by Jake Irons
She grabs my other hand, so she’s holding both. I have to strain my eyes to read her face in the dark. She looks tired, and serious, and worried. “I just—I feel like I should be the one to go.”
I go ahead and roll my eyes, because I’m pretty sure she can’t see them. Even if she can, “That’s not a great idea.”
“You yourself said you weren’t a better shot than me.”
“No, I said I wasn’t as good as Armand’s shattered skull made me seem.” Tara winces. “Sorry,” I say. “That was probably a bad visual.”
“I’m worried about you.”
I take a moment to savor her concern. I haven’t felt cared for in years. My mom is worried about me, but she’s not here. Tara’s unease over my mortality is making me feel…really nice. Which is fucking weird.
“I’ll be fine, I promise.” I lower her hands. “Worry about yourself. You got the gun, right?”
She nods.
“What are you gonna do if a bad guy comes?”
“Point and click.”
I grin. “Good. Now wish me luck. I’m about to go be all heroic.”
Tara reaches up to grab my neck and pulls me down to a fierce kiss. I kiss her back, lifting her up and squeezing her tight, and I don’t put her down until my dick starts getting ideas. I don’t need that distraction.
“Good luck,” she says.
I flash her my most dashing grin; it bleeds off my face the moment I close the door behind me.
Chapter 10
Eli
I go right, around the far side of the shed. I can see that guy’s car, the Subaru. My truck is still beside it, and how much do I wish that Tara and I were in it and on our way to Mexico? A lot.
I see another car behind my truck. Not the gray Taurus that our other friends were driving. This is a black Tahoe. I creep behind it and check the license plate; it’s got a government label. I feel a spark of hope that I quickly snuff out. Michal could fake plates.
My front door is just twenty feet away. It’s open, too, but I can’t see my visitor through it. I walk back around the shed to get a line on the green house, which is in the trees, on the opposite side of the house’s back deck. I check the deck again; just Acer.
I need to go inside, but how? I’m sure cops have all these well-studied strategies for entering houses when you don’t know what’s inside, but I have no fucking clue. I’m worried when I get in there I’ll just blast whoever I see, and I’m also worried that I won’t pull the trigger fast enough.
I have a gut feeling it’s only deck dude in the house, but do I want to be my life on it?
Fuck, there’s no point in delaying this shit. I creep back alongside the shed, to the front corner, and then dash across the space between homeboy’s SUV and my front door, staying low to the ground. I leap up the steps and through the door, trigger finger so itchy I’d probably shoot my mom if she jumped up from behind the couch.
She doesn’t.
Neither does dude.
Fuck. My heart is pounding a hundred miles a minute. Where the fuck is he? Not in the kitchen or the main living space. Is he in the bedroom? The bathroom? The doors are closed. Why would he close either if he’s alone?
Fuck, what if he’s downstairs? He could blast me through the fucking floor. How thick are the planks? I don’t remember.
I hear a noise from the stairs and spin toward them—no, it was the bathroom. I’m hearing him through the fake vent.
That’s the toilet flushing.
I step quickly but softly into the kitchen and press my ass flat against the edge of the counter just to the right of the fridge. I try to tilt my head enough to the left that I can see him when he’s out of the stairwell area.
I hear the door open, and every muscle in my body tenses.
Acer whines.
“I know right?” the man says. “Maybe daddy will be home soon. What do you think?” He’s got a weird voice. I can’t tell if he’s being overly pleasant or sarcastic.
I step out from the kitchen. His back is to me. “Daddy’s got a gun pointed at the back of your head so put those hands up ASAP.”
Dude freezes, of course, but his hands don’t move fast enough. “Now, mother fucker! Hands above you head.”
He turns around, surprised but not unnerved. “Eli Murphy, I’m—”
“I will put a hole in your fucking head if you don’t raise you arms right now!”
He purses his lips and narrows his eyes. “That kind of language isn’t necessary.”
Is this motherfucker serious? He’s raising his hands, but he’s really pushing his fucking luck with these exasperated expressions. “I’m with the Marshals Office.”
“Yeah me too.”
“Eli, they sent me—”
“Bullshit,” I snap.
“It’s true.”
“Even if I did have a contact in the Marshals office, he wouldn’t give—
“Agent Harris is in the hospital. He had his appendix out. He tried to call you back—”
“How the fuck did you get here so fast?” So he knows Harris. Which means he’s telling the truth or…I don’t know. How does he know Harris?
“It’s just an hour and a half drive from my house in Denver.”
“You’re in Denver?”
Dude nods. “We have field offices all around the county.”
I try to remember if that’s true.
“They didn’t tell you about our field offices. But I guess why would they? Look, Eli, let me show you—”
“Hands up!” I’m so close to blasting this stupid motherfucker he has no idea.
“Okay there. Take it easy. I just want to show you my badge.”
“Anyone can have a badge.”
Dude holds his hands more to his sides, in exasperation. “Eli, my name is Special Agent—”
“Special agent huh? What’s so special about you?”
“My name is Special Agent Nathan Smith,” the alleged Mr. Smith continues. “I am here—”
“Where’s Harris?”
“I’ve bee trying to tell you, he’s in the hospital—”
“What kind of name is Smith?”
“‘Smith’?” Smith looks deeply offended. “It’s the most common last name in the English-speaking world.”
“I’ve only ever known three Smiths.” I don’t know what the point is of what I’m saying. I guess it’s just to keep him busy. Keep him talking. Try to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do.
“I fail to see what bearing your personal experience with my last name—”
“It’s all relevant, asshole.”
Agent Smith, if that is his real name, sets his mouth sternly. “You are pointing a gun at a federal agent—”
“Who I found in my house illegally.”
“The door was open. And there are three dead bodies outside in a Subaru. I think my entry into the premises would stand up in court.”
“Did you notice the two dead bodies downstairs?”
“Of course. Mind telling me what happened here?”
I shake my head. “Not until you convince me that you are who you say you are.”
Smith sighs. “How can I do that, Eli?”
What fucking game is this asshole playing? “Where’s your badge?”
“Right—”
“Did I say lower your hands motherfucker?”
Smith bristles. “No you didn’t, but I did ask you to speak more professionally—”
“My profession is to not give a fuck. Now shut up and let me think.” Maybe it would be easier if this guy was actively trying to kill me, because then I could just shoot him. Right now, I don’t know what the fuck I should do. “Where’s your badge?” I ask.
“…On my belt.”
“Which side?”
“My left.”
“Okay.” Now how the fuck am I going to get it? I could tell him to lower just his left hand, but what if he’s some kind of Quick Draw McGraw?
“Keep your hands
up, and go to that wall—” I motion to the wall that separates the bedroom with the rest of the living space “—and put your hands on it, as high as you can reach.”
“Is this really necessary?”
“It is if you want to keep breathing.”
Smith glares at me but complies. I follow him, making sure to keep enough distance between us so he can’t pull any sort of Krav Maga shit or whatever the fuck these guys know. “What side is your gun on?”
Smith puts his hands high on the wall, but he doesn’t answer.
“What side?”
“Eli, my firearm is a government—”
“When are you gonna get it through your head I don’t give a fuck? When the fuck are you gonna get it through your fucking head—”
“On the left,” he growls.
“With the badge.”
“Yes, with the badge.”
I take a few cautious steps forward, but Smith doesn’t seem like he’s going to try anything. I jab my gun into his back, just about where his heart should be. “You know what will happen if you try anything.”
“Believe me, I’m not going to try anything.”
“Don’t.” I reach around Smith and feel for his gun. It’s pretty easy to find. I pull it out of his holster and take a step back. “Keep those hands up.”
He’s carrying a Sig Sauer. Pretty standard for law enforcement, I think.
I remove the mag and plop it in my pocket. Next I empty the chamber, placing the lone round in my pocket, too, and drop the gun on the couch.
“I’m going to grab your badge next,” I say to Smith.
“Should I move while you do that?”
I answer his joke by jabbing him hard with my Glock. I find his badge and step back to inspect it. It’s got the seal for the marshal’s office. I guess it looks real. I toss it by the gun on the couch. “Now I’m grabbing your wallet.”
“You want a stool sample too?”
I ignore him, grab his wallet, and open it. Colorado license. Nathaniel Edwin Smith. Denver address. He’s got about seventy bucks in cash, two credit cards, a Starbucks gift card. Ah, here’s something: three business cards. They identify him as a Marshal, and they look slightly worn, as if they weren’t just printed a few hours ago.
I’m starting to believe this guy.
“Turn around.”
Smith turns around. “Can I lower my arms?”
“Take off your jacket, toss it on the couch.”
He sighs but complies.
“Now you can lower you hands.”
“Thank you.” Smith groans and shakes his arms. He steps toward the couch. “Now can I—”
“Motherfucker do you want to die?”
Smith stops cold and fixes me with an exasperated look. “You still don’t believe me?”
“All that shit could have been faked.”
Smith rolls his eyes. “Are you serious? Do you really think some minor crime boss in Brooklyn would go through all that trouble?”
“I think he might. Yeah. How did you know I lived up here?”
“Harris, how do you think?”
“He isn’t supposed to tell anyone.”
“Yeah, but you got made while he was having surgery. And in a big way it looks like. What the hell happened here?”
I wave the gun at him. “You answer my questions, remember? What happened to Acer?”
“Your dog? Nothing. I found him wandering around outside and put a length of rope around his collar. Rope I found in your shed.”
“Follow me to the deck. I’m going to walk backwards, facing you. Maintain this amount of distance between us. If you get too close, I’ll shoot you.”
Smith frowns. “I’m tired of being threatened,” he complains, but he does as I said. In a few steps I’m at Acer’s side. I give him a quick check and he seems fine. He bounces around nervously while I undo the rope around his neck.
“Hey buddy, you okay?” Acer paws and jumps and licks my face. “Who’s a good boy?”
Once I’m sure Acer’s okay, I turn my attention back to Smith. “I want to believe you,” I say. “But I can’t. Is there anyway you can get Harris on the phone?”
Smith opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, a phone rungs. His phone. It’s coming from his jacket. “Perfect timing,” Smith says. He points to his jacket. “May I?”
“Slowly,” I say.
He marches to his jacket and fishes a phone out of an outside pocket. “Hello? It is? Good. Mr. Murphy is here with me now. Okay.”
Smith hangs up the phone. “Look outside.”
The fuck? “Excuse me?”
Smith smiles encouragingly. “Go on, look outside.”
I have a sinking feeling as I walk onto the deck. Acer whines as he follows me. I keep one eye on Smith as I walk to the rail, but what I see on the ground below makes me forget all about him.
There’s a man down there. He’s got Tara thrown over his shoulder. She appears to be unconscious.
“Gun on the ground.” I feel the cool metal of Smith’s piece pressed against my head. He must have had it around his ankle. Fuck.
“Okay,” I say. I slowly lower the gun to the ground, but before I get all the way down, Smith bashes me over the head with his revolver.
I fall to the deck groaning and cover my head. Smith straddles me and punches me hard in the face. I hear Acer barking and growling as everything goes black.
Chapter 11
Tara
The first thing I notice is my pounding headache. I mean pounding. Like someone is punching the back of my head over and over again.
I’m not being punched, though. I don’t think. I’m sitting up. In a chair. I try to hold my head, but I can’t move my arms. I’m stuck. No, I… I’m tied up.
I open my eyes as the memory of what happened slams into the back of my already devastated head, and oh fuck, I’m going to puke. I close my eyes again…take deep breaths…
I was in the shed when one of those assholes got me. I was in the front, peeking through a hole in one of the windows on the big, pull-down shed door. I don’t know how he snuck in without me hearing. I guess I was too focused on the house.
I open my eyes again, and this time the pain is fractionally more bearable. Did I get hit on the head? I don’t remember that happening. I remember struggling…
Ugh. So sick… I shut my eyes. Breathe in. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
I open my eyes. Still in a dark room. I look down at my legs as I try to move them. They’re tied to the chair’s front legs. My hands aren’t actually tied; my arms are tied to my sides, and then there’s rope wrapped around my waist, tying me to the chair.
I lean forward to try to see the ropes around my ankles, and I notice something in the corner to my left. I jerk my head toward it…and I don’t see anything. I squint, and my eyes gravitate to the floor. There’s something there. Something about the… Oh God, those are people!
My heart is about to beat right out of my chest. Dead people! I bite my lip to keep from screaming. It’s two men, I think. I must have somehow instinctively recognized their shape in the dark. I can tell they’re dead because…
Oh, fuck.
My eyes dart around the room. It’s too dark for me to see much about the room itself, but I do have a sense of the general shape, and it feels like Eli’s house. I’m probably in the basement. And those two men are Peter and Nick. Whoever got me must have brought me down here.
I breathe from my mouth, slow and steady, willing myself to focus around the awful ache in my head. If I’m in Eli’s house, where is Eli?
My eyes travel to the far right corner of the room, and like with the dead men, I sense him before I see the outline of his body on the floor.
Shit. He’s on his side, not moving. I can’t tell for sure, but it looks like his legs are bound, his arms pulled behind his back.
“Eli!” I hiss.
Nothing. I feel ill.
“Eli! Eli! Wake up!”
Fuck!
I can’t tell if he’s breathing because it’s so dark.
“Eli!”
I could try yelling at him, but I don’t want to give away to whoever is here that I’m awake. Or alive. Although I suppose if they tied us up they expect us to be alive. Which begs the question: what are they going to do with us?
I can’t think about that right now. I tug against my binds. How am I going to get out of this? I struggle to twist my arms free, but the ropes are too tight. Argh. I try my legs and those aren’t budging either. The ropes hurt, too, and my head is still pounding. I’m having a hard time focusing. Is this a kitchen chair I’m in? I think it’s one of the chairs from Eli’s kitchen. I press my feet into the floor…pretty sure that’s carpet.
“Eli!”
God, what if he’s dead?
No, no, he’s alive. I just need to wake him up.
Is there anything nearby that I can use to cut through these ropes? If there is, I can’t see it. Shit, I’m going to have to hop over there or something. My feet are firmly on the floor. I give an experimental push, and yeah, I can move this chair. Can I move it in the right direction? That’s the question.
“Eli!” I hiss one last time, but he stays slumped.
Ah man this is going to suck.
I try to sort of pull myself across the room with my feet, but that doesn’t work at all. Next I try hopping, but that’s not much better, and on my third try I come terrifyingly close to tipping over. So now I’m wiggling across the floor. I jerk my right side half an inch forward, then my left, then my right, then my left, then my right, then my left. This is a lot of effort, and “Fuuuuuuuck!” I hiss. “Eli, wake the fuck up!”
I’m sweating and the ropes are cutting into me and my head is hurting. I jerk the chair forward to the right, then the left, half inch by half inch, and I don’t think I’ve even moved two feet yet.
“Eli!”
Half inch by half inch, right then left then right then left. I’ve made it almost halfway across the room now, and I have to stop. I’m using muscles right now I didn’t even know I had. They burn, and the hurt in my head is nearing migraine levels.
“Eli!” I hiss.
I jerk the right side forward—
“Tara?”
I lurch in surprise, and the lurch swings me too wide to the right. The chair falls. Oof. Ow. I landed on my face. Ow.