Fight Dirty

by CJ Lyons

  “You?” Deidre gasped in confusion.

  “Me. Do you know who my real father is? I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Clinton Caine.”

  Deidre looked puzzled. Seven years with no contact with the outside world, Morgan reminded herself. That was okay; Deidre wasn’t her target. Benjamin was—and he took the bait, eyes wide, mouth gulping open and shut again like a goldfish.

  He threw his hands into the air. “Thank you, Lord, for this opportunity to redeem this sinner.” He smiled as if accepting a gift from heaven above, then turned to Morgan. “Daughter of Eve, you carry the greatest sin of all. I can’t risk you carrying the serpent’s venom to the innocents of the world beyond.”

  “It’s okay, Deidre,” Morgan said in the same low, hypnotic tone she’d been using on the Rev. “Everything’s okay. I understand now. I need my sins purged. I’m ready.” She dropped her voice and turned her head so the Rev wouldn’t hear. “Now’s your chance. Go. Save Micah and the others. And your baby.” She nodded to Deidre’s belly.

  Without waiting for Deidre’s response, Morgan faced the Reverend and did the one thing she never dreamed she’d ever do. She knelt and raised her hands in supplication. “Please, Reverend Benjamin. There’s no time. Please save me. Cleanse my soul. Erase my sins.”

  A shiver raced down her spine. His smile was exactly the same as her father’s when he caught a particularly juicy fish, one who would pleasure him for a long, long time.

  “With his house being closer, Greene has a twenty-minute head start on us,” Andre said as Jenna drove them out of the city. Andre tried calling Robert Greene again. So far, no luck. Greene, like Morgan, had gone radio silent.

  Leaving Andre with a bad feeling. A nervous itch, like he used to get before going into battle.

  “What makes you think that Greene getting there first is a bad thing?” Jenna countered. “Doesn’t that mean the cavalry is arriving faster to save poor defenseless Morgan?”

  Andre didn’t take the bait. They both knew Morgan could be in trouble. He gave up on Greene and switched to monitoring the transmitters Morgan had planted. Nothing but silence from the one and normal background noise from the other.

  His phone rang again, the sound shrill against the hum of the highway beneath their tires. He answered and put it on speaker. “Morgan?”

  “No. It’s Nick.” The psychologist’s voice was strained. “Caren tried to kill herself. An overdose.”

  “Shit. Is she okay?”

  “The paramedics think so. But that’s not why I called.”

  “What?”

  “While I was dealing with her, Robert took off.”

  “Morgan called him; he went to get her out of ReNew.”

  “I don’t think so. Andre, he had a gun.”

  Andre’s itch disappeared. No time for worry when there was an objective to achieve. “We’re on it.”

  Jenna gunned the engine, although Andre knew there was no way they’d make it in time. He called 911, but the ReNew compound was on the far edge of the county sheriff’s territory; the dispatcher estimated that it would be at least twenty minutes to get a car there—about the same time it would take Jenna and Andre.

  Until then Morgan was on her own.

  CHAPTER 43

  The Rev smiled down at Morgan, his eyes aglow with desire.

  Morgan played into his need. “I’m the biggest sinner you’ll ever meet,” she said, talking to him as if they were the only two people in the universe. A universe defined by his need.

  “All that crap I told you earlier? Nothing compared to the real truth.” She leaned forward, the Rev mirroring her movements. “Make me bleed, suffer for my sins. Purge me of this evil. Ask me how many people I’ve killed. I’ll confess everything, but only to you.”

  The Rev’s eyes narrowed, and his head bobbed like a cobra getting ready to strike. “You.” He didn’t use Deidre’s name; she was nothing to him, not compared to the promise of extracting Morgan’s confession. “Put her in the cuffs. Make sure they’re tight.”

  Morgan allowed Deidre to maneuver her onto the kneeler and stretch her arms overhead, locking one manacle around her left wrist. Deidre was taller than her, leaving the second cuff beyond Morgan’s reach. At least it would appear that way to the Rev.

  Impatiently, he pushed Deidre out of the way. “One’s good enough.”

  He ran his hand through Morgan’s hair, down her neck, his fingers wrapping around her flesh. Not tight enough to choke her, simply a reminder of who was in control here. “I’m going to make you repent.”

  Then, finally, the tell she’d been watching for. A furtive brush of his hand against his crotch. She had him where she wanted him.

  Morgan knew her role as a fish required her to act afraid, jiggle her chains, maybe sob or scream in fear. This man was driven by a need for power, to decimate his prey mentally and, in Deidre’s case, physically, until they obeyed his every command.

  A need Morgan was uniquely prepared to exploit.

  Measuring the Rev’s attention—she needed all of it, if this was going to work—she settled for an enticing whisper. “I’ll tell you everything,” she promised him. “But are you certain you want a witness?”

  He jerked as if remembering Deidre’s presence for the first time. “You’re excused,” he told her. “Go, now.”

  Deidre moved in a half bow, half curtsy, and left. But not before meeting Morgan’s gaze and giving her a quick nod. Micah would be safe, she knew.

  Too bad she wasn’t as sure about herself. Not with the gleam that lit the Rev’s face as he trailed his fingers across the torture instruments aligned on the table. He smiled and paused, finally reaching for the knife.

  He twisted the blade so it glinted in the bright lights, preening for the cameras. Then he held it before her face, smiling when she responded with an expression mimicking fear. He sidled behind her, tracing the edge of the knife down her cheek, along her neck, back to her spine.

  She held still, waiting. He’d want to take his time, but once stupid emotions and hormones took control, things became unpredictable. It was one of her father’s greatest failings, his inability to maintain control. Sometimes the kill was over so fast, as if he was caught in a frenzied blood fever, that he’d rage all the more because he had no chance to savor it.

  The Rev’s breath came hot and fast on the back of her neck as he sliced Morgan’s top down the back so it fell away, leaving her skin bare except for her bra. Then he returned to the table and exchanged the knife for a leather flail.

  The first lash hit Morgan like a dozen hot needles burrowing beneath her skin. Not too bad, she thought, biting her lip against her gasp. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of showing any pain—if she did, this would all be over too soon, and the whole idea was to buy enough time for the cavalry to arrive. She couldn’t wait until they got the video from her glasses and the cameras into the hands of the authorities. The Rev better enjoy this, his last dance, because if she had her way, he’d spend the rest of his life locked up with men like her father.

  Another strike, this one rocking her body against the chain that held her in place. Morgan grabbed the manacle with her free right hand, masking the move to look like a desperate attempt to stabilize herself. The Rev paused, his fingers caressing the welts he’d just raised.

  “We can do better than that.” He switched from the first flail to one constructed with strands of barbwire woven into the leather. He struck her again, this time pausing before yanking the flail back, all the barbs embedded in Morgan’s skin first digging in deeper, then ripping through her flesh as he pulled them free.

  Harder to keep from screaming, but Morgan somehow managed. Pride more than anything—or maybe, in her own way, she was just as crazy as he was. She twisted her pain into a cackle of derision. “That all you got?”

  In response, he struck again,
viciously wrenching the barbed hooks as he pulled them free. Morgan felt warm liquid streaming down her back, knew it was her own blood. Good. Blood would keep him happy and distracted. Making this a simple waiting game.

  As the Rev focused on the best way to make her suffer, she inched the thin blade of her pick from between the fingers of her right hand and into the manacle’s lock. The filleting knife would be within easy reach as soon as she was free.

  The image of that knife protruding from the Rev’s throat kept the pain at bay as he struck again.

  “BreeAnna, she didn’t break either, did she?” Morgan asked. “Is that why you killed her?”

  Another blow rocked Morgan’s body. If she wanted, she could kick out at the Rev, knock him to the ground. But then he’d just get up, madder than ever, and she’d risk dropping her lock pick, so why bother?

  “Not me. Wish I had. That bitch—a little more time and I would have had her. Just like all the others.” He punctuated his words with more blows. Morgan lost count, focused instead on her lock pick. It was tricky work with each strike spinning her body one way or the other, but she’d practiced a lot—she could even pick law enforcement handcuffs with her hands behind her back. Which made it all the more frustrating that these stupid kink-shop-bought manacles were being so stubborn.

  “Why don’t you have sex with them? All those children in your control,” she taunted, hoping to distract him long enough that she could brace her body and finish with the lock. “You can’t, can you? Only with Deidre? Or is this as close to sex as you get?”

  The next blow landed so hard the Rev had to leverage his weight against the embedded barbs to tear them free—and along with them, a good portion of Morgan’s skin. Pound of flesh, she thought with giddy abandon. Was that blood loss or endorphins kicking in?

  Focus. Buy time—which meant keeping his attention on her without getting him so angry that he killed her. Fine balancing act. But she had learned from a master. Her father.

  Another blow, this one spinning her around to face the Rev, her arms caught in the twisted chains overhead. The lock pick slipped, and she had to squeeze her hand into a fist to keep it from dropping.

  The flail whipped across her exposed belly, once, twice, leaving ribbons of blood in its wake.

  “You know Deidre is pregnant, right? She’s trying to escape. Is that because she loves you and wants to be with you? Or because she knows you’ll kill the baby before you give up your little fun and games?”

  “Satan’s whore!” he screamed, his face turning dark red. She hoped he wasn’t having a stroke—it would deprive her of fun once she got free. Carefully, she twisted the lock pick back between her fingers and into the manacle. “You lie! Confess and repent!”

  Morgan’s laughter crackled between them. He really was funny—no comparison at all to her father. Once started, she couldn’t stop; flashes of all the blood and screams and death gurgles her father had created sped through her mind like a warped highlights reel. The Rev was a pathetic, broken toy of a man beside Clinton Caine.

  The more she laughed, the angrier the Rev got. He spun to the table, searching for a new and better weapon, so furious that he crashed into it, toppling it over. Morgan was suffused with hilarity as he scrambled, hands and feet on the floor, butt in the air, until finally he stood, holding the knife before him.

  He stumbled toward her, his gaze fixed on hers, arm raised.

  A piercing alarm shrieked through the air, stopping him midstrike. A killing strike if the gleam in his eyes said anything. He whirled to the door to the student area. Smoke poured through the cracks around the door frame.

  The Rev squinted at her for a moment, then stepped away. He crossed over to the door and opened it. More smoke roiled through, making Morgan gag.

  He glanced at the knife in his hand, then out to the blaze that filled the hallway beyond. And then he smiled. “God always has an answer.” He turned to Morgan. “Burn in hell, bitch.”

  He raced out the main doors on the opposite side of the chapel, away from the fire.

  Morgan braced her feet against the kneeler, straining to see through the smoke that surrounded her. Her eyes watered; her fingers were numb as she fumbled with the lock. C’mon, c’mon. Flames now twisted along the polished wood of the doorway, climbing up the walls to the ceiling, marching toward her.

  CHAPTER 44

  There was no “lights out” in the Iso hallway. Here, the lights stayed on day and night. Micah often wondered if Deidre had chosen to do that to protect the No Names or the Red Shirts guarding them. Either group could have used darkness to their advantage.

  Or maybe she just loved messing with people’s heads. Keeping them awake until they didn’t know if it was day or night.

  Whatever her reasons, Micah didn’t mind. He actually liked Iso—the chance to sleep alone without worrying about rolling over onto someone else. And the quiet. You couldn’t beat the quiet. No snoring, no coughing, no crying.

  Just him and his guard. And the light beaming ruby red through his eyelids. He painted with the light, turned it into a canvas of alizarin crimson and naphthol scarlet.

  He’d just finished a gleaming portrait of the new girl, Morgan, when a shrill alarm pierced the silence. Micah jerked upright, then sprang to his feet. Somehow in the almost-sleep driftwood of his mind, Morgan and the alarm went together. Shit. He never should have let them take her away—even if it had been her idea. She had no clue what the Hole was like or how unstable Nelson was. The guy had tried to burn down his own house with his little brother inside—rich parents helped him avoid any criminal charges, but he’d ended up in here until his eighteenth birthday.

  The alarm kept wailing, its noise worse than a dentist’s drill. Micah broke all the rules, crossing the threshold of the Iso room and approaching the Red Shirt guarding him. A kid named Joey who took orders just fine but had no clue otherwise. Joey hadn’t even gotten up from his chair, although he was busy swinging his head up and down the hallway, as if expecting divine guidance to come running up to him.

  “It’s a fire, you idiot,” Micah yelled over the din.

  “Can’t be,” Joey yelled back, still not abandoning his comfy chair. “If it was, the sprinklers would have come on.”

  “How do you even know they work?” Micah said. Tendrils of smoke drifted down between the ceiling tiles and light fixtures above them. No flames, but who knew how long they had. “Come on, we need to help get the others out.”

  “My orders are to stay here.”

  “Screw your orders. Nelson locked Morgan in the Hole. We have to let her out.”

  More smoke snaked along the ceiling overhead. Joey stared at it in confusion. Micah grabbed his shirt collar and jerked him to his feet.

  That’s when it hit him. He’d been so proud, not breaking, not bowing to Deidre’s will. But she had won. Because he didn’t need permission to do the right thing, he just needed to do it.

  He let go of Joey, who immediately scrambled toward the commons room and the exit. Micah turned the other way, toward Morgan. The smoke was thicker the closer he got to the janitor’s closet where she was locked up, but he didn’t let that slow him.

  From the smoke at the end of the hall a figure emerged. Not Morgan. Nelson. Barreling toward Micah with raw hatred fueling his charge.

  “You bastard,” Nelson shouted. “This is for what you did to Deidre!”

  Before Micah could respond, Nelson slammed into him so hard, Micah’s head cracked against the wall and his vision sparked with pain.

  “You raped her.” Nelson aimed a wild punch at Micah. It connected with the side of his face, but Micah was able to duck so that it was only a glancing blow. Still hurt like hell, but that made for good motivation.

  “You’re crazy. I never touched her,” Micah said as he shoved Nelson off him and moved to put room between them.

  “Did you
even know she’s pregnant? Do you even care?” Nelson charged again. Micah realized the larger boy was trying to herd him past the janitor’s closet and down the hall. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw why.

  The room at the end of the hall, beside the door leading to the chapel, was the source of the smoke. Not just smoke. Bright, iridescent flames reaching out toward him.

  The fire was distracted by an overhead air vent, but that didn’t stop the smoke, which was far more deadly. Where the hell were the sprinklers? Morgan wondered as she kept trying to pick the lock.

  Obviously not working, came a calm reply. Despite the smoke choking her every breath, her entire body went still. She craned her neck back and squinted at the manacle restraining her. Idiot. Sex-shop toy—the lock wasn’t real, had no tumblers. She gave up on the lock picks and instead felt around the housing until she found the release catch. Of course. The Rev would have no patience for real locks and keys.

  The manacle snapped open, and she fell to the ground. Her left hand was numb from being restrained overhead, her shirt fell open in the back, her stomach and back were smeared with her own blood, and she could barely see through the thick smoke that had turned from grey to black.

  Still, she didn’t panic. Instead she oriented herself to the main doors, crouched low to the floor where the air was still clear, and crossed the space between her and freedom. A few seconds later, she pushed through the doors, shoved them shut again before the smoke or fire could escape, and sat down hard, focusing on the simple act of inhaling.

  Her reprieve was short-lived as smoke began filling the corridor leading from the computer room. She pushed to her feet and began down the hall, past Chapman’s living quarters, smoke billowing behind her, pushing her faster.

  She reached the intersection with the administration corridor and sped around the corner, smoke choking her from every direction. She quickly oriented herself. There was Benjamin’s so-called therapy room. A few steps farther and she’d reach the corridor leading to the main exit.