Tattoo

by Cambria Hebert

  I guess that taught me I trusted him more than I thought.

  He reappeared and I swallowed, noting the handful of supplies he set on the edge of the cot. He raked over me with assessing eyes, not showing any type of emotion.

  “This probably is going to hurt,” he said, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “You don’t have a choice.”

  “Just do it,” I said. I needed to know how bad this was. I needed to know what I was looking at as far as my injury and being able to get the hell out of here.

  Brody pulled away the flannel shirt that was acting as my makeshift blanket. I was already cold and the cool rush of air across my exposed skin only made it worse. My teeth began to chatter a little more loudly, but he acted like he didn’t notice.

  After setting aside the flannel, it didn’t take long to remove the blood-soaked T-shirt that was tied around my arm. I bit my lower lip to keep from crying out. The pain was hot and lancing; it set my entire arm on fire and shot up into my shoulder and down my back. I squeezed my eyes shut and turned my face away from him, toward the wall, as a tear leaked from the corner of one eye and slid down across the bridge of my nose.

  “I’m going to clean it,” he said softly.

  I kept my face turned away as I heard a few little packets being ripped. My body bucked up off the mattress like I was some headstrong bull when the first of whatever he was doing touched the wound.

  I felt his momentary hesitation, and I bit my lip, pinning my body back down and willing him to just get it over with. He seemed to know what he was doing, cleaning away what dried blood he could and then dabbing at the entry wound.

  “I’m not going to completely clean it the way it needs,” he murmured. “It’s already begun to clot on its own and I don’t want to disrupt that. Blood loss is a concern and the clotting is the best defense against that.”

  Yeah, that was good. Clotting was good, a positive sign I might not die. At least not immediately. ‘Course, being in a room full of criminals with guns wasn’t exactly a good way to keep oneself alive.

  “You have burns on your skin,” he muttered, his voice turning gravelly. “They shot you at close range. The heat of the bullet burned your flesh.”

  I felt the coolness of some kind of liquid or ointment, but I didn’t turn to see. I didn’t want to see. I wanted to maintain what little detachment from this mess I had.

  “I’m going to lift your arm,” he informed me. “I need to look at the back of it.”

  I offered my wrist and he took it, lifting my arm up over my head. His fingers probed around and a little sound of discomfort yelped between my lips. Brody stiffened.

  “Sorry,” I whispered and bit my lip harder as more tears spilled from beneath my lids.

  It hurt. It hurt really bad.

  He expelled a breath, almost like he was relieved. “It went all the way through the fleshy part of your outer arm.”

  “If you call me fat one more time I’m gonna scream.”

  His chuckle was warm and unexpected. It was a momentary distraction from the fire in my arm. “You should be glad you have a little meat on them bones. It protected your arm today.”

  “So the bullet isn’t in there?” I asked, keeping my face turned away.

  “No, the exit wound is here,” he said quietly as his fingers probed the wound.

  I jerked. “Poking at it isn’t helping.”

  “The exit wound is larger than the entry wound, to be expected. The flesh is torn in this area,” he said as he applied more of what I assumed was an antiseptic wipe. “Most of the bleeding is coming from here,” he said.

  He was very matter-of-fact, very clinical, and he seemed to know what he was looking for. Maybe he really was a certified EMT. Maybe I wouldn’t die after all.

  He tore the wrappers to more stuff, but I didn’t dare to look. It wouldn’t hurt as much if I didn’t see, right?

  “I’m going to apply some non-adhesive pads to the entry and exit wounds and then I’m going to wrap your arm in what gauze I have. That should stop the rest of the bleeding and also keep the open wounds protected,” he explained as he worked.

  His voice was mildly hypnotizing, a very even tone. There wasn’t much “up and down” in the sound of his voice. It was steady… like the beat of a heart.

  I continued to chew on my lower lip, the motion somewhat distracting me from what else was going on. I couldn’t help but wonder what was next. How long would we be here? Would these men just let us go?

  My father must be worried sick by now.

  He would stop at nothing to find me.

  “Sit up,” Brody instructed a short while later.

  I turned my face and glanced at him. He pushed away from me, picking up the flannel and staring at me expectantly.

  I moved slowly, gripping the edge of the cot and trying to lever myself up. My grip was about as strong as a newborn baby’s and I couldn’t seem to control my own weight. But Brody was there, kneeling alongside the cot, slipping his arm around my waist and physically lifting me into a sitting position. I swung my legs around and a wave of dizziness threatened to knock me over.

  “Easy,” he whispered. “You lost a lot of blood. You’re going to be weak.”

  After a few moments of steadying myself, I nodded and he moved back, staying at arm’s length. He draped the flannel around me, guiding the arm without the bullet hole in through the fabric. When that was finished, I was shaking anew from the effort of holding up my body.

  “Keep that arm at your side. Try not to use it or move it. I don’t have a sling so you’re going to have to pretend there’s one there holding your arm in place,” he instructed as he pulled the flannel around me gently. His fingers were deft as he buttoned it around my chest.

  A scent I identified instantly as his wrapped around my senses. It was deep, exotic, and strong. It seemed to match the person I was becoming to see him as.

  He didn’t say anything as he reached behind my neck, using his palm to scoop the very long strands of my hair out from under the shirt. He released the mass, running his palm over it, following its length all the way down to the small of my back.

  When he reached the end, his palm stuttered, hovering there, creating a pocket of warmth that traveled through my clothes and seeped into my skin. “You’re really warm,” I whispered, swaying slightly.

  “How else are you feeling?” he asked, concern in his tone.

  “Like I got hit by a truck.”

  “Bullets tend to have that effect on people.”

  “Have you ever been shot?”

  He shifted slightly in his crouch, almost like he was settling closer to me. We weren’t very far apart and even though I was sitting up, we were almost eye level.

  “A couple times.” He shifted again, stretching out his torso and pointing to the side of his middle toward a puckered scar. It was round and looked like a knot.

  “Is that what mine will look like?” I asked. Without thinking, I reached out and grazed my fingers over the scar. His skin was so warm compared to mine.

  “Something like that,” he murmured, not moving away from my touch.

  Our eyes met and held. Something passed between us, some sort of charged awareness. A feeling of comfort flowed into me. I felt safe with him. This was the scariest situation of my life, yet somehow I knew he would make sure we got out of here.

  “I tried to run,” I blurted out.

  He smiled. “Your ass almost fell down the stairs.”

  “I’m scared.” I admitted, the confession ripping from a deep and private place within me. I might have felt safety in his presence, but I knew we were in danger.

  “You should lay down. You look like shit,” was his response.

  “Way to make a girl feel better,” I muttered as I lowered my body against the thin mattress. I tried not to think about all the different kinds of nasty bugs and creatures that were likely living in this thing.

  “It’s not my job to make you feel better. It’s my job to k
eep you alive.”

  “You’re all about the job, aren’t you?” I asked.

  He cleared his throat and cut his eyes toward the other men across the room. “You should rest. I’ll see if I can find some water.”

  He moved away from me without a backward glance.

  Pain knotted around me, snaring me in its thick and tangled web. I turned back to the dirty cinderblock wall, preferring to stare at it rather than out into the creepy pit of a room.

  Maybe after a few moments of rest, I would be able to think more clearly. I could come up with a way to get word to my father.

  I could come up with a way to get the hell out of here.

  5

  Brody

  Her wound worried me.

  Luckily the bullet passed right through her arm and didn’t ricochet off a bone or make its way down into her chest and into an organ. Things could have been much worse for her.

  But that didn’t mean she was totally out of the woods. I didn’t like the way the skin was hot to the touch and red around the edges. It could signal some form of early infection. Or the tissue could just be burned and very damaged from the bullet. Maybe the redness just seemed worse to my naked eye because she still had so much smeared and dried blood on her.

  The bottom line was that she needed to be in a sterile environment, the wound needed to be cleaned and stitched, and she needed to be on fluid and antibiotics.

  I glanced around the room I followed the three men into. It was practically a cave. All cinderblock walls with sloppily laid grout between. Dust and dirt coated every surface, including the concrete floor. Electrical wires hung out of the exposed ceiling, falling between battered pipes and old duct work.

  I brought Taylor into a “private” room just off the main room, if anyone would dare to call it private. There were no walls separating us from the rest of the room, but it seemed someone—a long time ago—attempted to build a wall to close it off because the thick two-by-fours were all erected and nailed into place. But no drywall was ever hung. It’s the like the framing was built and then the project was abandoned, the wood left to turn a depressing gray and slowly rot away.

  It was musty down here, the air thick with dampness and the scent of mold. Most places in the South didn’t have basements, so whatever this place had been likely wasn’t good. Hell, it was probably used back then for what it was being used for now: criminal activity.

  Besides a small one-person cot (with no blanket or sheet) there was nothing in this “room” other than a single light bulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling. I hadn’t tried to turn it on; it probably didn’t work anyway.

  Out in the main space, there was a ratty mustard-colored couch. It was likely once a nice piece of furniture… oh, about twenty years ago.

  It was ripped and dirty and, frankly, just the kind of thing I expected to see in this place. Off to the side was a white mini fridge, a small table with a lamp (which was lit), and a large box, which was serving as a coffee table.

  Two of the guys were sitting on the couch, their noses buried in their cell phones, while Tommy was over by the stairs where I figured he was waiting for Snake. On the other side of the room was a small generator that rumbled in the background. A long black cord ran from the side and I knew that’s how they were supplying what little bit of electricity they had.

  Over by the wall were quite a few black duffle bags full of stolen money. It was ironic really to see such riches in this rundown, ghetto space.

  I glanced at Taylor, making sure her arm wasn’t bleeding through the dressing and shirt that covered her. So far I saw no signs of renewed bleeding, but she needed things that this place didn’t have.

  I shouldn’t have brought her here.

  I should have just told the crew I was a cop and let them shoot me. At least then Taylor would have gotten the help she needed. And I… well, I wouldn’t have to wonder about where to go from here anymore because I’d already be gone.

  Thinking like that was a waste of time. The fact was I didn’t tell them I was a cop because I wanted them to assume I was an ally. I did nothing but cultivate my identity as Slater Bass for years, even before going completely into their world and cutting off all ties to my old life. So when they started talking to me like I was one of their own, I fell into the role with ease.

  I saw it was my opportunity to find out what they were up to, why they were stealing money, what they were doing with it, and what was going on within the organization since me and my buddy Gray brought down a huge drug ring, and along with it, the crew’s main operator, Pike.

  By the time I realized they would expect me to bring Taylor with me, I was already in. Backing out wouldn’t have just gotten me killed, but Taylor as well. She was now connected to me, and my actions would follow her.

  What I needed to do was win their trust, then get the fuck out of here and take Taylor somewhere safe. If I moved fast, I could have a raid descend on this building before anyone could even think I wasn’t coming back.

  The money would be returned. More of Pike’s crew would be off the streets, and Taylor would be safe.

  And I could finally go fishing.

  Overhead, the echo of heavy footfalls vibrated the floorboards. Taylor stiffened and glanced at me. I hoped that meant she trusted me enough to keep her safe. Hell, I couldn’t blame her if she didn’t trust me. Since I showed up, she had gotten shot, kidnapped, and dragged into some dungeon with a bunch of gang members.

  Snake walked down the stairs, carrying several more black duffle bags full of cash. He walked over to the pile and tossed them on top, his eyes raking over the massive haul.

  He and Tommy fist bumped over their success and then Snake grinned. “Smooth as butter,” he bragged.

  One of the guys from the couch gave me a cold stare. “Except for the fact we picked up some extra baggage on the way out.”

  Every crew had a guy like him. A guy with a chip on his shoulder and an ego the size of a small elephant. The only thing a guy like him liked was violence and making everyone else as miserable as he was.

  My bet was he didn’t even care about the money; he was just in this for the thrill of the kill.

  After all, he was the one who shot Taylor.

  “You gotta problem with me?” I said, turning full on to face him. I’d take the challenge in his eyes and raise it some. He thought he had a chip on his shoulder? He was the reason Taylor was bleeding. He was the reason I wasn’t on the shore fishing right now.

  Guys like him were dangerous, but I wasn’t exactly Suzie Homemaker.

  He pushed up off the couch, dropping his phone on the cushion. “Yeah, maybe I do.”

  I stepped around the framing toward him. This jackass did not intimidate me. I was pretty pissed off and if he was looking for a fight, I’d sure as hell give him one.

  Snake stepped between us and I suppressed an eye roll. I’d wipe the floor with his ass too. “Leo, this ain’t the time.”

  Leo eyed Snake with barely veiled anger. I was waiting for them to start throwing punches at each other. They were young and just pulled off a big heist so I knew their blood was pumping.

  To my surprise, Leo backed down. “I don’t trust him,” he told Snake.

  “He helped us get out of the bank,” Snake began.

  Leo snorted. “It ain’t like he shot a bunch of people to clear a path. He made a suggestion. A suggestion any one of us could have made.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” I said, hard.

  His eyes narrowed on my face and his hands clenched at his sides.

  “Are you saying you don’t respect the mark?” Snake challenged, stepping toward Leo. “Are you saying the symbol tattooed on his back isn’t a sign he earned his way in, a sign that he already proved his worth to the crew?”

  In any other world, a tattoo might just be a piece of art, a means of personal expression. But here, on the streets, in the gang world… a tattoo was literally life and death. It marked a man clearly on what side he
belonged.

  “Naw, man.” Leo relented. “I know the tat’s for real.”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  “The problem is our cut just got smaller.”

  “But now we got startup fees and another set of hands to get things going.” Snake reasoned.

  So clearly, Snake was the mastermind of this little group. He was the one in charge.

  “Startup fee for what?” I asked, interrupting their little guy time.

  Snake swung toward me, eyeing me up like it was the first time he saw me. I didn’t squirm under his gaze. In fact, he didn’t make me uncomfortable in the least. This guy was small potatoes compared to those I’d worked with before.

  “You said you worked for Pike?” he asked, answering my question with one of his own.

  “Indirectly. We all worked for Pike, didn’t we?”

  “So you weren’t on his crew in Myrtle?”

  “I was for a while. Then I moved to Jacksonville to be part of supply.” Basically, I went there to get large shipments of drugs in and take them illegally into Myrtle Beach. But really, that job was just a cover for my real job, solving a murder that the Jacksonville crew leader had committed.

  In the end, we brought down that man and he handed over evidence that brought down Pike. All those years of living on the wrong side of the law actually counted for something. And it earned me some time off.

  Time off which was now being disrupted.

  “You were part of the crew that was brought down?” Leo said, a little bit of respect creeping in his tone.

  “Yeah, but I wasn’t around the night the busts went down.” I lied. Actually, I was right in the center of it all, but they didn’t need to know that. And all the men who now knew I was undercover were in jail, shipped off to another state. Luckily, the bust went down in Jacksonville and not in Myrtle Beach, so Pike and his inner circle still had no idea who I really was.

  Yeah, Pike was in the slammer, but that didn’t mean a guy like him didn’t have connections on the outside, which is why it was so important for my identity to remain under wraps. The department took a lot of measures to make sure the guys who went down while I was there keep their mouths shut.