Herb celebrated the decision by crapping on the floor again, then eating it.
This was going to be a swell two days.
Swell.
DECADES AGO
Detroit
She rode in the backseat between Ben and Winston, through the frozen city streets. Kept trying to read the time on the dashboard clock of the filthy Cutlass Ciera, but the digits were moving and fading in and out.
It didn’t matter.
It was late.
Too late.
And she couldn’t find any reason to care.
They must have doubled up on her dose, because she hadn’t been this high in months. They passed people on the street. People who could help her. But the heroin might as well have been duct tape, binding her arms, gagging her mouth.
She glanced over at Donaldson. Watching him drive reminded her of something. Something familiar, but at the same time out of reach. She focused on it, and an image popped into her head like she was staring at a snapshot.
Car trips.
I used to go on car trips with my family.
She tried to study the picture, memorize, see their faces, but it faded as the next wave of the drug overtook her.
My family.
“Fam… ily,” she mumbled.
“Goddamn blizzard out here,” Donaldson said, turning up the speed on the windshield wipers. “How much further?”
“You turn on Woodward, next right.”
Her mind began to wobble, but she knew something about her thoughts were important. “Family…” she said, trying to figure out the meaning.
Donaldson glanced across the back seat at Winston.
“How much you give her?”
“Enough.”
“If she dies before we get to the doctor, I ain’t paying for nothing.”
“She won’t die. My shit is good shit. You want to try some for yourself?”
“No thanks,” Donaldson said. “Never cared much for needles.”
“Family,” she said again.
“Don’t you worry, sugar,” Donaldson said, reaching back and patting her belly. “We’re going to take care of that family problem for you.”
She stared out the windshield at all the lights from oncoming vehicles reflecting off the cascading snow, and began to cry without knowing the reason, her hands cradling her stomach as she fell asleep.
When she woke up again, she was staring at the ground, piled high with snow. For a moment, she thought she might be flying, but as she moved out of the cold, into a dim corridor, she realized Winston had thrown her over his shoulder. He was carrying her.
The alarm bells in the back of her mind were more prominent now. The horse had lost its grip, and in its place, a wave of total confusion washed over her.
Where am I?
Not in the apartment that, for what seemed eons, had been her World. Her brain felt like sludge, and her thoughts so scattered, like a puzzle dumped right out of the box, the pieces everywhere, no image evident.
“Where are we?” she asked.
No one answered. Ben was there, and someone else was whistling.
Donaldson. She hated Donaldson, but couldn’t remember why. Or even how she knew him.
They passed through several doorways, she briefly lost consciousness, and then suddenly she was sitting in a straight-back chair, leaning against Donaldson’s shoulder.
It took her a moment, but soon she put the room into focus.
A bare light bulb swung overhead.
A fly buzzed nearby.
Donaldson said, “Where the hell is he?”
They were in a waiting room of some sort. Dirty concrete walls. Mismatched chairs. A strong odor of disinfectant.
Through a pair of double doors, a man in a white coat appeared.
She sat up a little straighter.
His white coat made him look like a doctor, only there were blood stains all over it.
“Who’s paying?” he asked.
Winston and Ben pointed at Donaldson. “This guy,” they both said.
The doctor held out a hand. “Two hundred fifty.”
“Two fifty?” Donaldson exploded.
“Non-negotiable.”
“How about one twenty-five to take out half of it?” Donaldson said. “The other half will eventually fall out on its own.”
The doctor glanced at Winston. “Your friend is wasting my time.”
“You wanted to watch,” Ben told Donaldson. “Pay the man.”
“Watch?” Donaldson grumbled. “For what I’m paying, I’m taking it home. You got a plastic bag, doc?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Ben said. “You get caught walking around with something like that, we’re all fucked.”
“I’m not going to get caught. Just be nice to have a souvenir.”
“Just pay him,” Winston said.
Donaldson dug a handful of sweaty, dirty bills out of his pocket.
“What’s she on?” the doctor asked after sticking the money into his coat.
“What’s the difference?” Winston asked.
“If it reacts with the drugs I give her, she could die.”
Winston shrugged. “So don’t give her anything.”
“If she doesn’t get drugs, shouldn’t I get some money back?” Donaldson asked.
She still wasn’t sure what was happening. But some of the puzzle pieces had started assembling.
Ben and Winston.
They own me.
They took me from my family when I was young.
I can’t remember my family.
I can’t remember their faces.
I can’t remember their names.
I can’t remember my own last name.
But I know they exist.
I was with them when I was a kid.
So long ago.
So many years, it was another life.
Before I became Ben and Winston’s slave.
They own me.
They pimp me out to other men for money, and keep me drugged up and locked in a room.
Donaldson is one of their clients.
He did something to me.
She wrinkled her face, trying hard to remember it.
What was it Donaldson did?
“Get her up on the table,” the doctor said.
She looked at the table.
Saw the stirrups.
Her hands cleaved to her belly as all the pieces suddenly snapped together.
I’m pregnant. There’s a baby inside me.
And they want to take it away from me.
“I’m sick,” she said, the vomit spewing from her cheeks. All the men stood back, Winston said, “Where’s the goddamn bathroom?” And then she was being yanked across the floor, thrown into a stall, and told to clean herself up.
She looked around. Saw a toilet. A sink.
A window.
Unlike the window in her room, this had no bars. She grasped the edges of the sink, pulling herself off the floor, getting a knee up next to the faucet.
I can get away.
I can get away!
I can be free!
I’ll be safe!
MY BABY WILL BE SAFE!
It was more clarity than she’d had in years, and then she was up on the sink, pushing the window open, wiggling through face first and dropping into an alley.
A snow drift caught her, saving her from a broken neck. She scrambled to get up, shoveling snow out of the way in big handfuls, making it to all fours, and then onto her feet, sinking up to her knees.
The mouth of the alley was only a few meters away. Beyond it, the street…
Freedom. Cars driving past, with headlights shining like giant diamonds.
“The little bitch got through the window!”
Ben, from above her. She looked, saw him forcing himself through the opening.
She managed to take another step. And another. Then—
I can’t move.
The snow sucked at her feet like hungry mouths.
She shifted from foot to foot, trying to get free, but the suction was too strong.
Ben had his head and shoulder out the window, and was trying to push his other arm through.
She reached down, the snow so cold on her bare fingers that it burned, and managed to unzip her boot. Winston had bought the boots for her—boots with pointy toes and spikey heels that were too small and hurt her feet—demanding that she take care of them or he’d beat her with the car antenna again.
Her foot slipped out and she left the boot stuck in the snow. Chancing a look behind her, she saw Ben had his whole upper body hanging out the window.
They locked eyes, and he pointed with all the ferocity of him hitting her. “You stay right there!”
“I want to keep my baby!”
“If you move, I’m going to rip that baby right out of your body and make you eat it.”
She turned, gazing at the street once again—
—and kept moving forward.
Her other boot became stuck, and she unzipped it just as Ben fell into the alley just a few feet behind her. Diving forward, she clawed through the snow, arms and legs pumping, swimming more than crawling as the cold enveloped her.
The street got closer…
And closer…
And—
Ben grabbed her ankle, squeezing so tightly she cried out in pain, yanking her toward him.
She flipped onto her back, bringing up her free leg, snapping it straight and driving her bare heel into his snarling face once, twice, three times before he let go.
Then she continued to claw her way through the blizzard, her face and hands pink with snow burn, her breath coming in rapid puffs that intermingled with the falling flakes.
Almost there…
Almost—
“Where are you going, sugar?”
Donaldson stood between her and the street, reaching down. Large hands encircling her wrists and lifting her out of the snow.
She kicked wildly, catching him between his legs, and then she was free—FREE—sprinting as fast as she could, into traffic, determined to run until she—
The car struck her hip, sending her twirling through the snowfall and landing on her side.
She heard honking.
Yelling.
Then someone was kneeling next to her.
She lashed out, her arms not working correctly, the scream in her throat no more than a whimper.
“Don’t… hurt… my baby…”
As she fluttered out of consciousness, the last thing she saw was a hat. A dark blue hat with a short black brim and a silver police medal.
PHIN
Somewhere in Mexico
He awoke in pain, dehydrated, and with an overwhelming urge to piss. Around him were the six empty beer cans, which he’d finished in rapid succession in order to get a quick buzz and dull the pain. Phin did get somewhat drunk, but it was a depressed, self-loathing inebriation that made him ache for Jack and Sam even more.
He pissed in his bucket, then spent twenty minutes tearing up a beer can to try and make a pick for his handcuffs. Unfortunately, rusty as they were, the padlocks were new and heavy duty. Thin aluminum, even when it was folded over and compressed using his teeth, wasn’t strong enough to open the lock. It didn’t work on his cell door, either.
Perhaps he could make some sort of knife or shiv, then stab the guard who wore his Tony Lama boots, giving him enough time to put together his DoubleTap 9mm. It only held two rounds, but if he took a machinegun from a guard he could…
Could escape two mounted M60s and several dozen guards, plus everyone in the arena seats who was armed? And then get out of the arena?
And go where?
Phin had no idea where he was. He could be a hundred miles from anyplace. Even if he managed to steal a car, how quickly would he be caught?
Phin put that out of his mind, continuing to twist and bend the can into something thin and pointy. The torch burn on his chest ached, probably infected. His head hurt, not just from the hangover, but from the machete blow he’d received. His stomach was also a big knot of pain. Though he’d been fed twice—and the food was actually delicious—the chili peppers had aggravated the sourness he’d been feeling since being captured. Phin’s insides felt like a clenched fist.
“Put down the can, puto.”
Phin looked up. It was a new guard, swarthy, stocky, his cattle prod drawn. He stood next to Phin’s cell.
“I said put it down. You cannot get away. There are forty guards with automatic rifles. Beyond the arena are hundreds of land mines. And if you manage to escape, with no one in pursuit, there are kilometers of desert without any roads or shelters. You will die here, cabron. Make peace with that.”
Phin decided he’d make peace in a different way, and launched himself at the guard with the bent can, aiming for the man’s neck.
The cattle prod hit Phin in the stomach, the pain not unlike being shot. He fell onto his ass, and got another shock in the thigh that made him cry out, the prod juicing him until he managed to crabwalk out of range, retreating back into his cell and knocking over his piss bucket.
“Drop the can, estupido.”
Phin dropped the can. His scream had awoken Kiler, who was watching while stroking himself inside his pants, a sweaty grimace on his face.
Phin’s door opened. Again, he was led down the corridor, limping as he passed another armed guard.
It was night, but the klieg lights were so bright they hurt his eyes, and combined with the desert heat Phin felt his sweat bake off of him. The stands contained a few dozen people, some of them reading…
Programs? Had these assholes printed up brochures with matches and stats?
Phin squinted against the glare at a man in the front row. A man wearing a Hugo Boss suit.
“Got a grand on you, gringo!” Hugo yelled. “Don’t let me down!”
Phin gave him the finger.
As a guard unlocked his shackles, Phin stared at the odds board.
1:1
They were giving him a 50/50 chance of surviving.
Phin looked at the unlucky bastard he had to fight, and saw a black guy glaring at him. Tall, lean, young. He was wearing his cotton pants low on his hips, gangbanger style. Rival dealer? Someone who wronged the cartel? Unlucky tourist? The kid had a height and reach advantage, along with the speed and endurance of youth.
Phin searched the man’s face for compassion, humanity, and saw none. His opponent’s eyes had that dead look, a prison stare devoid of compassion.
This wasn’t some kid on vacation. This was a man who had killed before.
The loudspeaker crackled.
“Last call for bets, last call for bets. Number 16, with three wins, against Number 17, with one win. Even odds. The weapons for this match… spears.”
An armed guard staked two spears into the ground, between Phin and his opponent. Apparently they would have to run for them. That was problematic; Phin’s leg still ached from getting zapped with the cattle prod. He rubbed his upper thigh, and looked up at the balcony. Luther and Lucy had switched from purple capes to green, and Luther was shirtless beneath his. Even at a distance, Phin could see the gnarled scar tissue crisscrossing the lunatic’s torso. Luther raised up his golden scepter, the skull on the end rubbing against the gong lightly, as one might caress a lover.
For a microsecond, Phin bathed in the hate he felt for those two psychopaths. He’d come to Mexico with no personal animus, no direct association, just a desire to preemptively protect his family. But Lucy and Luther had quickly risen to the top of his people who must die list.
Ranked just below the man he was about to fight to the death.
Phin focused on the spear, and when the gong rang he sprinted—
—and his leg gave out.
He fell to the ground, watching as #16 grabbed a spear in each hand and ran at him.
Things seemed to slow down, and Phin’s entire world condensed to a tunnel-vision fixation on the spear tips as they d
rew closer. He turned onto his back, his arms extending as the weapons thrust downward, aimed at his face and chest.
His opponent was fast, and strong. Phin lashed out with his right hand, pushing away the spear as it sliced across his belly. His left hand caught the other and deflected it into the sandy ground next to Phin’s ear. At the same time, Phin’s right foot came up, kicking hard at #16’s kidneys, his toe digging in.
As the black man staggered sideways, Phin held the spears and used his enemy’s momentum to pull himself to his feet. He twisted his body, getting in close, and chopped #16 across the throat, putting all he had into the blow, hoping to break cartilage.
His adversary lowered his jaw just in time, Phin’s hand bouncing off, and then he shoved Phin several feet backward. Phin regained his balance, his feet digging in, and attacked again.
Number 16 did something unexpected. Rather than jab with the spears, he swung them overhead, as if they were clubs. Phin managed to get his hands up, grabbing one, the other smacking down between his ring finger and pinky, snapping the pinky back.
As the pain from that and the slash on his chest began to register, Phin continued to drive himself forward, still gripping the one spear, tearing it from this opponent’s hand. He continued to run past, taking the weapon with, then twisting around and stabbing.
The spear pierced #16’s stomach, deep. Perhaps not a fatal wound in an urban area, with a hospital nearby. But in this hell hole, if the man didn’t eventually bleed out, the infection would kill him.
Phin backed away as his opponent fell to his knees, clutching his belly wound. He stared at Phin with an expression of disbelief that slowly gave way to realization.
The man dropped his spear.
Phin kept his.
The crowd offered up some scattered boos.
“I…” the dying man said. “I don’t wanna go out like this, man.”
Phin looked up to the balcony, to Lucy and Luther.
“Goddammit… hurts.” Number 16 stretched his hands out ahead of him. “Lookit all that blood. That’s my blood.”
Luther raised up his hand, and turned his thumb down.
The dying man let out a sob. “I done some shit. Bad shit. Unforgivable shit.” He looked up at Phin. “You believe in hell, man?”
Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 10) Page 12