Two nights ago? Get rid of a girl? Could he have been talking about the girl on Ninth Street from the text I got?
“Didn’t go as planned? Shit, man, you ain’t exactly making me feel better.”
“Look, I’ve done plenty of deals, and this one won’t be any different,” Rick said. “So just make the damn call and let’s get this over with!”
“Why don’t you make the call?”
“Because, you idiot, I don’t have the number. The broker gave it to you.”
The broker? What product—?
Oh, crap. We were the product. I was the freaking product.
“Here. Take the number that dude gave you. I’ll go wait where the cops can’t bust through that door in five seconds!” The younger guy was rattled.
“Look, you split, and you lose your split. You understand? That’s twenty grand. And the broker is not some dude. He’s big-time, working with Mr. G. You get in with G, and you don’t get to mess around. So just shut up already!”
There was a pause and some shuffling.
“Can’t I at least sample the product? Five minutes alone with the blonde?” My stomach turned, and my muscles tensed in revolt. Young or not, stupid or smart, this guy was dangerous. “If we get busted, at least it won’t all be for nada—”
“How many times do I have to tell you? The broker said she’s a virgin, and they pay triple for virgins. You’re not touching her or her skinny little friend, no matter what. I need this score, all right?”
There was no longer any doubt in my mind—this was, in fact, Rick “The Stick.” Number two on my list of the Filthy Five. The details I’d written in his file quickly came to mind. Formerly: Rick Rossi, champion featherweight boxer from South LA. Currently: notorious drug dealer and unmerciful murderer of anyone who got in his way. He earned his cute little nickname by screwing over one of his big-time drug partners, “sticking” him with the evidence that sent the guy to prison, and walking away with a sweetheart deal from none other than Dear Mother Jane Rose.
Before Dad’s death, his team had responded to a tip on one of Rick’s big deals going down. They recovered 500 kilos of cocaine, but not The Stick himself. He’d gotten away again. Since the bust he’d been lying low, staying away from the cartel guys. That must’ve been what he was talking about when he said he needed this score. He needed the money.
If I didn’t do something quickly, they were either going to make the call and sell us, or they were going to talk each other out of it and get rid of us themselves. I cursed the man behind this torment. Who was this “broker” who’d convinced another one of my Filthy Five to participate in the systematic torture of Ruby Rose? Why didn’t he just kill me himself? And why did he have to involve Alana and Liam? Sure, Alana was fragile enough to sell, but there was no market for six-foot-four tight ends who could knock out The Stick with one punch.
As they continued to argue about whether or not to get rid of us, I rocked back and forth until I could wiggle my hands under my legs and bring them in front of me. I was relieved to find my bonds were only plastic tie straps—and I had sharp teeth.
But minutes passed and I’d made no progress on the thick ties. My now swollen and bloody gums weren’t helping, either. I was running out of time. If they hadn’t heard me by now, it wouldn’t be much longer.
I looked around for something sharp—a broken bottle, a piece of scrap metal, anything. But after too many minutes of blinking to try to focus past the bars, all I could find to saw the plastic were the sharp, rusty hinges on the cage itself. I swallowed the feeling that the bars were moving toward me as I crawled toward them, and I began sawing. I barely breathed as I used all my strength to grind through the plastic as silently as possible.
As soon as the ties snapped off, I felt around for a way to open the cage. In the top corner was a latch kept shut by a bicycle lock. A bicycle lock? Come on, no proper criminal uses a coiled three-digit-code bicycle lock! If it were a normal lock, I could have picked it with my earring like Dad taught me. But the only way to get this thing off was to know the code. And I didn’t know it.
Wait. Three digits.
Suddenly, I had an idea. Mr. D. S. didn’t seem to do anything without purpose or meaning. I doubted Rick had put me in this cage himself. It wasn’t his MO. He was a vicious criminal who didn’t mind beating people to death with his little bare fists, but as far as my research went, child trafficking wasn’t in his repertoire. Plus, why cage me and not my friends? These bars felt very much meant for me.
The three numbers had to be significant. I mentally ran through all the numbers in my life—birthday, phone number, address—rotating the lock as fast as I could to any three-digit combination related to them. But nothing worked.
My heart thumped three times, as if willing my brain to figure this out for the sake of all the body parts. I let go of the lock and let my head fall against the bars.
I thought back to the text with the photo of the girl on Ninth Street. Any numbers? No. The sketch at the art fair? No. The text from Fake Liam luring me to the warehouse?
That message filtered into the forefront of my sore head: 366 Water Street.
I squinted through the bars and put in the numbers 3-6-6. The lock clicked open, and I broke free.
“They’re on their way,” confirmed Rick’s personal assistant in crime.
The call had been made. Whoever was coming to take us would be here soon. And I couldn’t carry out both Alana and Liam on my back. Even if I could wake them up without making much noise, I had no idea how to get their ankle and wrist ties off in time.
I had to find a weapon, or see if my captors had one and use it against them. Maybe the men had a knife, and I could get back here in time to cut Alana and Liam free.
I crawled through piles of strewn trash, careful not to look too closely at it—and also careful not to cause any noise. Whether it was the drugs or the stress of the cage, time wasn’t making sense to me. It took forever to get to the boxes separating me from the men. I peered over the clumsy piles, cautious not to knock them over like dominoes. Now I could finally see the enemy. Rick could have also been called The Stick because he’d been beaten by an ugly one. Or because he was as skinny as one. He and his coconspirator, who was far chubbier and softer than I was expecting, sat at a flimsy card table, anxiously staring at the door. Like either a dump truck full of money was about to back up through the cargo entry door—or a SWAT crew. There appeared to be only one revolver between them, and it sat untouched on the table. If either of them was packing another weapon, I couldn’t see it.
That shiny gun was my target. I had to get it somehow. I imagined Dad walking me through it all—just like he had with LeMarq. Just like he always would, dead or alive.
Create a diversion. One of them will take the gun and check to see what it is. Take him out by surprise from behind. Grab the weapon and disable him with two bullets to the chest. You already know he will kill you, so don’t let him have the chance. The second man will either flee or attack. If he flees, pursue. He could double back and ambush you before you’re able to find a way to call for help, and you can’t leave your friends in harm’s way. If he attacks, you know what to do.
I took a deep breath. I could do this. There was no time to waver or second-guess. I had to save my friends.
I found an empty beer can nearby and chucked it toward the cage. It hit with a loud clang! Instantly, the men’s chairs screeched backward on the cement floor. I hid behind the stack of crates again so when one man walked past me to check on the noise, I could spring.
“Go check it out,” Rick ordered. I remembered his strange aversion to guns, and most likely the only reason he even had a tagalong with him was to pack it. Or to blame everything on later if he got caught.
“It’s probably that stupid white boy waking up. I’d be happy to knock him out again,” Tagalong said as he made his way to my hiding spot.
I lunged, simultaneously kicking him in the groin and twisti
ng his weapon from his grip. I’d done it dozens of times in training sessions but never in real life. He howled in pain. This couldn’t have been his first swift kick to the balls, but he sure acted like it as he rolled around on the floor with his hands between his legs.
“Rick, it’s the blonde!” he moaned. “She’s got my piece.”
“Shut up or I’ll shoot,” I warned. I had no idea where Rick was. I hadn’t heard him move.
“I knew this was a trap.” He groaned. “Just shoot me and get it over with. I can’t go back to prison. I won’t go back. I’ll kill you and both your friends before I go back.” Real tears came spurting out of his pathetic eyes, and for a second, I almost pitied him. His baby face and purple LA Lakers hat turned sideways made him seem only a few years older than me. The guy should have been in college or working at the mall, not messing around with gangs and a guy like Rick. Dad’s voice cut into my hesitation.
Protect yourself, Rue. Make sure the weapon is cocked, and take the disabling shots. You know he will do it to you, or worse, without a moment’s hesitation if you let him.
As I made sure the gun was cocked, I noticed how familiar it felt. This was no street gun. This was a sophisticated piece. A gun I’d used before.
I heard the terrible cracking noise against my spine before I felt the pain. My knees buckled and I fell to the ground, face first. Either Rick had slammed me with a wooden two-by-four, which had splintered in half, or he’d used a steel beam and the cracking noise was my vertebrae shattering. But how had he gotten behind me?
I checked my senses to make sure I still had the gun. Its cold steel was still wrapped in my white-knuckled clutch. I looked over my shoulder. Rick’s gaunt, pockmarked face loomed above me. And I knew he was hell-bent on making sure it was the last face I ever saw.
“Stop!” I screamed. I rolled over on my back, crunched up, locked my arms out in front, and raised the gun between my legs. “I’ll shoot!”
He raised another two-by-four above his head, ready to destroy me.
I had no choice. He was going to kill me.
I aimed for the largest target area and pulled the trigger. The gun sounded like a bomb exploding in the vast space. His chest ripped open and his body lost momentum. As though in slow motion, he dropped to his knees and the life drained out of his eyes. He would never fight again.
The smoke from my gun rose, just as the dust particles under his body mushroomed from his fall, swirling with the sudden draft of wind.
I gagged on the taste of bile in my throat and grimaced as the tinny smell of blood and gunpowder choked the air out of my lungs.
I fell back, disgusted and disoriented.
Until I remembered the baby-faced gangster—who’d said he’d kill us all before he went back to prison.
I looked up and he was already running past fallen boxes and debris—toward Alana. He was going to play his last card and use her to bargain for his freedom.
I pushed myself up with renewed strength and chased after him, ignoring the splintering pain attacking my spine. I leapt over Rick’s body and willed my drugged body to run faster than the pudgy threat. He couldn’t fight me while I had a gun, but he could stomp on Alana’s head or whip out a knife and stab her a few times before I got off a shot. I already knew he was going down swinging—or stabbing.
“Just wait, I don’t want to kill you!” I yelled after him. I don’t think he heard me, or believed me, because he ran faster. In my mind, I begged him to stop, to act rationally, to give me his phone so I could call for help, and to try his chances again at the failed justice system that allowed him to be on the street in the first place. Or just make a play for the exit.
“I won’t shoot you if you leave!” I screamed while gasping for breath. “Please don’t do anything stupid!”
My fears were confirmed the moment I saw him pull something metallic from his boot and go for Liam’s lifeless body.
I stopped running to take aim—for the shoulder this time. I couldn’t shoot a man in his back, and I didn’t want to kill him.
Then I heard my dad again: You don’t have a sight on this pistol. You’re too far away, and it’s too dark. If you miss, he’ll kill Liam. You have to do it.
The truth seemed to sting my eyes. I pinched them shut for a millisecond to clear my vision and regain my resolve. Then I corrected my aim, took the shot between his broad shoulder blades, and held my breath for impact.
In midstrike, he dropped the dagger, dropped to the ground, and dropped off the face of the world forever.
A full minute must have passed before I allowed myself to exhale, because dizzy didn’t begin to explain the fainting sensation welling up inside me. I looked down to the weapon in my hand. Its custom-polished stainless nickel-plate finish shined up at me, and I noticed for the first time that it was a Glock 30, .45-caliber handgun. The kind Dad had carried as his off-duty weapon. The one he carried with him during SWAT operations as a backup. I turned over the heel to check for an engraving. There it was—his initials: J. R.
I dropped the gun like it was a hot coal. If this was my dad’s gun, it must’ve been taken off of his body by whoever killed him. I didn’t even know it was missing. This couldn’t actually be Dad’s. No, it couldn’t be.
He spoke to me urgently this time: Rue. It’s not over. They called someone. Pick up that gun. Never drop your weapon.
“Nice work,” a foreign male voice whispered in my ear, as arms clutched me from behind. “You just saved me a load of money.”
My heart sank as I realized my mistake. Maybe my fatal mistake.
I couldn’t see the new threat’s face, but I could see Liam’s and he was finally conscious. I wondered how long he had been awake and if he’d seen me kill the monster lying dead over his legs. By the wild look in his eyes, I was sure he had.
“No!” he screamed through his gag, trying to fight the bonds and get the dead body off him.
“Oh, I see,” the scratchy voice breathed into my ear. “We have a boyfriend. Must’ve gotten in the way. I don’t really deal in the boy market, but I’m sure we’ll make do.”
Instinct took over again, and I thrust my elbow into his ribs, twisted so his grip loosened, and—with every ounce of force I had left—slammed both hands down onto his wrists to break free. Now that I was facing him, I could go for the “sweet spots.” I faked a kick to sweet spot number one—the groin—and got him in sweet spot number two—the eyes. I clawed at his face with my fingernails, and he screamed, “Kuradi lits! Kuradi lits!” Which sounded like he was saying, “Karate tits!” or “Karate lips!”—but probably meant something very different in his language, and nothing friendly, for sure.
With his hands now guarding sweet spot two, I promptly went for number one, releasing the kick of all kicks to the only place that matters. It connected with a crunch, and a guttural groan.
Followed by a protracted slide and click.
I didn’t make that sound. A cold circle of metal pressed against my temple.
“Try something and I shoot,” a different voice beside me warned.
“Ruby, don’t move,” Liam called out, panic in his voice. Somehow he’d loosened the gag enough to speak. “Don’t fight.”
Before I’d be able to swing around and make a play for the gun, my life would be over.
I dropped my throbbing head and listened for the answer. Where was my dad’s voice now?
Gone. Just like my life in a few moments.
A backhanded knuckle-slap to my face cut me out of my ridiculous search for the voices in my head.
“Insolent brat,” the first man spewed through his forest of facial hair. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handgun—relieving the other man of gun-pointing duty—and stroked the side of my face with the barrel. “Your spirit will be broken soon enough.”
“No,” I said, coiling my springs. “I won’t let you. I’d rather die than be handed off to one of your disgusting buyers.” I tasted another round of fresh blood in
my mouth and looked for the gun I’d so stupidly dropped. It was my one and only chance to survive.
“Please,” Liam pled from the floor. “Ransom us. You don’t have to sell anyone. My dad is filthy rich. He’ll pay you whatever you want. I swear. You’ll get far more that way.” I didn’t know Liam’s dad was rich. He had to be lying. But it didn’t matter—this was good. Liam was distracting them. Maybe I could find that gun in the dark and—
Thump. The violent sound caused me to turn. The second guy, with his stupid ’80s mullet, was standing over Liam, kicking him in the side. With his hands tied behind his back, Liam couldn’t defend himself. He was coughing and grimacing for air. The Mullet was going to break Liam’s ribs or puncture a lung.
“Don’t touch him!” I screamed. “Stop that—”
“Or what?” the first man breathed in my face. His oniony breath alone was nearly enough to kill me. “You’ll use this against us?” He held my own father’s gun to my head.
I didn’t know which I was more pissed about: making the stupid mistake of dropping that gun or getting my innocent friends involved. Maybe if I had gone to save that girl on Ninth Street, this whole night wouldn’t have happened. Maybe involving Alana and Liam was Mr. D. S.’s way of punishing me for my disobedience. Either way, I blamed myself. And who said dying would be so bad anyway? At least I’d be with my dad again.
As The Mullet made his way back over to me, I knew I had to act soon. I couldn’t wait until they tied me up again. I had to die fighting now.
I took one last look at Liam suffering on the ground and Alana still in her unconscious ignorance, and I said good-bye in my mind. I could only hope my friends would put up a fight, too, if they could. Then I turned all my energy back on the first guy—the leader. I could disarm him, use him as a shield, and maybe get off a couple of shots before The Mullet could react. It was a long shot, but I had to do it if there was even the smallest chance it would save my friends.
I slouched my shoulders and heaved a huge sigh of defeat. Part of me meant it, and part of me faked it to lure the men to let down their guard. It worked—a smile formed through the dirty-nasty beard of the first man, and he relaxed just enough for me to make my move.
Killing Ruby Rose (The Ruby Rose Series) Page 9