by Aubrey Cara
“I’m sure the owner was real understanding.”
“Actually, she was. See, it was an older lady. I told her I thought the car was mine, ’cause it looked like mine—which was a lie.” Candi says the last like I couldn’t guess as much. “I didn’t have a car at the time. She invited me in. We made sun tea and rhubarb pie.”
“Princess, only you could jack a car and end up making pie with the owner. Did you ever see her again?”
“Oh, yeah. I used to go visit her, but then her kids came and got her and moved her into a home near them up in Ohio. She wasn’t happy about it at all.”
“I imagine.”
I let her chatter while we make our way to the safe house. Like binge eating and stealing cars, talking about anything and everything seems to be her way of distracting herself. She runs a hand over the side of her face that has dried blood spatter, and quiets.
“Do you think you killed him?”
I know she’s talking about the guy who held her at gunpoint. I hit him square between the eyes. I’m a perfect shot. I don’t miss. It’s one of the things that got me recognition in the military and then later, when I started taking contracts. The man was dead all right. I’m not sure if she wants to hear that though.
I give a noncommittal shrug. “Who knows?” I say. It would be beyond miraculous if the bastard lived, but crazier things have been known to happen.
We’re halfway down the dirt road leading to the safe house when I get a creeping feeling. When I was little, I always wondered what people meant when they said they felt like someone just walked over their grave. I know now what they were talking about. This is how it feels.
I had this feeling my last tour in Iraq. I had this feeling in Kosovo. Something bad is coming.
I slow the truck down to a crawl. Pulling out my phone, I dial Slater’s number, forgetting there’s no signal out here. I pocket the phone then, thinking better of it, I stuff it into my boot before pulling out my gun.
“What are you doing?” Candi asks, staring at the weapon.
“Just being careful.” We’re up to the section of the road that narrows to a single lane. The trees are closing in and I can’t turn around--only back out.
“But this is the safe house. Why would you go to a safe house if it’s not safe?”
Why indeed?
I get to the end of the drive and all is dark. The only thing I can see is the trailer illuminated by the truck’s headlights.
Candi reaches for her door handle to get out, but I stay her hand. I still have that damn feeling.
I shift gears to turn the truck around to go the way we came when we’re suddenly surrounded by assholes with guns. Like fucking guerillas, they’re coming out of the trees, in all black, with camo face paint on.
With a glance I count about ten, maybe fifteen of the fuckers. It’s been a while since I had this much heat trained on me. The headlights of two big vehicles come on. One in front of us and one behind.
We’re blocked in.
This seems like a lot of effort for a girl who owes three grand and little ole me. Even if I did shoot Huntington’s toe off.
Makes me wonder if we’re taking the fall for something else. Something bigger.
Slater either underestimated the resources Huntington has or he gave me up. The latter doesn’t make sense, but it’s likely they have a mole.
These guys knew where the safe house was and have been waiting here, God only knows how long. Only a few people know this location, yet here they are, like we issued a fucking invite.
Candi’s got a death grip on my arm, and I want to rage.
Whatever is about to happen, I’m not going to be able to protect her from it. We’re a million shades of fucked.
“What do we do?” She trusts me to take care of her. To get us out of this. I don’t know if I can. Not this time.
My eyes sear into hers, trying to give her strength. “Be strong. And run if you get a chance.”
The doors are yanked open, and we’re ripped out of the truck from either side. I’m shoved from behind and see Candi being dragged away in the opposite direction. Eyes full of terror, she looks back at me, but she doesn’t scream.
For now, she’s being strong.
Swinging around, I face plant the guy to the left of me. Snatching his gun, I shoot off three rapid shots hitting one of Huntington’s soldiers in the head, another in the throat, and then a third in the chest. The third’s wearing ballistics gear, but is still in close enough range to be knocked the hell back.
Pain explodes from the back of my head before I can get another clear shot. My vision plays tilt-a-whirl. I fall to my knees, and my vision clears just in time to see the butt of a rifle smash into my face.
CANDI
There’s a guard on either side of me, leading me away. I’m not fighting, yet they still have an iron grip of my arms. The guard to my left is a big, bald, scary motherfucker who looks like he should be the bad guy in a movie. He’s carrying his automatic rifle around like he’s just waiting to kill something.
The guard to my right seems like an average Joe, and I wonder how he got into his specific profession of working for a drug boss. Outside of the black fatigues and bulletproof vest, he looks like he could be coaching his kid’s baseball team and driving a minivan.
They’re shoving me in a big, black SUV when I hear the blast of gunfire.
I turn just in time to see Hank get knocked to the ground. There’re two men kicking the shit out of him.
“Hank!” I pull my arm free and run. I’m yanked back by my hair. It’s baldy. My scalp is screaming as he stuffs me in the vehicle. Only when I’m inside does he let go, and I bite down on his hand until he cracks me across the face hard enough I see stars.
Average Joe takes a seat and closes the door while I sit on the floor, holding my face.
“Hey, boss already found a buyer for this girl,” he reprimands. “You know the rules. No leaving marks and shit after they’ve been purchased.”
I’m still reeling from the hit when my arms are roughly yanked and tied behind me. Then Psycho Soccer Dad jerks me around and slaps duct tape over my mouth.
“Stupid rules,” the scary mofo complains. “It’s not like whoever buys them isn’t going to fuck ’em up before they kill ’em.”
“Yeah, well, the difference is they paid for the pleasure. You and I are just the bastards getting paid to deliver their new toys.”
I’m not fully tied before we’re moving. I glance out the window in time to see Hank’s lifeless body thrown in the trunk of a big, black sedan. All the air is knocked out of me at the sight. It hurts worse than a punch to the gut. I double over on a sob.
Being strong and calm has gone out the window. I’m no longer scared or worried about me. The pain knifing through me at the reality Hank might be dead is too much for anything else to exist.
For a while the only sound in the vehicle is me quietly crying. I struggle for breath when my nose is stuffed by snot from crying so hard. I’m panicking, and they’re just watching me until baldy says, “You think she’ll pass out?”
“Give her something to wipe her nose. It would be just our luck she’d suffocate on her own snot and die before we get her to the boss.”
Baldy holds a smelly blue bandana to my face. “Blow,” he says, and I do just for the relief of being able to breathe again. But before I can take my first good breath, he squeezes my nose until my eyes are running. My neck strains back as I try to get away. Black dots haze my vision before he lets me go.
I slump forward, taking large breaths through my nose. The bald dickwad stuffs the snotty bandana down the front of my shirt then squeezes my breast hard enough to bruise.
“Too bad you already have a buyer and I like my job. I would fuck the shit out of you, honey.” The way he leers at me makes me want to gag. “You ever think about it?” he says conversationally to the average Joe.
“What? Fucking the girls?”
“No man, well
yeah, kind of, but buying one. You ever think what it would be like. What you’d do?”
The other guy shrugs, and the one who hit me slaps his buddy on the leg good naturedly. “You have! I know you have. How could you not, doing what we do?”
Their sick, casual banter on owning a fucking slave goes on, background noise. My head is buzzing.
I’m about to be shipped off because I’ve been sold, and the one man who cares might be dead. Hank.
Pain grips my chest. I almost double over again on a sob. I breathe deep through my nose, blinking back tears. If I start crying again, I won’t stop. I can’t fall apart. Not yet.
Hank, god, please be alive.
21
HANK
Consciousness is a strange thing. I can’t move. I can’t really feel the bumps we’re going over, but I’m aware. I can hear the crunch of gravel. The sound of the engine. I know I’m in a trunk. I can even hear the murmur of voices.
I’m drifting like I took a buffalo tranq to the ass.
Next time I come to, the drive is smooth and I can tell we’re going fast. I swear we’re on open highway. All I hear is the rush of the road buzzing in my ears like white noise. In and out of consciousness, I swim.
When my body finally joins the party, it’s with throbbing pain. Head, face, arms. The zip ties they used to bind my wrists are cutting into skin. I can snap zip ties, but not now, not at this angle.
Also, I think I may have a cracked rib, which means they kicked me when I was down. It sure as hell feels like I’ve been used as a human piñata.
I angle my body around and kick where the tail lights are, ignoring the pain in my ribs. We’re probably being followed closely by the rest of Huntington’s men, but I’m getting satisfaction out of kicking out the tail light just the same.
Candi steals cars. I destroy things. We’re quite a pair.
Thoughts of her make my mind stutter. I can’t contemplate what might be happening to her. I led her straight into an ambush. If one hair on her head is harmed, it’s on me.
Something jostles loose from my boot, and I remember I have the phone. Scooting my foot behind me, I try to kick my phone up to my bound wrists, but black swims over my eyes from the pain. Those assholes must have really worked me over. It takes me two more tries before I reach it with the tips of my fingers, arching back to snag it.
Phone in hand I power it up and try to get a glimpse at it to see what the hell I’m doing. This is some kind of yoga shit, right here. If I wasn’t praying a rib doesn’t snap and puncture a lung, I might even find this funny.
I hit my last called number, which is Slater. I doubt he’ll hear anything I have to say. When our car starts slowing down, I don’t try to talk. He knows this is my number. I lock the screen and awkwardly stuff the phone back into my boot, hoping like hell Slater knows enough to track me to my location.
The vehicle is rolling to a stop, and I hear multiple doors slam. Too many to be just one car. The trunk pops open, and my eyes squeeze shut, suddenly blinded. We’re under a parking-lot light. It takes two guys to haul me out of the trunk, and I take stupid satisfaction in going dead weight and making them work for it.
I hang my head like I’m still out of it as I shuffle forward in the direction they push me. In my peripheral vision, I spot Candi. Her arms are bound behind her back, and tape is over her mouth. When she spots me, she stumbles like her legs have given out, and one of the guards with her drags her the rest of the way across the gravel lot.
I memorize his face, as we’re led up to an old warehouse, and pray I get the chance to knock his teeth down his throat.
Nothing good ever comes from old warehouses. Especially if you’re going into one at gunpoint. We’re shoved through the door, and the smell of sweat and blood hit me. It’s an all-too-familiar stench.
We’re led inside what seems to be a loading bay. There’s a big door to the left, the kind semi-trucks back up to, to pick up or unload from. On the other end, a heavy metal door looks to lead to a bigger warehouse. Probably a storage facility. To the right is another door to the gravel parking lot, much like the one we just came in. In the middle of it all sits an old utility desk.
Our steps echo in the cavernous space. I’m pushed down onto a hard, metal chair that screeches on the concrete when I fumble onto the seat.
Candi struggles to break free from the asshole shoving her down onto the chair next to me, and I have to keep from reacting. I scan the area and glace behind us. That’s when I notice Dylan’s bloody form strung up and passed out in the corner.
God, I hope he’s only passed out.
“Howdy, you all.” Huntington sounds so snide, I want to rip his head off.
He ambles into the room with the use of a cane and sits behind an old metal desk. He has a cast on his foot, and I stifle a grin, knowing I did that to him. I should have shot him between the eyes and really made it count.
“It’s been a busy day,” he says. “What with getting shot in the foot and all.”
Huntington nods his head to a guard on his right. The guard pulls out his gun and fires before I can even blink. The sound echoes off the metal walls, along with Candi’s muffled scream. I stare down at the hole in my foot filling with blood before blazing pain shoots up my leg.
“Ahhhhhh, fuck!”
“Hurts, doesn’t it, Mr. Buchanan?” he asks.
I already assumed the asshole discovered who I am, but now it’s confirmed.
I grit my teeth, trying to breathe through the searing pain making all my nerve endings snap to agonizing awareness.
“Ms. Dawson,” the smug fucker continues. “You’ve found yourself quite the decorated military man. Rose rather quickly through the ranks, this one did. Had a promising career ahead of him, too. That is until he was dishonorably discharged. Seems he has a problem controlling his temper. He nearly beat his commanding officer to death. Did he tell you that?”
That fucker wasn’t my CO, and I should have killed him for what he did. Candi shows no reaction. She just sits, brow furrowed as she stares at the ground, shoulders hunched in. She looks so fucking vulnerable, I want to scream and bash Huntington’s face in.
“Ms. Dawson, I do hate when your mind wanders and you don’t answer me.” With a snap of Huntington’s fingers, a guard has a gun pressed to Candi’s temple. Her eyes squeeze tightly shut. The guard rips the tape off her mouth, and she cries out. Her lips are cracked and bleeding. It’s obvious someone hit her before they taped her mouth shut.
“Now, what were we discussing?”
“N-no, he didn’t tell me,” she stutters.
“Was that so hard?” He shakes his head with a tsk-tsk. “I’ve been too lenient with you. That’s my mistake. One I won’t be making again.” He snaps his damn fingers again. “Oscar. Would you please relieve Ms. Dawson of her clothes and string her up next to her brother?
“I usually don’t like to send damaged merchandise to my buyers,” he continues. “Gives me a bad reputation and all. But I’m making a special exception for you, Ms. Dawson. You see, I’ve been thinking about how you’d look like writhing in pain from the moment I met you. I almost thought about keeping you for myself, but you’re worth so much more to me sold. That doesn’t have to stop me from having a little fun before you go.” He drops a coiled rope on his desk, and I realize it’s a fucking whip.
My blood turns to ice at the implications. I can’t sit and watch this shit. I gauge how long I’ll be able to put pressure on my foot if I get my wrists free.
My head is fuzzing with pain, but I have to stay alert.
The cold barrel of a rifle presses to the side of my head, as if the guard could sense my energy.
Oscar, a big guy who looks like he has more muscles than brains has a sick smirk as he stands Candi up and cuts her clothes from her with a hunting knife. She’s trembling and biting her lips so hard she’s going to draw blood.
This time when I grit my teeth, it has nothing to do with my physical pain. A tear
rolls down my princess’s face as the last of her clothes are torn from her body, and I swear to make each and every bastard in here pay.
Oscar cuts her wrists loose and she goes berserk, scratching the bastard’s face and screaming. The asshole backhands her, sending her sprawling back.
My heart stops.
I don’t know how, but she’s snagged the dumb prick’s gun.
Before I can wonder what she’s going to do with it, she blasts off three rounds, rapid-fire, aim wild. One more shot rings out before she’s tackled from behind by the guard who was on me.
Surging up, I smash my wrists down and apart, breaking the zip ties.
Everything hazes, and my focus narrows. Adrenaline pumping, I plow my fist through the nearest guard’s face, snatch his gun, and fire. I fire again, taking out the guard behind Huntington, then shoot the gun out of Huntington’s hand.
Huntington bellows, “Get him!” But it reaches my ears through a tunnel. I’m zeroed in on grabbing Candi and getting the hell out of here. I take a step in her direction and nearly crumple. All the air is kicked out of me from the pain screaming up my leg. Fuck. Black swims over my vision and I shake the wave of dizziness away.
Only a second. I pause only for a second, and it’s just enough time for a guard to swing around with the butt of his rifle. This time I see it coming and block it. Grabbing ahold of the barrel, jerk it forward, using the momentum to jack the stocky guard in the face.
Candi’s scream has me whipping around to see the big guard, Oscar, has her. His arm is tight around her throat, his .40mm pressed to her cheek. He’s dragging her back to the heavy metal door leading to the bigger warehouse with her pulled up in front of him like a fucking shield.
I don’t have a clear shot.
Huntington raises his Glock with his left hand, and I feel the zing of a bullet whiz past my ear before the doors bust open from every damn direction. An explosion of feds stream in, guns drawn.
Candi’s released. Oscar’s gun is ripped out of his hand as he’s shoved to the ground.