s anticipation. He’s ready, setting the pliers down on the desk and opening a drawer in order to withdraw a pistol. And for a split second, I can think clearly.

  “No! Leave me, Gabe. He’s going to kill us both. Please, I love you. Go!” I struggle against the chair again, trying to get free or at least away from Jericho.r />
  A shot rings out in response, cutting off my words. It’s loud and piercing, echoing in the empty space, but it sounds close. Really close.

  Jericho grins, finally truly happy. “Showtime.” His voice is robotic and cold, his countenance even more menacing as he inhales, spreading his shoulders wide.

  He moves behind me and the plastic rustles. I look over my shoulder, and he’s gone, disappeared into the space beyond the plastic room he’s created for me.

  “He’s coming, Gabe!” I cry out, choking on tears and fear. “Run!”

  My words are too late, though, as a pair of gunshots cuts me off. My heart’s in my throat, terror that Gabe’s been shot evaporating as I hear a scuffle start out of my sight. I don’t know where they are because everything echoes, but I can hear the smack of flesh, the grunts as the punches connect, and the sound of their bodies banging against what I can only guess are walls and furniture outside the plastic.

  My brain is a useless blob of jelly between my ears, and my chest aches from holding my breath until instinct takes over and I breathe again. I jerk against my restraints, and at first I think I’ve got nothing, but then I feel something . . . slip.

  Blessedly, my mind focuses and I repeat the motion, wiggling my hand back and forth, to see what’s giving way. The blood is helping my wrist slide between the plastic bracelet and the arm of the chair, lubing the tight fit a bit.

  I’ve got the smallest space to pull my hand through and the thought of pulling my pained hand through that pinching gap already has me moaning in fear, but as I hear another thud from the fight outside, I put it aside.

  I can do this. I have done some ridiculously difficult things in my life, been through hell and come out the other side, and can tackle any obstacle in front of me and conquer it. I’m a strong woman, and I won’t sit here and wait for someone else to do what I can do myself.

  And Gabe needs me.

  Renewed, I don’t thrash my whole body, but instead focus on just my left arm. I pull back slowly, lifting as I do to try and slip through the small space, but the only feeling I get is my wrist screaming as the nylon tightens like a vice around my bones.