by Max Henry
Oh my God. Mama.
My tears intensify. Maria does what she can to console me. Does she know? Probably not. She probably just thinks I’m upset because of what Carlos has done. And I am, but not as much as I’m fucking torn in two at that final image of my beautiful mother. At seeing how she went.
I cry until the tears run dry. I cry until my chest heaves so hard with my hiccups that I can’t breathe, all while Maria rubs circles on my back and softly sings.
And then I sleep.
I don’t know how long I’m out for, or how many times I wake. There’s just daylight, then dusk, then daylight again. Once or twice I stay awake long enough to register my stomach is growling, but I don’t care.
I sleep.
The doctor comes in; I see her beside me and close my eyes.
I sleep again.
Maria’s there, pushing pills into my mouth and coaxing me to swallow. I do.
And then I sleep some more.
By the time I wake and stay awake, I’m sore all over. I’m stiff. And I need the toilet more than ever. Maria has stayed by my side—or maybe she’s come and gone? I wouldn’t know, since I’ve been mentally absent most of the time.
“I need the bathroom.”
Leaning on Maria, I hobble across the bedroom. She waits outside the door and talks to me the whole time. I guess she’s been instructed to keep me alert when I do finally wake and to check how responsive I am.
I should be in hospital.
I need to get in touch with King.
I vomit.
The nausea hasn’t gone while I’ve been resting, which troubles me. I’d hoped to wake feeling better, but if anything I feel worse. Taking my time, thanks to my shaken balance, I bend and search the towel basket with my hand. I pat under each rolled towel, finding nothing. My headache pounds, and my skin feels hot.
“Maria?” I use the shower wall as a walking aide, and lean on it to get to the door.
“Yes?” Her head pops around the frame, and seeing my plight, she rushes over to help.
“The towels. Did you change the towels?”
“No.” Shit. “Why?”
“My phone.” I close my eyes, trying to ground myself. “My phone was in there.”
“Ohhh.”
Yeah, ohhh. I don’t have his number. Who does? Damn it. What if Carlos has it? I can’t take more of this, especially not when I’m still recovering from his last fit.
“I can’t do this any more, Maria.” She helps me on to the bed, fluffing the pillows behind my back. “I can’t take any more.”
“You can.” The usual smiley, happy Maria has vanished. The woman in her place is new, a harder side I’ve never seen. “And you will.”
“He’ll kill me next time.”
She stands at the foot of the bed and hesitates with her fingertips resting on the mattress. “May I speak honestly?”
“Of course.”
“You need to stop fighting.”
“But you told me not to give up?” I frown at her, ignoring how much it hurts.
“Sí. I meant stop arguing. Stop waving the red cape at the bull.” She sighs and sits sideways on the edge of the bed. “Think of it like a bull fight. The matador, he starts out aggressive, provoking the bull, no?”
I nod. My guess is I’m the matador in this story.
“But when he wins, when he brings the beast down, how does he do it?”
“With spears.”
“Exactly. He kills it slowly, one strike at a time.”
“So you’re saying I need to be more subtle, take him down blow by blow.”
Her smile returns. Her eyes are bright as she nods fervently. “Sí. You’ve waved your cape, you’ve made the animal angry—now kill it.”
THIRTY-ONE
King
Fifty-odd miles to go. Callum’s arm hangs out the window of the crash truck in front of me, his hand surfing the cool night air. Nerves kicked in when I watched the load get stacked up at Carlos’s temporary stock warehouse—a veterinary practice that’s been shut for years down on Route 75 out of Tulsa. There’s a lot of coke in the back of that van, as in, I can’t even hazard a guess at what its street value is.
Lots. That’s all I need to know. More than we could repay if this goes wrong.
I had a missed call last night from Elena after her message. I called straight back as soon as I saw it, an hour later, but there was no answer. I know it was dangerous; fuck, if she’d been with him I could have got her in even more trouble.
I just needed to hear her tell me that she’s okay.
Twig and Gunner turn at the head of our procession, riding a good mile ahead of Callum so as not to draw too much attention to our convoy from civilians. The van follows, as do I, and then comes our tail-end Charlie, Hooch.
We’ve barely straightened out when a dark gray pick-up draws my attention. It passes by us, travelling in the opposite direction, and then does a U-turn to bring up the rear. Keeping eyes on my mirror, I drop my arm beside my leg and shake my hand as though trying to regain feeling. Hooch catches the signal and acknowledges it with a ‘scratch’ to his nose.
The pick-up trails us through two sets of lights and out of the town we’ve passed through to the open road. My muscles tense, my gut screaming at me to stay alert. Hooch tests the vehicle out, pulling his bike close to the center line to block the driver’s view of the road. The pick-up weaves left and right, appearing to try for a clear line of sight around Hooch.
Callum taps the brakes twice to indicate he’s noticed what’s going on.
I drift right, aiming to hug the side of the road and look ahead to spot where Twig and Gunner are, when from my right, a black sedan screams out of a side road, and cuts between Hooch and I.
The gray pick-up accelerates with a roar, overtaking until it’s side-by-side with the crash truck. I check my mirror as I reach for my gun and find Hooch unloading bullets in through the passenger window of the sedan behind me. The pick-up rams into the crash truck in front of me, and I whip the bike left so hard that my back tire slips out, skidding on the hardtop before I manage to right myself and pull up. The crash truck’s come to a stop further up the road, Twig and Gunner arriving just as Callum fires out his open window at the pick-up, which is wedged hood first into his door.
I kick out my stand and get off, gun drawn and at the ready as I approach where Hooch has ditched his bike and is currently bashing at the driver’s window of the sedan.
“Get the fuck out!” He smashes the butt of his gun against the glass again, the driver slumped over the steering wheel.
As I round the front of the vehicle, I see why. There’s two good holes through the windscreen.
“I think you got him, man.”
Hooch is as high as a fucking kite—no surprises there. His eyes are wide, and the pupils pin-pricks as he stares at me.
I lift my hands and jerk my head toward where there’s commotion at the truck. “Come on.”
I don’t wait for him. I turn and hotfoot it up the road to where Twig now has a man kneeling with both hands on the back of his head, and Callum struggles to wrench another person from the passenger side of the pick-up. The door’s all busted in, meaning he has to try and haul our attacker out the broken window.
I’m barely ten feet away when a third vehicle roars up the road from the way we’ve come. Bullets pepper the side of the crash truck, and Twig’s hostage decides it’s a good time to run. He doesn’t get far.
My boots strike the road with heavy slaps as I run the last few feet to the pick-up. Using it as a barricade, I fire at the oncoming vehicle over the tray. The car screams past our location, and brakes heavily a half mile up the road, the tires screeching as it whips around and comes back. More bullets scatter over our location. Callum dives inside the crash truck, cranking the key to turn it over. Twig, and Gunner lay down cover as Callum pulls around, and takes off back where we’ve come.
Hooch skids in beside me, and changes the clip on his
gun. “Fuckin’ bullshit, ain’t it?”
“You don’t say.” I let off three rounds at the car’s tires as it flies past again, heading after Callum.
“Move!” Twig hollers as he runs toward his bike.
The four of us scatter, revving engines as we trail the car, and Callum. Gunner’s first, giving his bike hell to catch up. I follow close behind, before Twig and Hooch bring up the rear. The crash truck bounces, it’s rear wheel lifting off the ground as Callum swings it at speed around a corner and down a dirt road. I’m fucking thankful there’s no other traffic out here, the area we’re travelling through being rural.
Gunner slows for the corner, sticking his boot out as he drifts around the bend. I follow suit, putting my bike into a controlled slide to get around the turn faster. Gunner’s twisting his throttle hard, gaining on the car and Callum, when his back tire steps out and the bike starts to wobble. Tank slap. Fuck. He goes down hard, rolling along the road as I tear past choosing to stay in pursuit.
There’s fuck all between us now. I reach for my gun, and battling the wind resistance from the speeds we’re doing, line up the back tires of the car. Three rounds and I take the first one out. A flash of black in my mirror draws my focus away for a brief second, and I catch Twig hard on my rear. Our procession turns another hard right, snaking through the back roads. Twig pulls level, and on the next decent straight, joins me in firing at the sedan. I don’t know who hits, but regardless, the other tire goes, slowing the car to a stop as the rims starts to churn up the dirt road.
Callum pulls over further up the road as Twig and I dismount, weapons still aimed at the car. Twig pulls the door open while I cover him, and unloads two bullets into the sole occupant.
“Didn’t you want to find out who the fuck set this shit up?” I ask.
He shakes his head and steps back. “Nah. Got that from the other guy before he ran.”
“Blood Eagles?”
He nods.
What the fuck is going on? Our rat’s alive and well it seems. “Who knew?”
“About the run?” Twig clarifies as Callum approaches.
“Yeah.”
“Just us, Apex, and Judas.”
Six men other than me. Five suspects.
“Somethin’ has to be done about this bullshit.” I tuck my gun away. “Before anyone gets killed.”
“Fuckin’ close, wasn’t it?” Callum asks, peering in the open door at the dead driver.
“Good thing you’re a hell of a driver then, hey?”
Twig glances back up the road and sighs. “Better go check on Gunner.”
THIRTY-TWO
Elena
one month later
The more I think on it, the more Maria is right: I have to take him down blow by blow, one little chink in his armor at a time. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of what I can do, but the inspiration never comes.
Not when I can’t get King out of my head.
Without my phone, I can’t check in, see if he’s okay. Carlos is a jealous and controlling bully. His style is retaliation for anybody who thinks they can outsmart him. And when he’s not dishing out any further punishment on me, other than a harmless cold shoulder, I’ve got to wonder what he’s doing then with King.
How could I live with that? If he’s hurt him, made him suffer, or even worse because of me . . . I shouldn’t have been so selfish. I should have left my ring on all those weeks ago and never played the game.
Twenty-seven days straight I’ve been stuck in this fucking prison—but who’s counting, right? Cabin fever set in at nine. I’m sure Carlos’s plan is to drive me to the point of madness so I’ll submit to him. It doesn’t help that the first half of my punishment was spent between lying in bed wishing I would die, and vomiting in the bathroom.
Never going to happen.
Today, the mind-numbing routine I’ve been stuck in changes. Today, I get to leave and stretch my legs—see people who haven’t been personally vetted first by Carlos. I should be ecstatic. I want to curl up under my covers and sleep the day away. Because today, he said we fly to Colombia.
What for? As if he’d tell me that. No prizes for guessing it has something to do with my grandfather’s supposed hidden fortune.
The headaches and nausea have subsided, but never truly gone after my concussion. I raised the possibility of visiting a hospital with Carlos last week, but he laughed, telling me if I was going to drop dead from internal bleeding then it would have happened by now. All the same, it worries me.
My small suitcase is packed for our trip. Not that I have a lot to take with me anyway. The floral pattern on the travel case glares at me from its position beside my set of drawers. It’s a silent threat; flowers on a trip that’s going to be dark and unbearable.
Turning away from the bright design, I roll to my other side and stare across my room at the pale shadows cast by the dim light of the alarm clock. Four-eleven a.m. My buzzer will go off in forty minutes, giving me an hour to shower, dress, and eat before we leave. I should sleep, but I find it hard to welcome the altered state when all it brings is nightmares and painful memories of better times.
King said that all these bad things were just a bump in the road, and that life would get better. He said I was all he’d ever want. But he’s young and damn fine-looking, and with the lifestyle he lives, he’s probably surrounded by a heap of pretty women. Twenty-seven days is an age for me being stuck in here with no way to contact him, but it would be a lifetime twice over for a man with that many temptations around.
I should forget King. He’s probably forgotten me. It would make the disappointment of my life so much easier to stomach. But for some reason, I can’t let go. The dream of a life lived with King and without fear of reprieve is too much to take, but at the same time, I couldn’t survive without its hope.
A half-hour passes with my thoughts stuck on a never-ending cycle of grief. I follow the same stages: shock, disbelief, denial, bargaining, guilt, anger, depression, and then hope. Each time I start out wondering how the hell I let myself get here, and then slip into a bottomless pit of despair when I remember how powerless I am to change things, only to talk myself into a thin belief that I might still get out if I don’t give up the fight.
The buzzer pierces the morning, disturbing the semi-slumber I’d drifted into while lost in my thoughts. Having such a horrific sound scream in my ear makes me realize just how close to sleep I really was. Damn it. I’m going to need to nap on the plane if I want to be alert while in Colombia.
I don’t even know if we meet anyone the day we arrive, or what I’m going to be subjected to. I’ll lose my fucking head if I have to sit around a hotel room, wondering how long I have left before Carlos decides I have no worth anymore and shoots me.
Because it’s bound to happen.
Why would he keep me? I don’t know where the money is.
I slip into the bathroom and start going through the motions of getting myself prepared for the trip. I shower, apply the minimal makeup I have, and then suck in a deep breath. Most of my panic about my fate in Colombia lies with another problem I’ve been facing each morning.
My period never came last month. I can’t remember how many weeks it’s been since I had it the month before. I used to chart it in my phone so I’d be prepared, but without the calendar, my memory is fuzzy. Was it the first week, or the second of the month? How long has it been?
The thought that I could be carrying a part of him, of the monster downstairs, scares me. I try not to think about it.
But when my head is spent hanging over the toilet far too much for how long it’s been since he hit my head, a girl’s got to worry.
Placing my hands over my abdomen, I look down at the relatively flat expanse of flesh. I don’t feel any different—at least, I think I don’t.
I can’t be pregnant. How much bad luck can I get?
Pushing my growing panic down, I take several deep breaths and stare at my reflection in the mirro
r. Later. After the trip to Colombia. If it’s true, if I am pregnant, there’s nothing I can do about it, so worrying isn’t going to help anything. I need to focus on one problem at a time. I need to deal with things bit by bit. No sense in overwhelming myself with the things I cannot change.
The wheels on my suitcase make a steady whir as I drag it along behind me, heading down to breakfast. I place the floral nightmare beside the front doors and slip through the silent house to get to the dining room. The lights spill out into the hallway as I approach, the tinker of cutlery on china echoing in the vast emptiness of Carlos’s home.
“How did you sleep?” He greets me without looking up from his phone, scrolling pages with a flick of his finger.
“Same as usual.”
“Good.”
He’s got no idea how I sleep. We’ve never spent a night in the same room, and he’s never cared to ask before now. He’s buttering me up, making me relaxed so I’ll drop my guard. He’s up to no good, that’s for sure.
I pluck a piece of toast from the basket on the table and decide against having anything but butter on top. My stomach hasn’t been settled for weeks, and I lost my appetite somewhere back when I lost hope of ever getting out of this house to see King again.
King. If only he knew where I’m going. I don’t expect him to ride in on a shining white motorcycle and save me from the dragon that is Carlos, but it would have been some slim comfort knowing somebody who gives a shit knew where I was when I don’t return.
“Are you packed?”
“I think so. Difficult when I don’t know how long we’ll be gone.”
“I told you two days.”
“You said ‘I hope no more than two days’. That eludes to us possibly being gone longer.”
“Do you fucking argue about everything?” Carlos throws his spoon down, sending yoghurt and muesli scattering over the table. “Fuck’s sake. Now look what you made me do.”
I lift a slice of toast and hold his gaze while I chomp down. Bastard. I hope the cartels fucking shoot him in the kneecaps and torture him when they find out he’s trying to steal the money my grandfather took from them.