In Seconds b-2

by Brenda Novak

  She wanted to hear that, wanted to believe it. But he was standing in front of her with two bullet wounds, and Ink and Lloyd were still at large. What if it had gone the other way? Just like it did with the U.S. marshal? Her mother was dead. Pat, too. If things didn’t change, she wouldn’t even be able to attend his funeral next week. “But don’t you see? Even if you catch them, it might not be over. The Crew could send more and more—”

  “Then we’ll take them on, too. You don’t give in to a gang. That only builds their power.”

  “But you have Marley to worry about. Why would you be willing to remain involved in this?”

  He was the sheriff. He could’ve said it was his job. But he didn’t. His voice deepened as he held her gaze. “For the same reason you risked staying.”

  He was doing it for her, for what could happen between them. “But it’s because of me that you’ve already been shot.”

  Hobbling a bit closer, he took her chin, tilting it toward him. “It brought you out in your underwear, didn’t it?”

  When she smiled at his sexy grin, he threaded his fingers through hers. “Don’t leave me,” he murmured. “We have something here. I don’t know what it’ll turn out to be. But we’ll never know if we let The Crew tear us apart.”

  He was right. There was no way to see into the future, no way to provide guarantees on either side. They could be hurt, physically or emotionally; they were taking a chance for love. She’d trusted her heart when she’d stayed. She’d pried it open and allowed herself to care about him and this place, despite what she’d been through. That was a victory in itself.

  The rest she had to take on faith.

  “Okay,” she said, and let him lead her back to bed.

  Two men stood on the dirt and weeds that served as a backyard to Horse’s club. They huddled near the chain-link fence at the far corner of the house, speaking in low tones as they transacted some sort of business. Virgil had no doubt that whatever they were doing was illegal. Almost everything that went down here was. But they weren’t worried about his sudden appearance. When he rounded the corner, they glanced up to see what he wanted but went back to their negotiations as soon as they realized he wasn’t interested in them. Too many men came and went from here for his presence to alarm them. He was alone, which was hardly threatening, considering their numbers. And he looked as if he fit right in. He knew how to look that way; he used to be as much a part of The Crew as they were.

  The fact that these men were along his escape route could become a problem, however. Once he shot Horse, they’d know he wasn’t an ally. He made a mental note of the complications they could cause as he swung the door open and stepped into a hallway that smelled of pot and cigars.

  Blinds covered every window in the house, judging by the darkness. Privacy was important. The Crew wouldn’t tolerate strangers peering in—although the inhabitants of this neighborhood knew better than to get nosy. Too much interest could get them killed.

  The only light Virgil could see came from a lamp in the living room at the end of the hall; there was also a bit of light drifting up from the club downstairs. The clack of balls told him some people were still awake down there, playing pool. If they were doing coke, they might not sleep for days.

  Several doors lined the hallway—all of them closed, except the one leading to the stairs that went down to the club. Mona had mentioned that Horse was in the back bedroom. But there were at least three rooms and probably a bathroom and no way to tell the difference between them. Which room was it?

  Leaning against the door closest to him, Virgil tried to hear if anything was going on, but there was no sound. He was about to turn the doorknob, risk looking in, when a woman appeared at the end of the hall and drew his attention with a little cough.

  Dressed in fishnet stockings, high-heeled black boots, a skirt that didn’t quite cover her ass and a blouse tied open to reveal a set of sagging tits, she looked well-used and strung out. Women didn’t fare well inside The Crew. Two years spent servicing these men was equivalent to ten on the street. They were that demanding and abusive.

  He’d never met Mona before, but he knew her instantly. The anxiety on her heart-shaped face, pale in contrast to the dye job that made her hair jet-black, gave her identity away. He nodded once as their eyes met. Then she used the tip of the domination whip she carried as part of her sexy attire to point at the door across the hall from him, and that was it. She disappeared. When the front door slammed, he knew she was getting the hell away.

  Probably a good idea to go while she could. Whether she’d played it straight or sold him out, life was about to get interesting.

  Or over.

  Taking the gun from his waistband, he checked to make sure the safety was off. Then he stood to one side and opened the door of the room she’d indicated.

  Two men sat at a desk, counting stacks of money—the night’s take. The closest one looked up, wearing a scowl, angry to be interrupted. But the expression on his face changed the second he saw Virgil’s gun. As his mouth formed an O, his eyes cut to his own weapon, a pistol lying within reach on the shelf.

  “Go for it and I’ll shoot you,” Virgil murmured, his voice low.

  “You do, and you’ll never get out of here.” A large man stood behind the first, head shaved, cheeks scarred by acne. This had to be Horse. Although Virgil had never met him, Rex had said enough about The Crew’s leader for Virgil to be able to pick him out of a crowd, especially a crowd of two. Not many men stood six foot eight and had such a bulbous nose, such bad skin.

  “Horse.” Virgil managed a congenial smile. “Nice to finally make your acquaintance.”

  Horse bared large yellow teeth as he laughed, and Virgil wondered if that was where he’d gotten his name. “You’re crazy for coming here.”

  “A point I’m more than willing to concede.” Crazy was one thing, but Horse hadn’t expected such a brazen move and that was important. Virgil could read his surprise; the man wasn’t prepared, which meant Mona hadn’t double-crossed him, after all.

  If this ended well, Virgil promised himself he’d thank her properly.

  “Gully, if you’ll step out of the way, I’ll let you live,” he said to the stout man still standing in front.

  Gully smoothed the leather vest he wore without a shirt. More biker style than street gang, it wasn’t a good look for him. He was overweight and his complexion was far too pasty to pull it off, especially during an L.A. summer. But it showed his tattoos, which was probably the whole idea. “How do you know my name?”

  Virgil grinned. “I know everything.”

  “Then you should also know that I’m not gonna let you shoot a fellow Crew member.”

  “Your choice.” He lifted his gun. He didn’t plan on shooting Gully. Horse was tall enough that he could drop him if he had to. But he’d have to deal with Gully grabbing that pistol as soon as Horse fell behind him and was trying to decide how he’d get out of the room without taking a bullet himself. As determined as he was to save his family, to be free of The Crew at last, the prospect of killing someone, even Horse, didn’t sit well with him. He’d killed before, in prison. But he’d had no choice.

  He felt he had no choice here, either. Yet it wasn’t the same, wasn’t two men coming at him with homemade knives.

  “You leave me and my family alone, I’ll let you live, too,” he told Horse.

  “I don’t make deals.” Horse made a move as if he was going to grab Gully’s gun. He couldn’t reach it, but Virgil couldn’t tell that when he fired. The bullet hit Horse in the shoulder. A dark spot bloomed on his shirt. Then Gully went for the gun, as expected, so Virgil had to shoot him, too.

  Aiming for the leg, he hit Gully somewhere in that region. Gully crumpled, moaning. Virgil had only seconds before everyone else in the house descended on him, a split second in which to finish Horse off. But Horse had ducked behind the desk, making it impossible to get the kind of shot he needed, and Gully somehow managed to squeeze of
f a round in the interim.

  Virgil heard the bullet strike the wall behind him. Close, but not close enough. Gully was in too much pain to aim straight. Or he didn’t know how to hit a target. Regardless, the noise had attracted attention. Footsteps pounded down the hall, coming toward them. From the shouts accompanying those footsteps, at least a hundred Crew members were rushing to Horse’s aid—but Virgil knew that was panic talking. Realistically, it was probably five or six.

  Still, he was already outnumbered. And now there’d be no going out the way he’d come in. The futility of what he’d tried to do struck him in that moment, but so did the memory of burning that picture of Peyton and Brady. He couldn’t let his family down. Laurel or Rex, either. He wouldn’t let them down, not as long as he had the breath to keep fighting.

  Firing again, he hit Gully in the gun arm, and the pistol fell to the carpet. The fat bean counter was neutralized. But Horse was very much alive. In between cursing and calling for help, he tried to shove Gully out of the way so he could reach the fallen gun. When he couldn’t do that without exposing himself, he pulled Gully in front and used him as a human shield.

  “This is the leader you were willing to die for?” Virgil shouted.

  Red-faced and gasping, Gully managed to wriggle out of Horse’s grasp, leaving him unprotected for only a second.

  That was all Virgil needed. Planning to crash through the window in order to get out, Virgil crossed the room while firing into Horse’s corner again and again. Splinters and Sheetrock dust rained down on them but Virgil was moving too fast to see if he’d hit Horse. At this point, everything was a smoky blur.

  At the last minute, he had the presence of mind to shoot the window. He thought that might make it easier to break. But he didn’t get the chance to jump through it. He was on the bed just a foot away when the other Crew members began pouring into the room.

  Although his gun was empty, bullets began flying—from their guns. It took only a split second for one, then another, to hit him in the back.

  27

  L.J.’s vision was blurry, but the pain was gone. Had he really been shot? Or was it just a bad dream?

  He blinked, trying to make sense of the bright light directly above him and the fuzzy objects surrounding him, but once he saw the picture hanging on the wall, he knew getting shot had been no dream. He was inside the cabin those dads had rented, the ones who’d walked through the door and been shot to death by Ink.

  His mind shied away from the rest of the memory, the process of dragging them outside and digging their graves, but there was no avoiding the replay. It cycled in a never-ending loop—until he was distracted by the odd smell around him, a smell he couldn’t place, and the sounds of someone rummaging in the kitchen.

  He wanted to call out, ask what was going on and why he felt so strange, but he was afraid it was Ink. Had to be, didn’t it? He hadn’t been with anyone else since he’d busted out of prison. Ink had been with him in Laurel’s house. Ink had been with him when the sheriff appeared and started firing. Ink had been in the truck after they ran through the forest. And Ink had helped him limp into the cabin, said he was going to operate—

  Oh, God. L.J.’s hand wanted to go to his chest, to determine what might’ve happened to him while he was unconscious. But he couldn’t move. His wrists were tied to something above his head.

  What the hell was going on? Was this Ink’s idea of saving his life? Or Ink’s idea of revenge for nearly leaving him in the forest?

  “Hey, you’re awake!”

  It was Ink, all right. The last person L.J. wanted to see. The last person L.J. wanted cutting into him. Ink didn’t know anything about removing a bullet or what other damage he might cause by digging into a guy’s shoulder. Neither did he care. That was the most frightening part. This would become just one more thing to brag about.

  If L.J. lived.

  Actually, if he died, Ink would still brag about it.

  His mouth as dry as cotton, L.J. had to swallow before he could answer. “I can’t…move. Why can’t I move?” His voice sounded hoarse and panicky, unfamiliar even to him.

  “Sorry.” Ink came around the table carrying a dish towel, which he was using to wipe his hands. “Had to tie you down. For all I knew, you’d wake up and start thrashing around and hurt us both. You should’ve seen the way you jumped when I cauterized that hole in your shoulder.”

  “When you…what?” That was the smell. Burning flesh. His flesh. The thought made him more nauseous than he already was.

  “Cauterized the wound,” Ink repeated. “I used a metal spoon. That was all I could think of. The only way to sterilize it and get it to stop bleeding since I had no needle and thread to try and stitch it.”

  “But who said you should—”

  “Saw it in an old Western once,” he broke in. “Worked great, too. You should thank me. We’re out of the woods now.” He laughed. “Out of the woods. That’s a good one.”

  It was called a pun. But Ink wouldn’t know that. Maybe he was cunning, but he wasn’t educated. At least L.J. had graduated from high school. It wasn’t until a cousin got him into boosting cars that he went to prison and met the likes of Ink and the rest of The Crew. “Pun intended,” he muttered, hearing his grandmother’s voice saying the same thing.

  “What?”

  Unable to explain, he shook his head. “Just something that…came to me.”

  “So? How do you feel?”

  L.J. squinted at the bright light above him. “Where am I?”

  “My makeshift operating table, aka the dining room table. Pretty clever, huh?” When Ink tapped his head, L.J. thought he would definitely be sick. For all he knew, Ink had taken out one of his kidneys. Ink liked to talk about such morbid things, used to entertain the other guys in prison for hours with stories of black-market organ transplants and doctors who supposedly made a bundle stealing kidneys from the poor.

  L.J.’s lips were cracked and peeling. He made an effort to wet them so he could speak. “What’d—what’d you do to me?”

  “I removed the plug that damn sheriff put in you. What do you think?” He held up a small, slightly flattened piece of metal. “See? Here it is.”

  There was smear of blood on Ink’s arm. He’d washed his hands but he hadn’t done a very good job, hadn’t washed high enough to reach all the evidence of his “operation.”

  “Great. Thanks,” L.J. said drily. “So…will you untie me?”

  Ink stared at him for so long, L.J. was afraid he’d refuse. But then he grinned and shrugged and got a knife that was still stained with blood to cut the strips of sheet anchoring his hands to two different objects that wouldn’t budge. When he sat up and rubbed his wrists, L.J. saw that Ink had used the wooden captain’s chairs, one on each side of his head, which shouldn’t have been all that heavy. He was just weak. Weak and sick and confused.

  “How do you feel?” Ink asked again.

  “Okay, I guess.” L.J.’s hand went to his head as if that might help sort out his thoughts. “What’d…you give me?”

  “The last of my pills. That’s friendship for you, huh?”

  Friendship? L.J. didn’t even want to be here. He would’ve left if he could have. Ink was crazier than anyone L.J. had ever met. “What were they?”

  “Maxidone. Or so I was told.”

  “Which is?”

  Ink tossed the knife onto the table. “Who knows? And who the hell cares? They work, don’t they?”

  “Yeah.” He couldn’t feel any pain; they must’ve done their job. Ink had obviously taken some, too—more than usual, because he was in a better mood than he’d been in so far. Odd, considering their situation had fallen to shit. “And you got them from…where again?”

  “Quit being stupid, huh? I got ’em from Wiley Coyote, and you know that because you were there. Jeez,” he added with a chuckle.

  Jeez? Ink was high, all right. He’d probably smoked the joint that’d been on the coffee table, too. Or mixed drugs and alc
ohol.

  “You remember Wiley, don’t you?”

  Dimly, L.J. recalled The Crew member who’d helped them get away from the prison and provided Ink with a container of tablets for his back. “Yeah.”

  “Time to get you off this table.” Ink motioned for him to get up. “I’ll take you to the bed. You need to rest.”

  L.J. had no idea how he’d walk from point A to point B. When he slid off the table, he had to bend over and take several deep breaths just to keep from throwing up or falling over. “Yeah, bed,” he said when he could finally straighten.

  Ink supported his weight as they made their way slowly up the stairs; Ink even helped him lie down and covered him with blankets. But the sickness L.J. had felt a few minutes earlier came back, worse than ever, and kept him from falling asleep.

  Was he having an allergic reaction to Ink’s pills?

  He was about to call out, let Ink know something serious had to be wrong, when he began to doubt everything Ink had told him. Maybe it wasn’t an allergic reaction. Maybe he’d lost track of time and Ink had kept him shut up in this cabin for days. It could be an infection…?.

  He racked his brain to determine whether or not that could be possible. But due to whatever drug he’d been given, he couldn’t arrange his thoughts, had no concept of time. Had he been tied to the table just for a few hours? Or had he been there for several days?

  The last thing he remembered was getting out of the truck…?.

  Rolling gingerly to one side, he tried to feel his lower back, which ached terribly. Was it from the hardness of the dining room table? Or had Ink stolen his kidney?

  He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t reach all the way around without tearing open the wound on his shoulder.

  “Ink?” he called. But it was a halfhearted, feeble effort to rouse him. One Ink didn’t hear.

  A second later the front door slammed and the truck’s engine roared to life.