Taken

by Mia Ford

I sat cross-legged on the bed next to her and traced circles around her knees with my fingertips. “Yeah, you mentioned that before,” I said as if I was just making conversation between bouts of sex. Dottie wasn’t done with me yet. Not by a long shot. She always wanted to be fucked several times when we stole away together as if she was storing up orgasms until next time.

  I asked, “So, he’s like a broker for other stores?”

  She puffed on the cigarette and nodded with her head against the pillow. “Something like that. He gets shipments of loose diamonds from some contact in South Africa somewhere, then he fills orders for other jewelers up and down the coast.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’d never know it by looking at the place, but he keeps a couple million dollars in diamonds in the safe built into the floor under his desk at any given time.”

  “Who would have ever thought,” I said, shaking my head. “So, he ships the diamonds out on Friday? Every week?”

  She nodded again. “Yes. An armored car delivers them on Monday morning and picks them up on Friday afternoon. They take the packaged diamonds and ship them to Mr. Crown’s customers.”

  “That’s just crazy,” I said, rolling my eyes. My fingers had drifted up from her knees and were now walking their way up her meaty thighs toward her cunt.

  She closed her eyes and hummed.

  My fingers settled in her thick curls. I gave them a little scratch. I said, “Hey, I’ve been thinking. What if we got away next weekend?”

  She opened her eyes to frown at me through the smoke. “Get away?”

  “Yeah. Just you and me, alone, out of town. Do you think you could take off work one Friday so we could head to Vegas for a long weekend?”

  “Ooh, I’d like that,” she said, wiggling her cunt against my fingers. She tugged the soiled towel from her cunt and tossed it aside. She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and started massaging her breasts again. She spread her legs and cooed at me.

  She asked, “When could we go? Where?”

  “Next week or two maybe?” I shrugged, like I was just coming up with the idea. “I’ll be back in town Thursday. We could leave Thursday night, be in Vegas in a few hours, spend the weekend drinking, eating, gambling, and fucking.”

  “That sounds awesome,” she said, sucking in a deep breath as my fingers slid into her. I pushed in three fingers to the knuckle, then pulled them out slowly. Her soaked cunt closed around my fingers.

  I asked, “Think you can get off? Work, I mean?”

  “Yessss, I can get off…” she sighed, her hands assaulting her big tits again. “I’ll ask on Monday.”

  “Awesome,” I said, pushing my hand inside her with my thumb rubbing against her clit. She reached down to find my cock rock hard between my legs.

  It wasn’t because of her.

  The thought of a big score always made my cock hard.

  SANDY

  My plan to exact revenge on Rick Wright and his gang started two months ago, even though at that moment I didn’t even know who he was.

  Brent was dead in my arms.

  The police came.

  An ambulance.

  A forensics team.

  The coroner.

  More cops.

  A female detective who said her name was Cochran pulled me away from Brent’s lifeless body so a photographer could take pictures of the scene and the forensics guy could gather evidence.

  I was in shock, she said, covered in Brent’s blood.

  An EMT wrapped a blanket around me and sat me on the back of his van and shined a light in my eyes. I’m fine, I muttered. Help Brent. Help Brent.

  Detective Cochran was taking notes. She asked me to tell her everything I could remember.

  Did I see their faces?

  No, they wore masks.

  Did they say anything to me?

  No, nothing.

  Would I recognize them again if I saw them?

  Probably not.

  Could I pick them out of a lineup?

  No, I told you, they wore masks.

  Did they have any distinguishing marks that might help identify them?

  I thought of the silver tooth but said no.

  She asked if she could call someone to come get me.

  I asked her to call my dad.

  He came immediately to take me home.

  Mom and April were waiting at the door for me.

  They were horrified by what had happened.

  When mom saw my blood-soaked clothes and hands, she looked like she was going to puke.

  I took a shower and went to bed, where I stayed for six straight days and nights.

  I was totally numb, barely aware of what was going on around me. My mom brought me food that I didn’t touch and offered words of comfort that I didn’t hear.

  I cried until there wasn’t a single drop of moisture left in my body.

  * * *

  We buried Brent seven days after he was killed. It was a small service at his dad’s church. His parents made all the decisions. I had no legal claim on him. I sat on the first church pew next to his parents, staring at the walnut coffin they had chosen for him. I watch them lower him into the ground in their family plot.

  I didn’t cry at all that day. I was all cried out.

  I went back to work the next week. I thanked everyone for their condolences. I tried to smile when I greeted customers, tried to be chatty as I cut hair.

  I don’t remember much about that time.

  I was numb, just going through the motions.

  Then, as it had in the split-second the bullet went through Brent’s skull, my life instantly changed again.

  A man from the Banner Life & Casualty Insurance Company showed up at CostClippers.

  He needed to speak privately with me.

  He had something very important to give me.

  * * *

  “Miss Duval, I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said after I led him into the small break room in the back of the shop and closed the door. He was a short, fat man in a brown suit and skinny black tie. He had a round, kind face with pinkish cheeks. Like Brent, his eyes closed when he smiled. His name was Mr. Ray. He set his business card on the table and slid it toward me.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Ray?”

  “I hope to do something for you,” he said, reaching inside his jacket to pull out an envelope. He tapped the edge of the envelope lightly on the table. “I know that money can’t ease your pain, but you need to know that Brent had a one-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy through his work. He also recently started paying additional premiums to increase that payout amount.”

  I blinked at him. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  He held out the envelope and nodded for me to take it.

  I opened the envelope to find a check made out to me from the Banner Life & Casualty Company. When I saw the amount, my heart leaped into my throat. The tears returned. I pressed my fingers to my lips.

  “I know money won’t ease your pain,” he said again. “But you were Brent’s beneficiary. He wanted to make sure you were taken care of in case anything ever happened to him.”

  “I don’t know what to say… I mean… shouldn’t this go to his parents…”

  “He named you his sole beneficiary,” he said.

  I stared at the check, not fully convinced that it was real.

  I blinked at him and he gave me a soft smile, then shook my hand and wished me well.

  He left me alone, staring at a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

  SANDY

  Things happened very quickly after that. I quit my job and moved back into the apartment I had shared with Brent. I loved April and my parents, but I needed to be alone to do what I planned to do. I didn’t need anyone telling me revenge was wrong or worried about me getting hurt. I was going to do this, regardless of the consequences.

  The landlord hadn’t touched the place because the rent was paid a month in ad
vance. All our things were still there. Brent’s clothes and shoes, his cap collection, his shaving cream and razor, toothbrush, and cologne.

  His guns were still there, too. He had kept a .9mm Beretta in the nightstand for home protection. Under the bed in a lockbox was stored a Bulldog .357 revolver, a .45 ACP Colt, and a small Ruger .380. I remembered Brent carrying the Ruger in a concealed holster on his belt. I wondered what might have happened if he had been carrying the gun the night he was killed.

  I packed Brent’s belongings and sent them to his mom.

  I kept his guns.

  I called the female detective who had interviewed me after the shooting to ask if they had any leads. She was polite but curt. They were looking at a number of leads, but there was nothing that she could share with me.

  I went online and found a private detective named Gerald Beamon. His website said he was a former city cop, retired after thirty-five years of service. I made an appointment to see him. We met at a coffee shop downtown.

  Beamon was his sixties and dressed casually in a white polo shirt and beige khakis. He wore a pistol holstered on his belt and showed me his PI badge as we sat down. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he was still on the force.

  “So basically, you want me to find out what the police know about the men who killed your fiancé,” he said, scratching his chin. “Have you asked them yourself?”

  “Yes,” I said. “They won’t tell me anything.”

  He narrowed his eyes to study my face as if he were trying to assess my motives for wanting the information. When he discovered that he couldn’t read my mind, he asked, “Miss Duval, may I ask what you intend to do with this information?”

  I slowly blinked at him. My expression was blank because that’s how I felt; blank, cold, empty.

  I said, “That’s none of your business.” I reached into my purse and brought out five one-hundred-dollar bills. I set two of them on the table between us. “I’m asking you to make a phone call, Mr. Beamon. If you get the information I need, you get the rest.”

  He eyed the crisp bills for a moment, then picked them up and folded them into his shirt pocket. He picked up his phone from the table and got out of his chair. “Give me five minutes.”

  He walked outside and paced the sidewalk to make the call.

  He was back in less than five minutes.

  He sat down and spoke quietly. “Okay, I talked to a buddy in Robbery/Homicide. They’re pretty sure it wasn’t really a robbery. They think it was a hit.”

  “A hit? Like a mafia hit? A hit on who?”

  “The guy working behind the counter,” he said. He set his elbows on the table and leaned over them. “Name was Turner Smith. Turns out he was a confidential informant for the local PD. They had nabbed him as part of a stolen goods ring and he was ratting out his buddies in exchange for immunity. The cops think the guys that hit him were part of a criminal organization they call The Wright Brothers.”

  I frowned at him. I didn’t smile. Nothing made me smile anymore. “You mean, like the airplane Wright brothers?”

  He scratched at a spot next to his bulbous nose and gave me a little smile. “Same name, different outfit. This one is a local gang of thugs who the authorities believe has been involved in a number of high-dollar heists over the last few years. Richard Wright is their leader. He goes by Rick. His younger brother, a hothead piece of shit named Eddie, is his second. I’d peg him as the shooter. Far as I know, Rick’s not violent, just a criminal. Eddie, well, let’s just say he doesn’t have much respect for anything, not even a human life. There are three or four others in the gang at any given time. They’ll steal anything they can sell for big money on the black market. Truckloads of cigarettes or booze, a shipping container full of flat panel TVs. Word is they’ve even hit a couple of armored cars recently. They seem to be ratcheting up their game, going for higher scores. You name it, these guys have probably stolen it.”

  I listened quietly, taking mental notes. I wondered if Rick or Eddie Wright had a silver tooth in the front.

  I asked, “Why aren’t they in jail?”

  “Eddie has been in jail on and off for years,” he said. “But it’s not so easy to catch and convict guys like this. Especially Rick Wright. He’s a smart guy, just working the wrong side of the law.”

  I folded my hands together and rested my chin on them. “So, the authorities think these Wright Brothers killed the guy behind the counter because he was talking to the police, and Brent just happened to get in the way.”

  He gave me sad look and shrugged his bushy eyebrows. “Yes, ma’am, apparently so. I’m afraid your fiancé was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  I took a deep breath and held it for a moment. I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t going to cry. My heart was beating at a normal rhythm. All the crying was behind me now. I just wanted to know everything he had to say about the men I was going to kill.

  “Tell me everything you now about the Wright Brothers.”

  He stared into my eyes for a moment. “Miss Duval, if you’re thinking about doing something rash, I have to recommend that you get such thoughts out of your head. These are not men you want to mess with.”

  I set the three hundred dollars on the table, then reached into my purse and brought out five more bills. I counted the money out in front of him, then sat back with my arms folded over my breasts.

  He stared at the money for a moment, then blew out a long breath and scooped it up.

  “Give me your email address,” he said. “I’ll forward you everything I know.”

  SANDY

  I gave Mr. Beamon my email address and left him to count his money and drink his coffee. It was a warm summer’s day. Too bad I couldn’t enjoy it.

  I slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses as I walked into the parking lot toward my car (yes, I’m still driving my decrepit Taurus for now). The door opened with a squeak and I started to get in, but something made me look back toward the strip mall.

  There was a hair salon two doors down from the coffee shop, Glamor Cuts, right next to a jewelry store that had a crown on the sign. I stared at the sign for a moment, my eyes waiting for my brain to tell my feet what to do.

  “Yes,” I said, closing the car door and locking it with the key since the electronic fob thingy hadn’t worked in years. I went inside the hair salon and told the girl behind the counter what I wanted. She asked if I was sure. I said I wouldn’t have asked for it if I wasn’t sure.

  I’d worn my blond hair long my entire life, usually pulled back into a tight ponytail or blown out to cascade over my shoulders. For my wedding, I was going to do long braids and have them pinned into swirls atop my head.

  My hair was long and blonde and in a tight ponytail when I went into Glamor Cuts.

  An hour later, I emerged with jet-black hair cut into a messy shag that barely reached my collar.

  I’d had my eyebrows dyed the same color as my hair.

  I got in the car and adjusted the rearview mirror to look at myself. I barely recognized the girl staring back at me.

  That was a good thing because she would not have been able to handle what I was about to do.

  RICK

  One of my legitimate businesses, at least according to the IRS, was a dive bar tucked in an alley off 8th Street called Dick’s Place. I’d bought the place from a guy named Dick (duh) three years ago and had never bothered to change the buzzing neon sign that hung over the front door.

  Dick’s was in a rough part of town, one of those dark, musky places with low lighting, a lone pool table that leaned to one corner, and a dartboard with three darts with broken tips. It was the kind of place upstanding citizens wouldn’t dare set foot in for fear of getting their asses kicked or catching some disease from a dirty glass.

  That said, Dick’s did a steady business, catering to the underbelly of society: low-life’s, crackheads, and drunks, worn out hookers and johns, petty criminals and wannabe gangsters.

  Dick�
�s did not discriminate. If you had money to spend, we had watered-down shots and beer to serve.

  Dick’s also had a strict no-bullshit policy.

  Start any kind of bullshit inside Dick’s and you had to answer to me, and nobody wanted to do that; at least nobody who knew me.

  I typically held court with my crew at Dick’s in a little curtained-off back room that had just enough space for a round table and six chairs.

  We sat around and drank, shot the shit, played cards. It was forbidden to talk shop at Dick’s because I took for granted that the place was bugged.

  The local cops and the feds had been on my ass for as long as I could remember. Members of my crew had been locked up for crimes that had nothing to do with me and none of them had ever flipped on me. They knew what would happen if they ratted out The Wright Brothers. No cop or fed would be able to protect them, Eddie would see to that.

  Rick Wright had never spent a single day in jail and I planned to keep it that way, though I knew my freedom was directly tied to the intelligence and loyalty of those around me. That’s why I kept my inner circle small, consisting of only those few guys who had proven to me in the past that I could trust them completely.

  I knew that it would take just one asshole with a big mouth to sink the ship I was captaining, so I kept the crew small and under my thumb. They didn’t do anything without me knowing about it or giving it my blessing. Although Eddie sometimes went rogue and had to be put back in line, the rest of the crew were as loyal and obedient as a pack of wolves.

  That said, I was getting tired of being the leader of the pack.

  I was tired of looking over my shoulder and sleeping with a gun under my pillow at night.

  I had a plan that would get me out of this/ life soon.

  One more big score and it was bye-bye Rick Wright.

  You’ll never see this good-looking son of a bitch again.

  Rick Wright was going to become a motherfucking ghost.

  * * *

  “Holy fucking shit, have you guys seen the bitch sitting at the end of the bar?”

  I looked up from the lousy poker hand Eddie had dealt me to see Fats, the fattest guy on the crew (duh), standing in the doorway grabbing his crotch. He grunted like a pig in the mud. “Man oh man, what I’d do to that sweet ass bitch.”