My head can’t keep facts and figures straight. Now isn’t the time to ask it to compute a bunch of new information. I’m surprised I’m still conscious.
“They’re gonna shoot us all execution style,” Donny says from the corner of the room. “You know how these punks get. They’ll throw our bodies in the lake. That’s what they did to a handful of other Vice family enforcers they got a few weeks back.”
Miles doesn’t reply. Instead, he continues to fiddle with his handcuffs. I don’t know what he’s doing, but perhaps he’s trying to escape? But then what? I don’t even know where we are. It would be suicide to try and fight our way out. We have no firearms, and we’re in the heart of a Cobras hideout.
With a long groan of pain, Miles jerks his arm around. I want to crane my head back, but I can’t will myself to do so through the agony.
“What’re you doing?” I ask.
Miles ignores my question. He sucks in a breath through his teeth as he twists and squirms in his chair. After another grunt I feel some of the restraints get tight and then loosen.
“There,” he says through a heavy sigh. “We need to get outta here.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MILES SLIPS from the last of his restraints and stands up. I turn halfway to see him undoing the rough rope around my arms.
“How did you get out?” I ask.
His handcuffs dangle from one wrist and the other is raw and damaged. Miles squeezed his narrow hand through the metal ring, using blood as lubricant by the looks of it. That’s a difficult ordeal—I don’t know many guys who could do it without ripping off their thumb—but Miles went through the process like he had done it before.
The ropes go slack, and I take a moment to gather my strength. I don’t recover like I used to. My body screams at me—telling me to lie down and recuperate—but that’s not an option.
Before I stand, Miles walks around and gives me the once-over. With a furrowed brow he runs a hand up my neck and rubs a finger across my chin, clearing away blood. I don’t resist when he leans down and locks his mouth with mine. Now isn’t the time… but we might not get another chance. His forceful motions sting—he pulls me in deeper with a hand gripping the back of my neck—and I grimace when he pulls away.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes.
“Don’t be. I like the taste of you more than I like the taste of blood.”
“Can you stand?”
“We’ll find out.”
Miles replies with a curt nod and turns his attention to Donny. While the two fiddle with Donny’s restraints, I push up from my chair and wobble to my feet. Nothing makes you feel old like struggling against gravity. I grab my head and try to stop the spinning, but I know it’s futile. I can walk, and I half stumble over to the windows.
I need to know where we are.
Peeking past the heavy blankets, I glance outside. I suspect it’s late afternoon, and once my vision adjusts, I take in a few key landmarks.
We’re in the projects—subsidized apartment complexes built one after another in the same area. They’re notorious for having more problems than a season of Judge Judy, and I’m not surprised the Cobras would call one building home.
Miles rummages around in the contents of the room, careful to keep the volume down. There’re thugs all over the place, and drawing any unnecessary attention could end our escape. I appreciate that Miles learns quick and takes my advice to heart. Some flings of mine—I shoot Donny a sideways glance—could never seem to remember the basic rules of the game.
Before I step away from the window, I spot another interesting detail. The police are outside but… they’re not here to do their job. They chat with a few Cobras, laughing and pointing to a run-down apartment complex down the road. It’s the kind of casual relationship that makes me suspect there are dirty cops on the force.
“Miles,” I say. “Come look at this.”
He frees Donny from his handcuffs, thanks to a few thin metal pieces of a discarded computer, and rids himself of his own dangling pair. Miles pats off the other man and jumps to my side, a questioning look on his face. I motion to the window. He glances through the narrow sliver of space I’ve opened to the outside.
“Cops?” he asks. “Do you think we could run out and ask for help?”
“Keep watching.”
Miles narrows his eyes. “They’re cooperating.”
“Right.”
“I didn’t know Cobras had allies in the Noimore Police Department.”
“Didn’t you say the detectives asked you to hunt down Nick’s enforcers?”
Miles nods.
Damn. Something is going on. Something big. But are all the cops in on this? I think back to the handful I know. Detective Ambers isn’t like that. She’d never turn dirty for some street punks…. Would she?
“Which detectives asked you to bring guys like me in?” I ask.
“The lead detective. He said his name was Detective Strout?”
“Not Detective Ambers?”
“No. Not her. She didn’t make deals like that. Every time I talk to her, she mentions I should stop calling in tips…. That being an informant for the police is risky.”
I chuckle. “Smart woman.”
But that means not all the cops are in on this. I almost wish I had a phone so I could take pictures. It would be advantageous to know which cops are good and which are going to stab me in the back. Then again, I don’t want anything to do with the cops, so avoiding them all is my best solution.
“How’re we going to get out of here?” Donny asks. He leans against the far wall, his condition as bad as mine, but he’s a decade younger. He’ll survive.
Miles turns to me for the answer. I shake my head.
“We don’t have many options,” I say, returning the blanket to its original position.
“Do you think there are guys outside the door?” Miles asks.
“Yeah. At least one. Maybe two. They’ll be there until Diver gets here. I’m willing to bet the door’s locked too, but we shouldn’t risk checking.”
Miles goes silent as he mulls over the information. I reach into my pants pocket and pull out my cigarettes and lighter—a motion of habit—but I stop the moment I realize what I have. Santiago should’ve taken everything from me. I’m struck by an idea.
“Get some of those boxes,” I command. “Donny, you able to throw a punch?”
He shakes his head. “I’m dizzy, but maybe.” He rotates his arms and flexes.
Peppy son of a bitch. I envy his fortitude.
Miles complies with my order and does so in a quick fashion. It’s a good thing one of us isn’t half limping to the grave or else we’d be in big trouble. Once he has a decent pile, he turns to me with a lifted eyebrow.
“What’re we doing?”
I toss him the lighter. “Light it up. We’ll get some smoke blowing and get the drop on the guys who enter to investigate.”
“What about the fire alarm?”
“I’m banking on it. Maybe in the commotion, we’ll be able to duck out of here.”
Miles hardens his expression and stares at me for a long moment. He’s about to ask for something unreasonable. But what? I grit my teeth. I know. He wants to save his scumbag brother. I can’t believe he’s still worried about that little stain on humanity.
“I want to take Jayden,” he says, confirming all my deductions.
“Leave him,” I reply. “He doesn’t want your help.”
Miles glares down at the floor, visibly conflicted by some argument raging in his mind. I don’t know what fuels Miles’s need to help his brother, and I probably never will. As far as I’m concerned, Jayden’s a grown-ass man with his own grown-ass problems. Shouldering all the extra responsibility of correcting someone else’s life is more than Miles owes any of his siblings. I admire the dedication and willingness to accept the challenge, but right now it jeopardizes everything. We might all get shot thanks to Jayden’s douche-baggery.
“I�
�ll go, then,” Miles says. “You and Donny can make for the exit.”
“You would risk everything to get him out of here?”
“I can’t leave him.”
I roll my eyes and rake my fingers through my hair. I can’t believe Miles is this adamant. He must know this is suicide. He must know he can’t do this alone.
I grab him by the shirt and force his attention to me. “We don’t split up. I’ll help you get your brother, but this is the last time. After this he makes his own choices and suffers the consequences, understand? You can’t save him forever.”
Miles nods in a slow and deliberate manner. “I understand. Thank you, Pierce.”
I release him and exhale. Donny glances between the two of us with a look of realization in his eyes, but he doesn’t voice his discovery. Instead he clears his throat and motions to the boxes. Miles turns and lights the pile on fire as he scoots it closer to the door.
While the tiny flames lick at the cardboard, I glance around to find an impromptu weapon. Anything will do, so long as it’s heavy. Miles and Donny have the same idea. The junk gathered in the corners is mostly small and flimsy, but I find a sturdy lamp with a thick metal body, and Miles takes the leg to a busted aluminum patio chair.
I motion him over, and we exchange objects. I need the lighter one.
Donny comes up empty-handed and instead takes a spare box to fan the fire. It spreads throughout the cardboard, and smoke gathers above it. With heavy gusts of air, the smoke filters under the door. Miles and I get on either side of the doorframe. I want to help out in the fighting, but I know I have one good hit in me and then I’m out.
Sure enough, the door unlocks and opens. Miles swings first and connects with the man’s face, breaking his nose in an explosion of blood and a sick crunch of bone. The man stumbles back, blind, and I follow up the assault with another bash to the head. He collapses to the ground with a heavy thud.
The fire alarm pierces the still atmosphere of the apartment complex with its incessant ringing.
Adrenaline pumps into my system, soothing my pain like a powerful drug. I’m stiff and weak, but at least I’ll be able to get through the discomfort. All I can do now is hope the feeling lasts until we’ve made our way out of the apartment.
We enter the hall and Donny veers left. “I’m going,” he says. “You two can find whoever you’re looking for on your own.”
I motion him to leave. I didn’t think he would want to stay—most men aren’t as altruistic as Miles. Donny gives me one final nod before taking off down the corridor.
I take a look around and sigh. The hall is short. To the left is the living room, and to the right is the front door leading deeper into the complex. I catch sight of Donny opening the window in the living room and leaping out. We’re on the first story and going out seems like the best plan, considering the number of people who live in the projects. Donny looks like an escapee from Guantanamo Bay, but I’m sure that’s not the craziest thing the people in this area have seen today.
Miles heads right. I follow, cursing Jayden’s existence under my breath.
We enter the main hall, and my nose is accosted with the odors of filth. A few druggie bums mill about as they come down from a high. They give us odd glances as we hustle by, and I take note of the graffiti on the walls instead of paintings or decorations. One man, dressed in a hat and decent shirt, is half asleep at the foot of a locked door. I stop in front of him and brandish my silver chair leg. He cringes.
“Give me your hat and shirt,” I shout over the alarm.
He nods, his face set in a permanent daze, and sheds his clothing. I toss my ripped and bloody shirt at his feet before pulling on his clothes. Now I don’t look like such an obvious target. Miles approves of the change and strips himself of his outer shirt, leaving him with just a tank top and slacks. The high-class wardrobe of the Vice family is not shared among the gangbangers of the Cobras.
Miles motions to the lobby.
I limp after him and suppress the need to vomit. I’m guessing I suffered a mild concussion, but I’m no medical expert. All I want is to lie down. I wonder how often those exact thoughts are the last thing someone thinks before they die.
Miles halts before crossing the threshold of the larger room. I stop behind him and take in the scene. A few younger men and a couple of tween women are glancing up at the ceiling. They all have snake tattoos visible somewhere on their person, and I’m guessing everyone who lives in this apartment is associated with the Cobras on some level, but they don’t appear to be the normal thugs. They’re dressed in casual clothing and don’t have any firearms.
“What’s that noise?” one girl asks.
A man shrugs. “I don’t know. The fire alarm?”
“Do you see a fire?”
“No.”
“Why’s it going off, then?”
This isn’t the mass exodus I had imagined, but I guess not giving a damn about anything is an acceptable response as well.
“Get one of their phones,” I whisper.
They’ve all got one, and they pass them around to show off pictures or potential text messages. The smoke in the room and their need to laugh over the sounds of the alarm tell me they’re buzzed enough not to notice a phone disappearing for a few moments.
Miles places his dented lamp on the ground and walks out with a confused look on his face. “What’s going on?” he asks.
The men and women of the lobby answer him with a collective shrug. They accept Miles’s presence and return to their activities without further question. I guess they think of him as one of their own, considering his age. I suspect I wouldn’t have blended as well.
Miles swipes one of the closer phones and walks back around the corner. I take it and stare at the pink bunny wallpaper, my mind blanking.
Who am I gonna call?
I’m certain someone in the Vice family circle is a traitor and working with the Cobras. I could call Nick—there’s no way he’s the traitor—but it’s not like he’s going to personally come and help me get out of here. Plus, he might order me to keep or kill Jayden if he learns of the specifics.
Who else is there? Guinevere is gone. Most of my associates aren’t around. Donny isn’t an option because he already left. I shake my head as I reach the bottom of my trustworthy list and find myself contemplating names like Brisko or Jeremy. If I call Jeremy, he’s gonna want compensation, which leaves me with few alternatives.
I dial Brisko and pray his low-IQ persona isn’t a shtick to hide his turncoat agenda.
“Hello?” Brisko answers, confusion in his voice.
“Brisko. It’s Pierce. I need you in the downtown projects now.”
“Pierce? This a new number? What’s that ringing I hear?”
“Did you hear me, Brisko? Never mind everything else.”
I wait. He breathes through his mouth, exhaling on the phone’s mic in irritating bursts.
“Okay,” he finally replies. “I’ll get in my car and be there.”
“Take Forty-Third Street. I’ll meet you there, understand?”
“Yeah.”
I hang up. We have a ride out of this scumhole, and someone knows where we are. All we need now is Jayden….
Miles takes the phone back and drops it off on the table in the lobby. The girl who lost it snatches it up and pokes at the screen. Everyone glances up the moment they hear the sound of fire engines drawing near. The alarm will be off soon. I motion for Miles to return.
“We should hurry,” I say.
He heads to the stairs, and I walk to the elevator. We meet back up on the second story.
There are more people here than on the first story. Men, women, hookers, a fair number of teenagers—the place is an odd collection of individuals. Unlike the tweens downstairs, they watch the streets through windows and balconies, keeping steady eyes on the disturbance down below.
The Cobras aren’t known for their order and sophistication. Miles and I walk among the residents of
the apartment without hassle. I doubt many of them know who we are, but just in case, I keep the hat brim low on my face. Occasionally blood drips down onto my new shirt, but it’s a drab thing that absorbs color.
The alarms cease. I suspect we won’t have the cover of confusion any longer.
We make our way through the square-shaped hallway, all around the building, and a piece of me wonders if Jayden is even here anymore. I’m ready to tell Miles we need to leave when I hear Jayden’s distinct voice ringing from an open apartment door.
“—and then, he, uh, doubles over, right?”
A round of laughter follows his words.
“It was crazy! Just one blow! You should have been there!”
The laughter that continues is a cacophony of mingling voices, emotions, and hysteria. They’re drunk, high, or a combination of both. Nothing else explains the boisterous tones of the chuckling hyenas. It’s a good thing this place wasn’t actually on fire. They might’ve all laughed themselves to the grave.
Miles turns to me and I shrug. There must be at least ten men inside the apartment with Jayden. We’re not breaking in and kidnapping anyone in that situation. What does Miles want me to do? I’m no miracle worker.
Through my pounding headache, I take stock of the people around us. One woman—a streetwalker if I ever saw one—is attempting to bum a cigarette off a man down the hall. I motion her over by flashing my full pack. She makes her way to my side and smiles, though the bags under her eyes tell me she’s fatigued.
“You got a smoke?” she asks.
“I’ll give you the whole pack if you do me a favor,” I say.
She glares and folds her arms over her chest. “I’m not workin’ right now. And it’s more expensive than a pack anyway.”
“I want you to call some guy outta this room and nothing more. Get his attention and get him out here. Done deal.”
She stares at the open door and returns her gaze to me. “That’s it? All the smokes are mine?”
“All of them.”
“Fine. What name am I callin’?”
Vice City Page 20