The Storm

by Tara Wylde

  “I don’t understand…”

  “It’s not easy to find a virgin who looks like you,” he says. The look in his eyes clearly shows he meant it as some sick compliment. “I never had one before. Never been the first guy for any girl.”

  The nausea is back as he takes off his vest and starts unbuttoning his shirt. There are two men standing at the door. The noise outside means no one will hear my screams. I’m all alone.

  Intention and focus.

  I hear Nick’s words in my head as clearly as if he just spoke them in my ear. The time is now. I’m done being a victim. If I go down, I’m going to go down fighting.

  “There’s just one little problem with that,” I say coyly.

  Arkady stops in mid-strip, his eyes clouded with confusion.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nick already got my cherry.”

  His face twists into a mask of outrage that gives me a deep and abiding satisfaction I never knew was possible.

  “You bitch,” he hisses. “You – ”

  “All day, every day.” I grin.

  As his hand curls into a fist, I hear Nick again in my mind: Fight with everything you have, with no thought about consequences. If someone tries to hurt you, they’ve made their choice.

  Arkady loops his fist towards me in a haymaker that has no hope of landing. I counter by driving my own fist straight into his oncoming bicep muscle. The look of pain on his face makes me grin.

  “You fucking bitch…”

  I’m not prepared for the kick, and my left knee explodes in pain as the pointed toe of his shoe connects squarely with the muscle right above it. Worse, it makes my whole leg feel like a dead log.

  He swings an open hand directly for my face and I let it land. The force of it turns my head all the way to the right, even draws a trickle of blood from the corner of my bottom lip. But it gives me a whole new clarity of thought, too.

  “I’d tell you you hit like a girl,” I say, grinning. “But you don’t.”

  My own right hand loops towards his chin an uppercut that carries the full force of my twisting hip, and his drug-addled brain doesn’t register it until it’s too late. The pain in my knuckles as it connects with his jaw is sweet.

  His head snaps back and he stumbles into the door, almost tripping over his own undone pants. I poise myself for a stomp kick to the chest as a follow-up, but the door flies open as I do, and the force of it colliding with my foot sends me back into the cot.

  “Grab her!” Arkady shouts, wiping blood from his mouth.

  Instantly the muscleheads are on me, each grabbing an arm. I twist like a hellion, but it’s no use. Each of them has a good hundred pounds on me.

  Then Darya appears in the doorway with a bottle in her hand.

  “Can I?” she asks, eyes dancing.

  “Be my guest,” Arkady growls. “Bitch needs to learn her place.”

  She puts a piece of cloth over the mouth of the bottle, and by the time I realize what’s happening, the sweet smell is in my nostrils. Darya keeps the cloth clamped over my mouth despite my struggles, until the fumes finally take effect. The world tilts upside down.

  Then blackness.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  39. STORM

  Shapes.

  Shadows.

  Green.

  My stomach is rolling.

  “Did you learn your lesson, sweetums?”

  Darya’s grinning face swims into focus, inches from my own. In my dazed state, she reminds me vaguely of Heath Ledger’s Joker.

  “Whuh…” It’s all I can manage.

  “Chloroform,” she says. “It’s the quicker knocker-outer. Actually, that’s not true. It can take a long time. But it doesn’t leave marks like, say, bashing you over the head with a brick would.”

  I try to sit up, but the world spins and I lie back down.

  “Arkady wants you pretty,” she grins. “So do I. If you keep fighting, I’ll keep knocking you out.”

  Her words combine with the effects of the chloroform to induce a sense of vertigo. The world is outside my control. I was crazy to think it was otherwise. Crazy to think I could be like Nick.

  My heart cramps as the memory of him going over the cliff invades my mind. Is that memory going to invade every time I wake up? Am I doomed to watch that movie over and over, every time I close my eyes?

  I think I may be going crazy. I can even see his face in the walls of this room.

  Wait, what?

  My heart slams against my chest as I see Nick’s face in the dark. It’s covered in horizontal shadows and he has a finger to his lips.

  This isn’t in my head. It’s real. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming as it hits home: Nick is in the wall behind the air vent, telling me to be quiet.

  I take a deep breath to try to get a hold of myself. As much as I want to run to him, to rip the vent cover out of the wall and wrap my arms around him, I can’t. The only way we’re going to make it out of here is if I can keep all of this off my face.

  For the first time in my life, I close my eyes and pray: Please, God, if this is real, give me the strength to do what I have to. And if it’s a dream, please don’t let me wake up.

  “Well?” Darya says, looking at me like I’m an idiot.

  “Well what?” I force myself to keep from looking at the vent.

  “Are you going to stop fighting, or are you going to develop a chloroform habit?”

  In my peripheral vision, I see Nick’s head move up and down.

  “I’ll stop fighting,” I say. “I’ll do whatever Arkady wants.”

  Darya beams. “There! Was that so fuckin’ hard?”

  She stands and raps on the door.

  “Get ahold of yourself for a few minutes,” she says as the thugs open the door for her. “Make yourself presentable. Arkady will be back in a few minutes. Then you’ll have some fun.”

  The door closes and the deadbolt sniks shut, locking me in. The instant it does, I leap from the cot and rush to the vent cover.

  “Use this,” Nick says, handing me a small, flat square through the slats.

  I can barely see the slots in the screw heads because my eyes are flooded with tears.

  “I thought you were dead,” I sob, snuffling like a child. “I thought you were gone forever.”

  The coldness in his eyes is sobering, and I wipe my tears away as he pops the cover carefully out of the way and crawls into the room. This is real life, and we’re in trouble. We have to focus or we could very easily end up dead.

  I help him to his feet and then crush him in my arms as soon as he’s standing.

  “I’m not dead yet,” he whispers in my ear. “Maybe soon, but not right now.”

  What does that mean?

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” he says. “We need to get out of here.”

  “What about Arkady?”

  He takes me by the arms and locks those steely grey eyes on mine.

  “What do you think we should do?” he asks.

  I blink. “Me?”

  He nods. “You’re the one he hurt the most. Are you ready to kill him?”

  My mind reels. An hour ago, I wanted to find the nearest blunt object and split his skull open with it. But now, I’m not as sure. Am I capable of murder?

  “I don’t know,” I say. “He won’t stop coming after us.”

  “I know. But that doesn’t mean we can’t run away.”

  His words take a few moments to sink in. “Run away?”

  “I’m rich, Storm. And that house is just a house. The only things of value in it to me are you and the dogs.”

  “But you,” I say. “Arkady tried to kill you.”

  “Yes, he did. And there was a time not that long ago that I would have killed him instantly, without hesitation, along with anyone who got in my way.”

  I nod. I understand that about him, and I’ve learned to accept it.

  His big hands squeeze my arms tenderly. “But that’s not wh
o I want to be anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want to be the man you think I am: kind, generous.” He looks at me with an almost childlike pleading. “Normal.”

  I stare at him for a few moments. As crazy as it what he said sounded, I understood every word.

  “All right,” I say. “We’ll go, and we won’t look back.”

  His eyes meet mine with a softness that says more than words ever could.

  “A new start,” he says. “A whole new world.”

  He clasps my hand and leads me through the vent opening and into the oversized duct beyond, then pulls the cover back into place behind him. From a pack in the corner of the duct, he pulls a roll of matte black tape and straps it over the inside edge of the cover to keep it in place.

  “That way,” he whispers, point ahead to a light shining around a corner in the ductwork. “There’s an opening to the loading bay. My bike is in the alley waiting for us.”

  I feel the edges of claustrophobia as we shimmy through the tight space for several dozen yards, but I manage to keep it in check. Still, it feels heavenly when I finally slide out of the open vent in the dim light of the loading bay.

  Nick runs his hands over my body, inspecting me.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  Nick shoulders his pack and we head for the door. But before we take two steps, my eyes are suddenly filled with blinding white light.

  I feel Nick’s hand on my arm right before the sound of hands slowly clapping in the distance. I hold up my arms to shade my eyes, but the feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me I already know who it is.

  “Not bad,” Arkady says as my pupils finally expand enough for me to make out shapes. “My old man was right about you, Nick. You’re a resourceful guy.”

  “And you’re a piss-poor shot,” Nick says.

  Arkady grins. At his side are the two musclemen and, of course, Darya, who is carrying a machete.

  “You got me there!” Arkady hoots. “You’re a tough man to kill, no two ways about it. But you got a little sloppy this time, hey? There were cameras in that storeroom – we saw the whole thing. Bet that wouldn’t have happened back in the old days, huh? Before you got pussy whipped?”

  “We don’t have to do this,” Nick says.

  “Actually, we do,” says Arkady. “You have to go through us and a whole club full of people to get out of here.”

  I follow Nick’s gaze to the back door, only to see a thick, padlocked chain running through the crash bar. It’s not going to open for us.

  “I’m not a bad guy,” Arkady says. “If I could, I’d just shoot you, man. Out of respect for my father and all. But this place is crowded, and shots would cause a panic. People could die. Other than you, I mean.”

  “You saw us,” Nick says, holding up both hands. “But did you hear us? What we were talking about?”

  Arkady shakes his head. “Sorry, no point in microphones. All the noise in the club and all.”

  “We talked about getting out,” I say. “About leaving New York behind and starting over. Everybody wins – us, you, your father. No one has to die.”

  I see Nick square his feet as our four opponents advance on us. Darya looks like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “Come on, now,” Arkady says with an insane grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Chapter Forty

  40. NICK

  One of Arkady’s goons snags my pack before I can reach it. He tosses it to the green-haired woman, who rifles through it.

  “Nice shit,” she says. “Knives, concussion grenades, pistols. You were ready for a full-on war.”

  “I had to be prepared,” I say. “But it doesn’t have to be a war if you don’t want it to be.”

  “Oh, I’m all about war,” she says as she tosses the pack back into the vent. “My name’s Darya, by the way. And I’ve still got your fucking mutt’s teeth marks on my wrist.”

  The two men rush me on either side as Darya heads straight up the middle. I can’t take all three on at once – I manage to fend off the man to my right, but the one to my left gets that arm and Darya lands a stomp kick to my chest.

  I go down hard, the wind knocked out of me. When I look up, I see Arkady wrestling Storm out of the bay toward the hall that leads to the main bar area. I clamp down on my tongue to keep from screaming her name. I can’t show weakness.

  “I been looking forward to this,” Darya says, whipping the machete in a figure-8 pattern in front of her as the two others back away. “You got any idea how much street cred I’ll have as the one who took down Nick Chernenko?”

  “I got shot in the head and lived,” I wheeze as I regain my breath. “And you’re bringing a knife to the table?”

  She grins. “That was Arkady’s fault. He wanted to be the one who took the shot. I would’ve put it through your eye.”

  I stagger to my feet and take a defensive stance as she circles me slowly.

  “You really think Arkady will let you take the credit?”

  “We’ll work it out.”

  I glance at the two musclemen. “You going to let her steal your thunder?”

  Neither of them says a word. They both cross their hands in front of them like a couple of Secret Service agents.

  All right, then. So much for divide and conquer. This will just have to be conquer. Three times.

  Darya feints with an overhand blow aimed at my clavicle, pulling back at the last second. I stand my ground without flinching. She takes that as her cue to try the actual move and lets out a sharp yell as she swings the machete down again, only on the opposite angle.

  I pivot to my left and the blade goes sailing through the air where I used to be. Darya’s made a critical mistake by throwing all of her weight behind the move. I take advantage of it by sticking my foot in front of hers, tripping her to the concrete floor.

  To my left, I see one of the goons, a guy with a blond crew cut, slowly slide a Bowie knife from the inside of his boot. I’ve rattled him. The other one keeps watching the action with a stoic look on his face.

  “Last chance,” I say as Darya scrambles to her feet. “Walk away.”

  The drugs in her system take over and suddenly her eyes are manic as she rushes straight for me, stabbing forward at chest height. I pivot at the waist, but not before the razor-sharp blade glides across a part of my right pectoral muscle. I feel a searing heat, followed by pain.

  “First blood,” she taunts.

  Then she does something I’ve never seen before: she runs her finger along the blood on the blade, then licks it off with a grin. The goon with the knife is even more put off than I am, but the other one keeps his stone face.

  I can’t let her get to me. The more time I spend with these three, the farther away Arkady gets with Storm. I have to make a sacrifice fly if I want to bring this runner home.

  I lumber forward with a looping blow, only to have Darya counter it, easily grabbing my right hand in her left. She twists inwards, driving me to my knees as I grunt in pain. As she does, she raises the blade in the air with her right hand, ready to bring it down on my exposed neck.

  She fully expects to lop off my head. What she doesn’t expect is for me to suddenly drive forward with it, catching her full in the groin. The blade connects with my back but can’t penetrate the Kevlar under my jacket.

  Still hurts like hell, though.

  I make it to my feet as Darya staggers, machete still in hand. But it’s too late – I easily yank the blade away and drive my foot into the inside of her right knee. I hear a satisfying snap and watch her crumple, screaming, to the ground. A second later my boot connects with her skull like an NFL kicker punting on a fourth down.

  Then my side explodes in pain. I spin to see the blonde holding his Bowie knife, my blood dripping from the blade. He starts to circle slowly, leaping forward to stab and driving me backwards.

  “I don’t want to have to kill you,” I say. “But I will.�
��

  We dance for what seems like forever, each moment taking me farther and farther away from Storm. The pain throbs in my side where the blade sliced me, and I finally decide I have to try a head-on attack if I’m going to end this.

  Just as I’m about to move forward, I see the goon’s attention flicker to something behind me. I hear Darya’s labored breathing right before she strikes, and instinct moves me in an arc as she swings the machete with both hands like a baseball bat. I catch her arm on the fly and add my momentum to hers, sending the blade whistling through the blonde man’s abdomen.

  His eyes goggle as he drops to his knees, his guts spilling onto the floor in front of him.

  Darya barely spares him a glance before she turns back to face me. There’s no rational thought behind those eyes now. She tries one last weak thrust with the machete, which I easily sidestep. An instant later, I have control of the weapon.

  She glares at me with those coke-fueled eyes and I realize she’s not even feeling the pain from her injuries.

  “You’re never going to stop, are you?” I say.

  She grins madly, blood pouring from her gums over her teeth.

  “All right then.”

  I make it quick, but it’s still bloody.

  Finally I turn to the other musclehead, who hasn’t moved since the fight started.

  “What’s it going to be?” I sigh. “I need to go. Now.”

  He steps to the side and waves his hand towards the door that leads to the hallway and the nightclub beyond.

  “I was just here as insurance,” he says.

  I blink at him, uncomprehending. He picks up my pack and tosses it to me.

  “Better get a move on, sir,” he says. “Oh, and Uncle Mookie says hi.”

  I feel a grin spread across my face as I pass him, despite the pain from my fresh wounds.

  Chapter Forty-One

  41. STORM

  Whether from cocaine or sheer insanity, Arkady’s brute strength is beating my every attempt to get away from him. His fist is knotted in my hair at the base of my skull – the pain is exquisite.