by Callie Hart
I stare doubtfully at the paper, which Lacey’s currently waving in front of my face. “That’s just numbers, Lacey.” I’m screaming in my head, though. Compound? Fucking compound? That sounds dangerous and frankly very scary. And why the hell is it that Lacey knows where he’s gone but I didn’t get told? It’s an irrational, stupid thing to be pissed about given that she’s been living with him for six months now, and they clearly share a strong tie, but still. It sucks, and I’m clearly an irrational creature. I push all of that aside, trying to focus on the task at hand.
Lacey tuts, leaning the paper against her knee to quickly insert some commas, and suddenly the information on the paper is no longer a string of random numbers but coordinates. “It’s out in the desert,” she tells me, handing over the paper.
“Who gave you this? How do we know this is the right place?”
“Because Zee told me about this place a few times. Never gave me specifics, but my old boyfriend runs in the same circles as Zeth. Kind of. He knew where I was talking about right away.”
“Oh god, Lacey.” I scan the coordinates over and over as if to make sure they’re actually real. “There are probably a thousand of these places in L.A. This can’t be the only one out in the desert.”
“Not that charge fifteen thousand dollars a night and are invite only,” Lacey argues. This girl standing before me is an entirely different creature to the panicking girl who smashed a rock over a guy’s head last night. She’s self-possessed and a light has sparked from somewhere in her eyes, replacing the dull look of anxiety. She’s barely recognizable. Even her voice is stronger. Firm, in fact.
“That’s the right address, Sloane.” She nods her head to cement the truth of this statement. “Zeth will be there. Don’t worry. We’re gonna go get him and he’s gonna take us the hell away from the state of California and everything bad that ever happened in it.”
****
It’s probably a bad idea renting a car under my own name, but I don’t really have a choice. Perhaps I should try and bribe the clerk to change my details, but these places aren’t exactly like that. The only companies I can find are corporate ones that want to photocopy your ID and make you fill out sheets and sheets of paperwork, and besides, the kid behind the desk doesn’t look smart enough to actually understand that I’m trying to bribe him in the first place. I go for something that’s not going to break down on me before we even hit California, and then we get moving.
We’re on the road after that. I feel hideous. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it; Lacey is practically happy as I drive in distressed silence for the next ten hours. I’m distressed because I’ve decided that I can’t take her with me to this place. Zeth wanted to keep both me and his sister (even if he doesn’t know that’s who she is) away from the compound, and he’s right. There’s no way I can in good conscience expose her to that kind of environment; she’s too damaged, and God knows what will happen to her if I put her in a position where technically anything could happen to her. Technically anything could happen to me as well, but I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking about going in there, screaming at Zeth for completely fucking up my life in the space of a few short weeks, notwithstanding the events that took place in a hotel room two years ago, grabbing my sister and then getting the fuck out of there. In my head, there’s no room for deviations from this plan. Even the prospect of the slightest hiccup might persuade me to stay with Lacey where I intend on leaving her, where we could wait it out and spend some time figuring out another way of reaching Zeth.
Which brings me to where I’m taking Lacey. Where I plan on leaving her while I pursue this undeniably nutso plan. As night begins to fall, Lacey doesn’t even bat an eyelash when we pull into Dana Point, at least an hour from our destination to the northeast. She knows the compound is in the desert, so she also has to know that this is not the direction we need to be heading in to find Zeth. I can barely remember the route to the quaint three-bedroom ranch-style house, painted a dusky orange, set back from the oceanfront—in my defense, I’ve only visited here three or four times. With my degree and then my internship and residency, I haven’t had much time for visiting. I pull into the driveway, silencing the engine, still waiting for Lacey to realize that we’re not where we’re supposed to be. She just sits on the back seat, comfortably staring out of the window even though we’re now stationary, not even blinking.
I get out of the car, wondering what she’ll do. She follows after me without a word, bringing with her the small bundle of clothes I bought for her from Wal-Mart. “You alright, Lace?” I ask carefully. She just looks at me, a mild look of surprise on her face.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
I can think of a thousand reasons, the most recent being the fact that she may have killed a man yesterday with a sizeable lump of sandstone. I keep my mouth shut, though. Instead, I walk up the path to the pale orange house and knock carefully on the front door. Flushes of nervous energy roll through me like waves. God knows how this is all going to play out. If I’m lucky, it’ll go well. If not, I’ll be searching for somewhere else to leave Zeth’s sister. Lacey joins me, giving me a pleasant smile. The front door opens and the eyes of the tall, thin man on the other side flash with sudden surprise and then happiness. He looks older than the last time I saw him. Tired.
“Sloane!” His smile grows, like he’s experiencing some quiet joy at the simple act of witnessing my disheveled state on his doorstep. I give him a weak smile in return.
“Hey.” I take a deep breath. “Hey, Dad.”
******
My burner’s going nuts in my pocket. There are only five people who have that number, so I know it’s fucking important. But can I answer it? No, I fucking can’t answer it because I’m stuck in a compound filled with angry, suspicious Mexicans who look like they’re really itching to beat the living shit out of me. I’m not an idiot. I know I’m an arrogant son of a bitch, but there’s a reason for my gigantic ego: I’ve fucking earned it. I’m not just a violent person. I am a trained violent person, and when I feel the need I can successfully hurt an awful lot of people in a very short space of time, and in many different ways. But even I know I’m not in a position to do that now. Three reasons: Number one, there are over fifteen guys with guns milling around the compound right now. Number two, those guns aren’t just guns. They’re semi-autos. And number three, I’m fucking wasted.
When Julio said he wanted to have a few beers in the sunshine, he probably should have said he wanted to drink a case of beer in the sunshine, alongside three bottles of Cuban rum, and carry on drinking until the sun went down and neither of us could stand up straight. My only reprieve is the fact that Julio is as shitfaced as I am and the sweating bastard didn’t end up calling the girls out. No way he could get his dick hard with this much Havana running through his veins. I probably could if I tried really hard, but fucked if I want to. All I can think about right now is Sloane. And also how much I want to kill motherfucking Callum for not watching the house like I told him to.
Occasionally Michael’s awkward predicament crops up through the fog of my mind, but I know the guy. He can take a beating when he needs to, sometimes even enjoys one; but that’s a different story. By the time I figure out where they’re keeping him in the morning he may have a few broken ribs and a couple of black eyes, but Julio won’t allow his men to do too much damage. Not right away. They’ll wanna get information out of him first, and it’ll take a while for them to realize the stubborn bastard won’t give it. Suffice it to say I’ll owe him a serious pay raise after this.
“You and me, we—we are fucking dogs, right?” Julio hiccups. It takes a lot of effort to swivel my eyes toward the great lump of a man, half reclined, half slumped on his lounger.
“Speak for yourself, man,” I growl.
This makes him laugh. “You fucking are. And I am, too! There’s…there’s nothing wrong with knowing what you are. You were born as shit, and so was I. But just because…” He
pauses, pressing his balled-up fist into his sternum. He waits a minute, eyes watering, and then carries on. “Just because we were born as shit doesn’t mean we still live that way. We’re piranhas swimming amongst the other fish, looking like other fish until we’re provoked. And then we’re the nastiest fucking fish imaginable. We’re the kings of fish! Fucking dog king fish!”
I pull a grimace at that. “I’m not a piranha. I’m a great white.”
“Whatever, man. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You seen those bastards strip—” Another bout of heart burn. “You seen those bastards strip flesh from the bone? They’re fascinating. A nightmare.”
I sling back another shot of Havana, wincing. “Piranhas live in shoals. They’re group…fish. Great whites are the badasses of the sea. Don’t catch them hanging around in groups. They’re like…lone wolves.”
Julio tips his head back and howls, his voice mimicking the call of a wolf. “Well, I don’t know what animals we are anymore, cabrón. All I know is that you and I are one and the same. We clawed our way out of the dirty shit we were born into and carved ourselves out a kingdom. My kingdom’s slightly bigger than yours, though, huh?”
I nod ruefully, tipping my glass to him. “Uh-huh. And you don’t answer to anyone, too, right?”
Julio shakily pours some more alcohol into both our empty shot glasses, grinning at me. He suppresses his smile as he says, “From what I hear, you’re no longer taking orders, either.” He offers me the alcohol, his eyes somehow a little more lucid than they had been a minute ago.
Well fuck me. His comment has an instant sobering effect. He does know about me running out on Charlie? I clear my throat. There’s a lot riding on what comes out of my mouth next. “Charlie’s a major pain in the ass sometimes, Julio. We’re on a break. I’m sure he’ll have forgotten…,”I wave my arm drunkenly in the air in the general direction of Seattle, “…all about it by next week.” Better to make it sound like he’s mad at me than the other way around. Julio might harbor some sympathy for a payroll guy who’s pissed off a boss like Charlie. A payroll guy who’s gone rogue and decided to take certain matters into his own hands will probably just piss him off. All of these thoughts take shape slowly through a thick haze of alcohol.
“I see.” Julio tosses back his drink and reaches across the table between us, placing a firm hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard. “I defended you today, Zeth. I chose to give you the benefit of the doubt where my men would have had me kill you instead. I’ve done this because we’re fucking dogs, you and me, and when I look at you I see…me.”
Yeah, you wish, asshole. Through the booze, this strikes me as funny, given that I’m twelve inches taller, ten years younger, and a hundred pounds lighter than the sack of man-jello sprawled in front of me. I suppose it’s time to thank him now? I suck in oxygen, willing the fresh air to help me find the right words to convey some self-effacing gratitude. Sadly all I come up with is, “Thanks.”
He offers a one-shouldered shrug. “Don’t prove me wro—”
It’s not heartburn that cuts him off this time. It’s gunfire. Relatively silent a moment ago, the compound is suddenly alive with noise and shouting and the crack, crack, crack of weapons fired. Julio, somehow, heaves himself to his feet.
“Singa la puta!” he roars, throwing his glass on the floor.
I get to my feet, adrenalin punching through the alcohol. This is not fucking good. It still feels like I’m on a goddamn merry-go-round as I follow after the lumbering form of Julio as he makes his way toward the front entrance of the villa. Outside, all of Julio’s guards are bristling, directing their weapons through the fence toward the burning headlights of a vehicle on the other side.
“Back in the fucking car, puta!”
“Shoot!” one of the guards yells. “Fucking shoot!”
Julio takes in the scene through outraged, bloodshot eyes. “What the hell is going on?” His yelled demand does little to calm the gunmen, although one of them does answer him.
“Some bitch rolled up out of the desert. She’s a fucking cop!”
A spike of fury roils up from my belly. A cop? It can only be that fucking DEA woman, Lowell. That’s probably why my burner’s been ringing off the hook the whole afternoon—Rick trying to tell me she was coming. For a second I almost want the guards to have their way. But then the figure standing in front of the car shifts, a slim body falling into silhouette, and I see that I was wrong. It’s not Lowell, or any other cop. It’s a doctor.
It’s fucking Sloane.
I rage past the gunmen, shoving them roughly out of the way as I charge toward the woman on the other side of the railed gate. All I can see is the startled, petrified look on her face as she stands locked in place, hands outstretched, as if to ward off the bullets with the palms of her fucking hands. I have to stop when I get to the gate—it’s locked. I let out a roar so loud I can feel it tearing at my throat. I smash my fist into the thing, shaking so violently I can barely stand up straight.
“WHAT THE FUCK!” I yell directly into her pale, shocked face. I can’t…I can’t even think through the anger. My hand feels like someone just laid into it with a hammer, but that doesn’t even register. She shouldn’t be here. I made plans, made sure she wouldn’t find herself caught up in all this. Wouldn’t be in any danger. She. Should. Not. Be. Here. “What the fuck?” I ask again, this time growling it under my breath, trying to get a handle on myself. She starts shaking too, hands trembling by her sides.
“They could have…they could have shot you,” she whimpers.
I cast a distracted look over my shoulder, vaguely registering the fifteen M16s now pointed at my back. Julio’s dark bulk wades forward through the sea of muzzles and magazines, one eyebrow raised so high it almost hits his receding hairline.
“Someone you know, Zee?” He looks pissed.
“Yeah.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. Think! “This is—this is Beth. She’s—my plus one.” I turn back to her, trying to light her on fire with the depths of my anger. “And she should not be here.”
“You have never been more correct,” he replies. His voice is clear of the alcohol now, just like mine. Funny how severe anger can have that effect. I’m angry with Sloane, and Julio is furious with me. “You gave a whore fucking directions to this place?”
Bile churns in my stomach at the title he just gave Sloane, but I can’t say a word about it. I pretty much just called her that myself when I said she was my plus one. I want to plant my fist firmly in his face, but instead I say, “Sorry, Julio. My mistake. I was supposed to pick her up, remember. She must have come looking for me.”
Julio shakes his head at me, mouth hanging open. “That was very inconsiderate, mi amigo.”
“I know. Apologies, brother. I didn’t think.” There is no way he’s gonna fucking buy this. He knows I’m not that completely, utterly, astonishingly stupid. You don’t give this address to anyone. No one. Especially not some girl you wanna fuck. You blindfold them and lead them here in the trunk of a fucking car, making sure to drive in circles to confuse the hell out of them first.
Andreas appears at Julio’s shoulder, tense with fury. Jaw working, Julio looks like he’s come to some sort of decision. “Get her inside,” he snaps, staring straight through me. “Bring her to the study. It’s only polite that you introduce me to your friend.”
“Julio!”
Andreas’s objection is pre-empted and cut short with a raised hand from his boss. Julio turns and stabs a finger into the other man’s chest. “Open the fucking gate, Andreas,” he hisses.
Andreas looks like he’s been sucker punched. He does as he’s told though, and unlocks the gate. As soon it’s open I shove through and grab Sloane by the arm, pulling her back toward the dusty beast of a car she’s rolled up in.
“I’ll drive her in,” I snap over my shoulder. And then to her, more quietly, “Get in the goddamn car.” She’s white as a sheet but she does as she’s told. I get in the driver’s side, allowing myse
lf the luxury of slamming my fist against the wheel before I start the engine. Sloane jumps, gasping.
“You need to let me—” she begins. I gun the engine so loud it screams. She takes the hint and shuts the hell up.
“I don’t need to let you anything, Sloane,” I growl. “Listen to me. Listen fucking good. You’re here as my guest to attend a meeting in two days’ time. You’re a stupid, airhead slut who knows nothing about my business dealings, Charlie, your sister, or Lacey. The only thing you do know is that you like fucking me. You got that?” She opens her mouth, indignation showing itself in the sharp flash of her eyes. Before she can breathe a word, I drive the car into the compound and slam the thing into park beside the Camaro. The others haven’t made their way to the car yet, but they’re only a few seconds away.
“I’m fucking serious, Sloane. You want either of us to get out of here alive, you’ll do as I tell you.”
“I’m not some whore—” she starts.
“Yes, you are. Right now you’re worse than a whore because you’re not even getting paid for this. You’re doing it for the thrill alone. You hear me? If you don’t do this, we’re both fucking dead.”
Her cheeks turn a pasty grey color. “Alright.”
I barely get a chance to breathe a sigh of relief. The doors to the car open from the outside and Julio stands waiting for me on the driver’s side, mouth drawn into a tight line. Andreas grabs hold of Sloane, digging his fingers roughly into the skin of her arm, pulling her forcefully out of the passenger side. His dirty fucking hands are all over her as she straightens up. Legs, hips, stomach, arms. He pats her down, palms purposefully grazing her breasts. A red light descends over my vision. Oh hell, no, he did not just…
He did. He fucking did!
That.
Is.
Fucking.
It.
I leap out and charge around the other side of the car, finally boiling over. “You did not just fucking drag that girl out of the car!” I roar. Andreas’s hand reaches for his gun, but he doesn’t move quick enough. My fist makes a satisfying crunch as it impacts with his cheekbone. Shouts in Spanish go up all around us as bodies crowd in. No good though; Andreas drops like a sack of rocks and I’m on top of him, fists raining down left, right, left, right, hitting him as hard as I can. I’m gripped by an urge so powerful that I’m fucked if I care to do anything other than obey it. Hands tear at me, but they don’t do any good. I’m too intent on pounding Andreas’s head into the dirt.