The only thing that makes sense is that none of this makes any sense.
Yet, after everything Preppy has just said, I still feel the overwhelming need to defend her. To protect her. “She snitched when she was just a kid, and it was only on Percy. Nine and I both know that fucker had it coming. Kid always had a few screws loose, even way back in juvie.”
Preppy cocks his head to the side. “Okay, with that reasoning in mind, let me ask you this: would you or could you snitch on someone when you were fourteen? Ever even consider it?”
When I was fourteen, I was deep into dealing and building my own business on the streets. I’d already made a name for myself, and I knew the rules of the game I was playing. The code of honor amongst thieves. The answer is simple, yet so fucking hard to admit. “No.”
Preppy continues, “And, again, with that reasoning still in mind, would you say that you are someone who has on occasion done some questionable and possibly highly illegal things that in the mind of society as a whole would say deserves to be snitched on?”
I sigh because I know what he’s getting at. “Yes.”
“And she’s a genius, right. A professor of psychology, or some shit, right?” Preppy asks, folding his hands together. “A mind master?”
“Doctor,” I correct.
“Even better. So she’s a doctor of psychology. Therefore she knows how the mind works. How it responds. You might even say that she has a degree in manipulation. Sure, she claims to have been using her powers to fuck over the Reich, but what says that she isn’t using that shit on you, too? Even if she’s not playing on their side, there’s nothing to prove that she’s playing on yours, besides her word, which I have proven here today to be unreliable bullshit.”
“I like you better when you’re spewing nonsense,” I admit, tired of this line of thought and the fact that I even have to think about them.
Preppy slaps his hands on his thighs, rubbing at his khaki pants. “Well, there you have it, my friend.” He counts, ticking off his fingers as he goes. “She snitched.” Finger down. “She tried to rob you.” Finger down. “She played a part in jacking your shit and attempting to turn King against you.” Finger down. “She lives with Neo Nazis, and has their mark burned into her shoulder. She’s chanted their chants and walked their walks since childhood.” Finger down. “And last, but certainly not least, she left you just when you found out who she really was and that her father was a founding member, which she claims to not have known, but how the fuck wouldn’t she know that?” There are no more fingers left on his hand. He opens his fist and wiggles his fingers, pointing to them. “These little piggies don’t lie, my friend, and they’ve decided that she doesn’t exactly sound like wifey material. He sits back with his hands resting at the nape of his neck. “The motherfucking prosecution rests.” He purses his lips. “Never thought I’d say that one. Heard it a bunch of fucking times from the other side of the courtroom though.”
I look to Nine and then at Preppy, feeling both enraged and defeated. “You know, I’ve been fighting battles and losing at every turn, and I’m so fucking sick of it. It’s time to make a few changes.”
“That’s the spirit!” Preppy cheers, slapping me on the shoulder. “A little homicide will make you feel as right as fucking rain. I’m practically a doctor. I would know.”
I laugh at what I was going to tell Mickey before I found my apartment empty and realized she was gone. It seems ridiculous now. “I can’t believe I was going to tell her that I’d help her get her revenge and get her out of the Reich.” As much as I want to hate Mickey, I can’t. It’s just not there, and it won’t be until I have proof that she’s a fucking manipulative liar.
“You should still do it,” Nine pipes in. His eyes are wide as he leaps up and paces the room, the glass crunching under his boots. “You should still tell her that you’re going to help her.”
“What?” Preppy and I ask at the same time.
Nine stands behind the recliner, resting his hands on the high back. “You should still offer to help her get her revenge. Worst case scenario, she’ll tell you no, that she doesn’t want your help, and then you’ll know it’s because she’s protecting the Reich. You’ll know she’s been lying this whole time because she’s one of them. If she is lying, you’ll get your revenge on both the Reich and her.”
“A hundred racists with one fucking stone,” Preppy chimes in, looking more than a bit baked, his eyes red and veined. “I knew you got some of those smart genes that I got. I was beginning to doubt it for a while there, brother.”
Nine rolls his eyes at his brother. Nine is the best hacker around. He speaks computer code better than he does the English language. He ain’t exactly dumb.
Nine’s idea sinks into my alcohol-riddled brain. I don’t hate it. “What’s the best case?” I ask, needing to hear it out loud to properly process what I’m getting into here.
“Stitches?” Preppy asks, twisting his lips. “You know, because—”
Nine waves him off. “Yes, we’ve established that.” He rounds the couch and sits at the edge of the cushion. “The best-case scenario is that she agrees to your help, and she’s not lying, and we take the fuckers down that killed Gutter. Either way, The Reich falls.”
“Don’t forget about the drug jacking, the attempt to alienate Pike from King, and the kidnapping of King’s daughter by manipulating the biological baby mama during a fucking hurricane,” Preppy says, sucking in a large gulp of air when he’s done rattling off all the reasons that Percy and Darius are going to die. “’Cause you know King will want in on that, too.”
“What he said,” Nine agrees.
Nine’s right. Before I do anything, I have to find out what side Mickey is on. What her plan is. Her end game.
Preppy snatches the whiskey bottle from my lap. “Either way, it still ends with a little murder-in-the-first and possibly a little necrophilia. Who knows what could happen? It’s a crazy world we’re living in, but I’d say it sounds like a motherfucking win for all. Oh, except for the dead guys.” He smiles and raises the bottle in the air. “But, they’ll be dead, so whatevs.”
The lingering fog I’ve been feeling shifts back into something familiar, something I can work with. Something I can use.
Pure unadulterated rage.
Now I understand why Mickey’s quest for revenge is so important to her.
It feels good. To think about it. To imagine it. Shit, tonight I’ll probably dream about it.
“So, we all agree then. And after we sort out the Mickey situation, we’ll need some intel before we go in there all guns-a-blazing. We’ll need a better plan than we had last time. It needs to be cleaner. More precise. We’ll need to know how many guards they have. Shift changes and at what time. Weapons stockpiles.”
Preppy smiles brightly. “Agreed. Then, we will have ourselves a big, racist BBQ. I heard hate mongrels taste like chicken.”
“If Mickey doesn’t want my help, then she isn’t going to be our man on the inside. If that’s the case, we’ll need to send in someone else,” I say, suddenly soberer than I’ve been in the past twenty-four hours.
“Who?” Preppy asks. “Whoever we send, it can’t be me. I’ve got enough issues. Doc will burn my ball hairs off if I tell her I’ve decided to take up racism as a hobby. She’s still mad about all the gear I had custom-made for the Quidditch team I never started taking up all the space in the garage.”
I nod. “It has to be someone they won’t suspect. Someone they won’t know and someone who will fit in.”
Nine twists his lips. “It can’t be any of us, King, or Bear. Smoke could probably do it, he’s great with that kind of shit, but he’s out of town with Frankie on a job.”
“So, who then?” I ask, wracking my brain of someone we know who is trustworthy enough to penetrate the Reich and ballsy enough to risk their lives and feed us intel.
Preppy pulls out his phone. “Don’t worry, boys. I’ve got this one covered.” He steps out into
the hall with his phone to his ear. He closes the door, but we can still hear his muffled voice on the other side along with a loud meow.
“Oh, hey kitty-kat. Do you want to join my Quidditch team? Hey, it’s Prep,” he says to the person on the other line. “Well, hello to you, too, you fucking ray of black sunshine. No, wait! Don’t hang up. I need your help. Well, I might need your help. Fuck you, I don’t fucking like you either. Was kind of hoping you wouldn’t answer on the account of accidentally blowing yourself up or some shit. Regardless of what others might say, I don’t find you the least bit attractive. As a matter of fact, I think you’re pretty gross. Okay, no wait. I’m sorry. I do think you’re mildly pretty, but only when you’re not around me. No, fuck, listen! I got a possible job for you, and I promise we can throw knives at each other when it’s all done, and everyone is dead. No, you don’t get to choose the knives. Okay. Of course, I’ll sanitize them beforehand. What kind of fucking monster do you take me for?” His footsteps and voice fade as he makes his way down the stairs.
Nine looks at the door, shaking his head. He frowns. “If Mickey really turns out to be one of them?” He doesn’t need to elaborate. He’s asking me if I’m willing to carry out the plan and do what needs to be done when the time comes. He’s asking me if it comes down to it, will I be able to kill Mickey.
The thought makes me fucking sick, but the reasons why I’d have to kill her make me feel even sicker.
I look my oldest friend in the eye and tell him the painful fucking truth.
“If she’s one of them…she will die like one of them.”
3
Mickey
Our activities in the Fourth Reich weren’t real. That’s what I grew up believing anyway. Sure, we were there every summer, but our presence and participation were thought to be merely a joke between both scholars and family.
A shared understanding that our membership was for the greater good. For education. To better the world through the information my father was gathering.
To better understand hate.
But what my sisters and I viewed as outsiders trespassing into a dark world for the sake of knowledge, wasn’t a lie after all. The only lies were the ones my father told in order to get my family to participate. He was a founder. Nine showed me the picture of him and Darius. Together. Smiling. Proud of what they created together. To my father it was all real. To the members of the Reich––to Darius, Percy and my father––it is all real.
I was just too far removed to see it before, but now, glaring at the Fourth Reich brand on my shoulder in the mirror, and thinking about all of the other symbols of hate lining the walls of the compound. Percy’s tattoos. The hateful chants. My sister in a cage.
My stomach rolls.
Leaning over the toilet, I pull my hair out of the way just in time. I aggressively purge the contents of my stomach over and over again. If only it was this easy to purge the contents of my soul, sending the dark parts away forever with a simple flush.
Papa was living his truth while the rest of us were caught up in his hateful life of lies. I know why he lied. My mother, who opted to stay at home rather than use her Harvard law degree, would have never participated in this kind of hatred, but she would never back down from an experiment, especially when it could possibly mean a better and less racist world in the end.
The person I looked up to most in the world was a fucking hateful monster.
Just when I think my stomach is empty, it rolls again. I throw up until I taste bile.
I can’t just kill Darius and Percy. Not now. Not while my sister is here somewhere. It’s too risky. I won’t risk her life like Papa risked ours.
I flush the toilet and wipe my mouth with a towel. When I come out of the bathroom, the image of my father is standing at the foot of my bed, waiting for me.
“You lied to me,” I accuse.
Papa looks to the ground and then to me with tear-filled eyes. He raises his hands in apology and shakes his head.
“You believed in this shit!” I cry, raising to my knees. “The entire time! You got your wife and daughters killed! And, for what? For this?”
His shoulders fall.
“You are just a product of my imagination. A coping mechanism. I know this. But I’m glad for some reason my brain decided to allow me to see you but not hear you today because there’s nothing you could say that I want to hear.” I laugh, bitterly. “I’ve mourned for you. I’ve made myself sick, thinking about the night I lost you. I went along with everything you asked me to do for all of these years, and for what? So, you could parade your picture-perfect white family around to these pieces of shit?” I shake my head. “You know, I used to think you were the smartest man in the whole world.” Tears prick at the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to cry for him. I refuse to shed one more tear for the man responsible for the death of my mother and sisters. “I thought you weren’t emotional or feeling or lovey-dovey with us because you were the intelligent type. The kind that didn’t think of those kinds of things, that it didn’t come naturally to you. But, I know now it’s because you were a hateful person, and you just didn’t have it in you to show love. You were everything to me growing up, and now? Now, you’re nothing. You infected so many people with the idea of hate, and they spread it to so many more, leaving lives and people broken and lost all because they caught your plague.” I walk up to the ghostly image of him, frozen in place. I point a finger through his chest. “You are not my Papa anymore. You never were.”
I storm right through his image to the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find Mindy and get the fuck out of this hell you created, while you can disappear, and go back to the hell you belong in.”
* * *
The human sense of smell is closely linked with memory, more so than any of our other senses. The smell of jasmine conjures long ago memories of my mother’s perfume, the expensive one she only wore once a year on Christmas or her birthday. The smell of the salt in the air or sunscreen always reminds me of our family summers here in Logan’s Beach and hours in the sun with my sisters. I can still hear them squealing as they splash one another in the water, the sound of the beach ball being volleyed back and forth into the air. The sound of the seagulls fighting for scraps of bread that Mallory always fed to them even though my father warned her not to. But, not all smells conjure good memories.
The compound of The Fourth Reich, the headquarters of hate, is located in the middle of an overgrown, wooded lot on the edge of town. It’s the smell of pine trees, a thick, sappy odor that sticks to the inside of your nose. That smell used to remind me of this place every time I got a whiff of floor cleaner or a car air freshener. The memories were neither good nor bad, just research. And now that I know the truth, the scent is downright nauseating, each crunch of my footsteps over the pine needles, infuriating.
Half of the uneven grounds are dry while another part closer to the compound is flooded, courtesy of the very recent Hurricane Polly.
The building itself is an old elementary school that closed when the new one, a combination of both elementary and middle schools opened up on the other side of town. The outbuildings consist of trailers in the back of the property that were formally portable classrooms used for student overflow. Now, they house the occasional visitor or the Reich member who partied too hard to make the trip home.
One of them contains my sister.
When I arrive at the trailers, I quietly pass under the trailer that belongs to Percy. I keep myself as close to the siding as possible, side-stepping under the windows. I am clear of the trailer by a single step when the door swings open. A brunette steps out wearing a short, leather skirt and black fishnet top over a magenta bra. She’s holding a silver case-style purse under her arm. She looks at me for a second, appraising me. I hold my breath, waiting for her to shout something back to Percy, alerting him of my presence. But all she does is shoot me a bored look, obviously deciding that I’m not worth her time. She shuts the door quietly
and makes her way down the steps through the courtyard, disappearing around the main building.
I exhale and try to catch my breath, grateful she didn’t say anything or draw attention to my presence.
The portables are up on cement blocks, making it hard to see through any of the windows. I locate a discarded block laying on its side next to one of the trailers and try to lift it. It’s much heavier than I thought, so I settle on having to drag it through the thick mud. It takes a few minutes, but I finally manage to position it under one of the back windows out of view from any potential prying eyes.
I step up and peer inside, cupping my hands around my eyes. There’s a sheer curtain that veils my view but doesn’t obstruct it.
Nothing.
It’s absent of people but full of crap. Mattresses, desks stacked on top of one another, and cases of liquor take up every inch of room. Storage.
Shit. On to the next one. I drag the cement block to the next trailer, and by the time I get there, my arm is burning, and even though the sun has barely lit the sky, I’m sweating profusely. There’s nothing in this one either. I search two more trailers. One houses a sleeping Hoppy on a tiny twin mattress; the other is completely empty.
On my fifth attempt, I peer into the window and spot a small blanket-covered being curled up on the tiny bed.
My heartbeat quickens. “Mindy,” I whisper. I leap off the block and quietly search the perimeter around the trailer for any sign of a guard or any waking members of the Reich.
Nothing.
I tip-toe up the wooden steps leading to the door. It’s locked. Not just locked, but chained from one side to the other with a metal bar screwed in on both sides.
Shit.
I drag another block to the window and set it on top of the other one. Thankfully, it’s not locked, but it is stuck. I remove Pike’s knife from my rain boot and use it to pry open the window, freeing it from the layers of paint coating the weather-stripping underneath.
Pawn: The Pawn Duet, Book Two Page 3