Into the Shadows

by Carolyn Crane

  They all piled in to the van, asking questions in too-fast Russian. One kept looking out the window, freaked that they could be caught.

  “Waiting,” Nadia said, pointing to the dark building. “For our friends.” She started up the van.

  The women conferred with each other in low tones, seeming not quite to trust her. She wished she understood Russian well enough to know what they were saying and to say things back, to reassure them. She caught enough to know they were getting antsy. A few wanted to just run.

  “We will wait,” Nadia said in Russian, holding up a calming hand. “Okay?”

  She was just about to pull the out the photo of Yana holding her baby self when they heard the gunshot from inside.

  Six pairs of eyes riveted to her.

  Another gunshot sounded. And then nothing.

  Nadia pulled out her live piece. They didn’t have a plan for problems at this point. The hard part was supposedly over. Had one of the guards woken up? Had there been a fourth in there?

  She needed to go back, but she couldn’t leave the women like sitting ducks.

  “Who drives?” she mimicked holding a steering wheel. The women shook their heads.

  Next idea: Lorna. She’d spoken with her an hour ago. She pulled the burner out of the glove compartment and punched in Lorna’s number. She pointed at a 7-Eleven sign in the distance. They could walk there and wait for Lorna. When Lorna answered she told her the plan—convince the women to wait for her at the 7-Eleven. Pick them up there. Lorna spoke fluent Russian.

  “A friend,” she said in Russian, shoving the phone at one of the leaders. They’d make arrangements together.

  She jumped out and ran across the ditch and the road in an arc like before, but alone this time, mind going a mile a minute. She skirted the perimeter. No sign of Richard or Blue. They had to be inside.

  She entered through the exterior door to the sweatshop area, sneaking through there and to the hall door. She listened. Nothing.

  Quietly she pulled it open.

  The hall beyond was empty, too. And dark.

  She snuck down it. Halfway down, she froze and crouched as a figure in a black coat and black face mask came out another door pulling a motionless body.

  The body was Blue. And the man pulling him wasn’t Richard. She raised her gun. Aimed.

  As if sensing her, the man dropped Blue and disappeared into the doorway behind him, then popped his head out and shot.

  Nadia was trapped. She made for the sweatshop door, but not before he got another shot off. Pain exploded across her calf muscle and she fell to the ground. She turned and got off a shot and then another, all wild. Her whole world shrank to a blur of pain.

  Another shot from behind her.

  “Cover me, dammit.” Richard.

  She shot some more. Hands grabbed her from behind and pulled her into the hot, dark mechanical room. He slammed the door and locked it and pulled her into a dark, far corner. “We’re so screwed.”

  “Who’s out there?”

  “I don’t know. Two guys in masks. They came out of nowhere. Whoever was following us,” he said. Richard cut the lower leg off her jeans with the box cutter.

  “Blue was so sure we lost them.”

  “I know,” Richard grumbled.

  “I’m hit,” she said. A totally stupid thing to say. She felt like she might be in shock.

  Richard pressed a cloth to her wound. “I know.”

  “Blue?”

  “Dead,” Richard said.

  She sucked in a breath. She’d known it, yet not.

  “But we’re okay,” he said.

  She watched him apply pressure, feeling confused. Would they die now? All she could see was Benny, needing her. His little face. His tears. “Oh, my God,” she gasped. “Oh, my God.”

  “Hey! It hurts like hell, but it’s not an artery. You need to stay clear in your head, got it?” he said. “I need you with me.”

  She nodded, but she wasn’t with him at all. She was in the black void that had opened up in her heart as it came to her that she might not see Benny ever again. What was she thinking? What was worth losing the chance to raise him? To love him? “What have I done?” she croaked, eyes and face wild with tears.

  Whap.

  Richard’s slap stung her cheek, the sound high and clean. “Do not do that.”

  She stared at him in shock.

  “Focus,” he growled, “on right now.”

  She stared, sniffling.

  “Right now,” he said.

  “Got it,” she whispered, wiping her tears. “Right now.”

  Richard helped her to a dark nook behind a metal tool cabinet. There were spider webs around. “They’re going to want to keep us alive—that’s our advantage. Now you need to stanch this blood flow. Feel how I was doing it?” He got her holding her leg and then he took her guns and checked what ammo they had.

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “Nothing for a while. They have time on their side, and they know it. They’re waiting for instructions or more guys. They may try to smoke us out. They won’t want to walk in here. They know they’ll lose at least two guys, with all these hiding places.”

  She nodded, pain clawing through her calf.

  “They want to keep us alive,” Richard said again, “but they need themselves alive more. They came in the back. I don’t know how they knew.” He got up and went over to a worktable and came back with something dull and silver. Duct tape. Scissors. He cut some fabric off her jeans.

  Her heart pounded as she realized her hands were getting bloody. Blood was still coming out. It hadn’t shattered the bone, she thought dimly, or she wouldn’t be able to walk.

  “All this blood.”

  “You’re fine.” He pressed a new cloth onto the wound and bound it with duct tape. She wanted to make a joke, but she couldn’t reach for one. Jokes seemed so far away.

  “What do we do?”

  Richard gave her a look.

  “What?”

  “Get backup.”

  “Who?”

  He raised his eyebrows. It didn’t take her long to get what he was thinking. “Are you crazy?”

  “He loves you.”

  “Hardly. Anyway, we drugged him.”

  “It’s been a few hours. We could wake him.” The tape made a throaty sound as he pulled out another strip.

  “He won’t come.” But even as she said it, she remembered Thorne’s words. Anything. The link that they had.

  “He’ll come like a pit bull,” Richard said. “Not many women have that, a man who will be like a pit bull to protect her. I don’t care what happened between you. I know what I see. Tell me you have his number.”

  She did, from when he’d left that weird message. “He hates the co-op pirates. We’re wrecking things for him.”

  “He loves you,” Richard said, digging through her fanny pack for the phone.

  How could he love her? He’d left her so easily, so cruelly. “Uh, my leg.”

  “I know.” He pulled out the phone, and started scrolling through. “Where is he in here?”

  “A message from yesterday. A 301 number.”

  He found it and called, then put it on speaker. It rang and went to voice mail.

  “Leave a message,” Richard said.

  The beep sounded. “Thorne,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry…fuck.”

  Richard made a rolling motion with his hand.

  “Richard and I are in trouble,” she continued. “We’re at the Reedsville co-op. I’m shot. I’m so sorry—we never meant to get you in trouble. It’s us doing the raids, but we have our reasons. And I’m shot.” She started to cry. She couldn’t talk anymore.

  “Two shooters,” Richard said. “We’re trapped in the mechanical room on the west side. It could be the Slaters out there, I don’t know. We’ve got a bit of ammo. I don’t think they’ll come in without backup.”

  “Hurry,” she whispered.

  Richard hung up.
“I’m calling the house. That landline in the kitchen rings pretty loud—maybe it’ll wake him up.” He punched in the number, put down the phone, and started collecting things from around the room.

  The ringtone sounded once. Twice. Three times. On and on.

  Nadia watched Richard woozily, breath syncing with the ring tones. He stowed some stuff in a dark corner on one side, and he brought her things: a lighter and an aerosol spray paint can, a handful of small bolts. A hammer. When the house phone went to voice mail, she redialed and let it ring some more.

  “Are the women out there?” he asked.

  “I connected them with Lorna. I had to get them out—”

  “Yes, good thinking.”

  “We still have the van,” she said. “I think.”

  He nodded. Still no answer on the house phone. “Maybe the rings woke him up, and he’s checking his messages now,” she said hopefully. “He’s more alert than most men,” she said. “Light sleeper.”

  “That’s what you said.” Richard rested a hand on her cheek. “I’m going to wait across the room,” he said softly. “If they burst in, our best chance is not to be together. But it means we can’t talk.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “If you start feeling weak, you need to let me know. I can’t have you passing out.”

  “Got it,” she whispered.

  “I’m going to unscrew the light bulbs. Take your shots one at a time. Remember, they want us alive.”

  She nodded, not entirely convinced. Was he just saying that to bolster her? Even she would want her killed. All the most dangerous gang members in the tri-state area wanted the co-op pirates dead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Miguel held the phone snugly to his ear out in the front office, listening to Jerrod’s orders in disbelief. It was shocking enough that the Party Princess had turned out to be the co-op pirate, along with Barbarian. And now Jerrod wanted him to send Skooge in to “pave the way” so that he could extract the girl?

  What he really meant was for him to use Skooge as cannon fodder, to sacrifice Skooge to get Barbarian—so that he, Miguel, could get the girl.

  “You don’t think that would work?” Jerrod asked.

  Miguel strolled down the hall to make sure that Skooge couldn’t hear. “The Party Princess shoots, too.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking.”

  “It wouldn’t be the most effective,” Miguel said.

  Silence on Jerrod’s end. The silence was a threat.

  God, Miguel was tired of the threats and the things he was forced to do. And so tired of waiting for somebody to kill Jerrod, but that was the only way he’d be free.

  He couldn’t kill Jerrod or he would’ve done it long ago.

  Killing or denying Jerrod wasn’t merely a death sentence for Miguel. He could handle his own death. No, people Miguel loved would die—horribly—if Miguel killed Jerrod. Jerrod had set up “insurance policies” to prevent that.

  It was worse than the devil owning your soul, when Jerrod owned you.

  Maybe Jerrod would die of natural causes.

  Riiight.

  Once, the year before, another gang had pinned down Miguel. They had been closing in, and Miguel remembered thinking that his family would finally be safe if he, Miguel, died in a gunfight. They’d be free of Jerrod’s threats. He had considered standing up and letting his body get riddled with bullets. But Skooge had risked his life to get him out, and it had meant something—this one guy, wanting Miguel to live. And what had Miguel done? Just mentored him a little.

  He tried his best not to encourage Skooge or let Jerrod see that he had a soft spot for the kid. It was more than a soft spot—Skooge was everybody he didn’t deserve and couldn’t protect. The best Miguel could do for him was to pretend not to notice his existence. And still the kid tried with him, wearing Miguel’s style of clothes; he even held a firearm like Miguel.

  Skooge would go in there if Miguel commanded it. Skooge was like that. Miguel lowered his voice—aware he was pushing it with Jerrod. “We have Barbarian and the girl cornered. Maybe tear gas—”

  “How about you go in without waiting for pussy accessories,” Jerrod said.

  “If we could do this without losing a guy. Barbarian’s a tough motherfucker, and the girl shoots.”

  “Send Skooge in to clear it and you grab the girl. Can you do that? You think the other Quartet gangs aren’t on their way? We don’t have time to fuck around. The Slaters will be there in minutes if they aren’t already.”

  “Got it,” Miguel said.

  “Bring her to me. I’m at the lake house. And steer clear of Thorne.”

  “You still think he’s involved?”

  “Oh, I know he’s involved,” Jerrod said smugly. “Just not how I thought. You let Thorne anywhere near her, and you’ll be sorry. I guarantee it.”

  Miguel stared at the phone after Jerrod hung up. No, he would not send Skooge to his death.

  Miguel had a better idea. He was going to torch the whole fucking place before Skooge got a chance to go in. Nobody would know it wasn’t an accident. Bolted and locked up in the mechanical room with bullets flying, gas lines had a way of getting broken. Miguel had done a fair share of maintenance and knew how to arrange it. He’d fill the place with natural gas, and if it didn’t blow, he’d make it blow. It would be an unfortunate explosion.

  He went out front. “We’re going in there. Orders from Jerrod,” he said.

  Skooge nodded.

  “First, though, I’m going to take a look around outside and make sure there aren’t any escape routes we don’t know about, okay?”

  Skooge nodded again.

  Yeah, he wouldn’t be sending the kid to his death. He was doing the Party Princess a favor, too. She’d be better off dead than whatever Jerrod had in store for her.

  Miguel grabbed a flashlight, and out they went.

  He had Skooge stand guard in the lot, positioning him with the truck between him and the building, just in case it blew right away. “Don’t move until I come back.”

  Miguel headed toward the side of the building, glancing briefly at the machinist’s shop across the street, a dank gymnasium of a place on the outside, but lit inside so brightly, it looked almost cozy. Blue-collar guys like the kind you’d find in that shop, they’d look at a guy like him and his fancy car and his clothes and all the women and they’d probably think he had it made.

  But they didn’t get what made them rich: they could sleep at night. Like fucking babies, they could sleep. Never the pictures of what they’d done floating in their dreams, never knowing what a person’s eyes looked like when they knew you were going to shoot the fuck out of them. Miguel would do almost anything to have come up honestly in the trades. To go home to a barren little scrub of a place and live this honest life. It was maybe twisted, to dream of a shabby little kitchen with nothing but a table and a chair. But that was his dream.

  A simple life. A hard life. An honest life.

  He headed around the side of the building and looked at the venting assemblies. There was a window high up. He pulled over a few cement blocks and got himself partway there, then he leapt, grabbing at the bottom of the window with his fingertips and pulling himself up—quietly. He needed only a glance. It wasn’t princess and Barbarian he was looking for. It was the location of the gas line.

  The lights were out in there, but the moon lit things just enough for Miguel to see how the heating plant came together.

  He eased himself down and hopped to the ground, walked three paces and took his Sig out—metal-piercing bullets were good for more than defending against vests. This part was risky. The shots could set off an explosion instantly, which is why he’d had Skooge protected. More likely, though, he’d rupture the line.

  He shot—one, two, three.

  The place would be filling up with gas. Matter of time now. Blew up before they could enter—that’s how he’d represent it to Jerrod.

  He always knew exactly w
hich of Jerrod’s orders he could disobey. That was one thing about being owned: you understood your boundaries with an almost mystical comprehension.

  He headed back. He’d stall with Skooge outside. Worse came to worse, he’d go in there and blow it himself once the gas was everywhere. At some point, even a gunshot would blow the place.

  Of course he could die, too, then, but it would be an accident. Accidental death was one of the ways Miguel could get his family out from under Jerrod’s thumb.

  Miguel could do it, if it came to that, because he was tired.

  Just so tired.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thorne flung open the freezer and stuck in his face, sucking up the cold air, trying to get his mind back to full awareness. He played the message again.

  Shot.

  Pinned down.

  The room spun. They’d drugged him. She and Richard were the co-op pirates.

  He had to get to her.

  Water.

  He slammed the door and got himself water. He wasn’t good to drive, but he’d drive all the same.

  Shot.

  Pinned down.

  But she’d been well enough to call.

  He grabbed three packets of Starbucks instant coffee and poured them down his throat, chased by water. Good enough—it would make coffee in his stomach, right?

  He threw a box of crackers into a duffel bag along with the Glock and the Sig he’d brought from the outside and grabbed the keys to the Navigator. It would still be up on the road. It seemed like forever since he’d parked it there and burst into her house. Shooting up the windows like a maniac. Honey, I’m home..

  He felt clearer out in the dawn air.

  What were they thinking? Nadia and Richard as the co-op pirates?

  He slammed the truck into gear and pulled out, racing onto the highway, still woozy.

  He told himself he needed her to survive just so he could rip into her about being the co-op pirate. Or tell her he loved her. Or something. He wasn’t thinking about it much, except that she needed to hold on.