Ruthless (Lawless Saga Book 3)

by Tarah Benner

  “You’ve gotta be shitting me,” she gasped, tears of mirth welling up in her eyes.

  “No,” said Simjay, looking more put out by the minute that they found his double life as a guru so funny.

  It was at least another twenty minutes before Portia and Bernie were able to rein in their hilarity. Several times Simjay tried to strike up a more serious conversation, but one or both of them kept dissolving into tearful giggles.

  “So this guy we’re going to see,” said Portia breathlessly, popping a cashew into her mouth. “He was one of your, uh, disciples?”

  “Protégés,” Simjay corrected.

  “Right . . .”

  “So this guy . . . Conrad. What’s his deal?”

  “He was a pilot in the air force,” said Simjay. “Show a little respect.”

  “Whatever,” said Portia.

  “Anyway, after the air force, he worked for the Department of Defense. I think he did cybersecurity. He was working as an independent contractor for the government when I met him — helping them secure their communications systems and that sort of thing.”

  Bernie glanced at Simjay in the rearview mirror. “And you think he’s in Colorado because . . .”

  “Conrad made a mint in the cybersecurity racket. He owned this fancy penthouse in D.C., a bunch of property in Malibu, and a vacation home in Vail, but he was kind of a nutcase. Once he told me that he had this bug-out shelter in the Appalachian Mountains — long story. Anyway, I convinced him to sell all his real estate on the East Coast and most of the shit in Malibu, but I could never get him to give up the cabin in Vail. If D.C. is underwater, Conrad would’ve been on the first plane back to Colorado when shit hit the fan.”

  “Wait. You think he has a house in Vail?”

  “I know he has a house in Vail . . . at least he used to. He told me I could come visit whenever I wanted.” Simjay shrugged. “He gave me the address and everything. I just remember because I thought it was funny that he lived on Horny Ridge Road. I guess the developer had meant for it to be called Thorny Ridge, but when he submitted the plans to the city, they recorded it as Horny Ridge. How funny is that?”

  “Hilarious,” said Bernie.

  “So let me get this straight,” said Portia. “We’re driving eighteen hours to see a guy you used to know when you went by the name Birapaar, even though we don’t know for sure that he still lives in Vail. All you do know is that he used to have a house on Horny Ridge Road.”

  Simjay nodded as if this all sounded perfectly reasonable and then broke into a smirk. “It’s even funnier when you say it.”

  Bernie rolled her eyes, and Portia let out an audible groan. Then, all of a sudden, the car lurched over what felt like the pothole to end all potholes. It had been hidden under a smear of cow manure, but their front tires had sunk into a deep depression.

  There was a loud boom as the car veered hard to the left. The steering wheel vibrated in Bernie’s hands, making it difficult to stay on the road.

  “Oh, fuuuuuck,” Bernie groaned, gripping the wheel as hard as she could.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” screeched Portia, lunging for the wheel. “Stay on the goddamned road!”

  But the vehicle was out of Bernie’s control. She let off the gas and heard a flapping noise coming from the side of the car. Her heart sank.

  “I think we blew a tire,” said Simjay, rolling down his window and leaning out to get a closer look.

  “Seriously?” cried Bernie, coasting onto the shoulder.

  Portia moaned in exasperation as the vehicle cruised to a halt. “This is why I don’t drive.”

  “You don’t drive?” Simjay repeated in confusion.

  “A lady never drives,” said Bernie in her best impression of a stuffy British accent.

  Simjay snorted from the back seat. But as they all sat there in the car, the realization that they were stranded on the side of the road came crashing down.

  “Do you know how to change a tire?” asked Portia.

  “Pssh,” said Bernie. “Of course I do.”

  In truth, Bernie had never changed a tire in her life, but she’d fixed plenty of other things. Her dad had left when she was ten, which meant that it often fell on her to fix things when her mom was busy and they were strapped for cash.

  “I blame you, you know,” said Bernie, reaching across Portia’s lap and opening the glove box. She yanked out the owner’s manual and began flipping through to find out where the manufacturer might have stowed the jack. “Before you, I was an accident-free driver. Since I met you, I’ve been in not one but two accidents.”

  “I think that says more about the driver than the passenger,” Portia muttered.

  Bernie shot her a sidelong glare but didn’t say anything.

  According to the manual, the spare-tire kit was located in the trunk under the luggage floor cover. She just had to find the kit, jack up the car, and put on the spare.

  Grumbling under her breath, Bernie pulled herself out of the car, yanked her crutches through the gap between the seat and the window, and hobbled around to the trunk. A light drizzle was still coming down, and the wind whipping through the trees was icy cold.

  Curious, she limped back to where they had hit the pothole and was baffled to see that the smelly clumps of cow manure had been dropped right over an enormous crater in the middle of the road. It was at least ten inches deep and three feet wide.

  “Call if you need help,” yelled Simjay through the back window.

  “Oh, yeah. We’ll let you know if we need our auras smudged or whatever,” said Portia as she climbed out of the car.

  “Here,” snapped Bernie, swinging herself back toward the vehicle and tossing the owner’s manual through the open window. “You can read the instructions.”

  Bernie opened the trunk and retrieved the little tool tray with the jack and the wrench. But before she could set it on the ground, Portia took it from her and moved around to the front of the car.

  “You don’t have to help,” said Bernie as she hauled the spare out of the trunk. It was heavier than she’d expected — even heavier when she was trying to keep her weight off her injured leg.

  “I can do stuff,” Portia mumbled.

  Bernie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You sure you’re up for it?”

  “You got shot in the leg,” said Portia. “Of the three of us, I feel like I’m the least pathetic right now.”

  “Okay,” Bernie huffed. “Take this around to the front.”

  As she watched Portia roll the spare tire around the vehicle, Bernie wished for the hundredth time that week that she had a camera. She still couldn’t believe that she was on the run with Portia of all people — much less that Portia was making herself useful.

  Shaking her head, Bernie hobbled over to the blown-out tire and lowered herself to the ground.

  “It says you need to remove the wheel ornament before placing the jack,” Simjay called from the back seat.

  “The what?”

  “The hubcap.”

  “Right,” said Bernie, shaking herself mentally. She could do this. She’d gone to school for mechanical engineering, for god’s sake. It didn’t matter that she’d never done it before or that their very survival depended on it. This was the sort of shit she was good at.

  Fortified by her personal pep talk, she started to remove the wheel ornament and slid the jack under the car. The road felt rough and cold as she flattened herself on the ground in search of the jack point.

  “It says it’s located under the rocker panel,” called Simjay.

  “I think it’s there,” said Portia, blocking the light as she positioned herself under Bernie’s armpit.

  Bernie swallowed down her irritation and then dragged the jack across the pavement. Why did Portia feel the need to horn in on her hero moment? Portia had never lifted a finger in San Judas. She never did anything if she could avoid it.

  Bernie gritted her teeth as she maneuvered around Portia’s head, but then somewh
ere above her, Denali let out a sharp bark. Strong hands gripped her by the hips and yanked her backward, and Bernie’s heart flew into her throat.

  She jerked her head up in surprise and banged it along the bottom of the car. Portia screamed, and Bernie flung out both arms to stop the sudden backward motion. It was no use. Her palms scraped against the asphalt, and the force of the tug sent her chin flying into the pavement. She cried out in pain, and a stream of surprised epithets erupted from the back seat.

  Cold rain pelted Bernie’s face as her attacker hauled her out from under the vehicle and tossed her onto her back. Her head hit the ground with a painful thud, and a jolt of agony shot up her injured leg. Denali was barking and growling like an angry wolf, and she could hear a commotion coming from the back of the car.

  Darkness pressed in along the edges of her vision. A thick mass of clouds was churning violently in the sky, making her feel disoriented and a little sick.

  Then a head appeared above her: a woman’s sunken, weathered face framed by greasy clumps of bleached-blond hair. Bernie caught a whiff of nasty breath, and the woman’s mouth cracked into a rotten smile.

  “Well, well, well,” she snarled, bending closer and pinching Bernie’s cheek. “What a lucky find.”

  seven

  Bernie

  Bernie awoke slowly with the feeling that someone — or something — was repeatedly bashing her skull with a meat tenderizer. Her scalp was throbbing as if it had its own heartbeat, and the back of her head was caked with blood.

  She was lying on something soft and lumpy, but her feet were dangling off the floor. Her wrists and ankles were bound together with tape, which made her half-reclined position even more awkward.

  The place smelled horrible — a mixture of stale cigarette smoke, rotten eggs, and unwashed bodies. Bernie opened her eyes, and the cramped living space came into focus.

  It looked like the inside of a trailer that no one had cleaned in months. Empty cans, chip bags, paper plates, and plastic soda bottles were heaped on the table, and the floor was mostly hidden by piles of dirty clothes. The walls were covered in food splatters and one splotch that looked horribly like blood. The small amount of stained carpet that was visible was littered with food crumbs, lint, and bits of paper.

  Bernie looked around. She was lying in a heap of clothes piled on a sagging sofa. Draped over the back of the couch was a brown-and-orange afghan that smelled so strongly of cat pee that she wanted to gag.

  Her gaze traveled over to the kitchen, where several cabinet doors were hanging off their hinges. The few inches of exposed counter space were covered in burn marks, but nearly every flat surface was occupied by gallon-sized bottles of strange liquids and plastic containers caked with brightly colored substances. Plastic tubes crisscrossed the disorderly surface, and Bernie realized that she was lying in a portable meth lab.

  She looked to her left, and Simjay’s swollen face came into view. His left eye was already blackened and bruised, and he was sporting a fat lip. He was slumped against the queen-sized bed, staring straight at her.

  He was trying to tell her something, but Bernie’s jumbled brain didn’t know what. She was too preoccupied by Portia, who was sprawled facedown on the mattress. She couldn’t tell whether Portia was breathing, but suddenly the trailer door banged open, and two people piled into the space.

  Bernie recognized the woman at once. Her sunken face was burned into her brain. The woman’s skin was covered in sores, and Bernie noticed that she kept popping her jaw. An inch of dark-brown roots were creeping through her fake-blond hair, and she was dressed in a baggy gray sweatshirt.

  The man behind her was a few inches shorter but strangely broad shouldered. He had large bulging eyes like a fish, crazy spiked hair, and the gait of a thug who was trying to keep his pants from falling down. He seemed to be a few years younger — probably in his mid to late thirties.

  “I told you it would be a while before I got the fire lit,” the man grumbled. “Jesus . . . You are such a nag.”

  “Nag my ass,” the woman snarled. “We need to git goin’. A bad storm’s movin’ in, and if we wanna eat tonight —”

  “Yeah, Darleen. I heard you the first time.”

  “Don’ choo talk to me in dat tone.”

  “Well’en maybe you should try helpin’ for a change insteada just bitchin’ twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I’m the one who found ’em, ain’t I? Me and Jason’d starve to death if we waited for your lazy ass to find food.”

  “What the fuck you talkin’ ’bout? I’m the one who found us that Mexican — not you.”

  “That Mexican was already dyin’. Not like it was hard.”

  Bernie was breathing hard and fast. Their captors hardly seemed to have noticed them, and she was growing increasingly confused by their conversation.

  She glanced at Simjay, who, like her, was evaluating all of their potential escape routes. There was the door, of course, but there were also several windows that would be large enough to shimmy through if they could create some sort of diversion.

  Bernie was the most concerned about Portia. She hadn’t moved an inch since Bernie had been awake, and escaping with an extra hundred pounds of dead weight was going to be a struggle.

  “Oh, great,” said the woman. “They’re awake. You happy now?”

  “It’s not my fuckin’ fault!”

  “It’s your big fat mouth.”

  Bernie’s stomach dropped to her knees as the couple’s gaze settled on her. The woman was staring at Bernie as if Bernie was annoying her just by breathing, but the man was looking at her with a terrifying hunger in his eyes.

  As he gazed up and down Bernie’s body, he seemed to notice that she was rattled. He cracked a sickening grin, and Bernie’s insides turned to ice.

  “Why don’ you go an’ check on Jason?” growled the man. “Make sure that mangy mutt hasn’t bitten his hand off.”

  At the mention of Denali, Bernie felt a perverse swell of satisfaction. At least one of them was holding his own.

  With an angry huff, the woman stalked out of the trailer, leaving Bernie and Simjay alone with the man.

  “Don’t be scared, darlin’,” he crooned, his eyes locking on Bernie’s. “I don’ bite . . .”

  Bernie’s heart was hammering in her throat, but she fought to keep her terror from showing on her face. Clearly this guy got off on intimidation. He was bad, bad news.

  The man made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat. “Uh-huh. I love a pretty lil’ blonde.” He took a step forward, and Bernie saw Simjay stiffen. “What’s your name, darlin’?”

  Bernie didn’t answer him. She could feel the tension radiating from Simjay like a blast of hot air. He knew what this guy’s deal was.

  Bernie’s mind was running a mile a minute. The man was standing between her and the door. She and Simjay were tied up, and there wasn’t anything within reach that she could use as a weapon. She didn’t think she could climb out the window — not with her bum leg and her restraints. She’d be lucky if she made it two feet.

  The man slithered closer, and Bernie saw that he had the same red sores around his mouth and chin. He moved like the slimy predator that he was, and Bernie only hoped that the woman would return and interrupt whatever he was planning.

  “I’m gonna call you . . . Rose,” he said in a slow drawl, sliding onto the couch beside her. He leaned forward a few inches and inhaled deeply. “Mmmhmm.”

  Bernie stifled a gag. Every inch of her skin was crawling, and her breaths were coming in sharp, uneven gasps. She needed to scream. She needed to run, but all she could do was sit there silently and hope that the woman would return.

  “Don’t be scared,” said the man in what he probably thought was a soothing voice. “I’m a nice guy.”

  Bernie swallowed. She was torn between staying silent to avoid provoking him and running her mouth to make herself as unappealing as possible. But at that moment, Bernie could hardly string a cohe
rent thought together, let alone open her mouth.

  Slowly, the cold reality of her situation sank in: She was at this man’s mercy. Simjay couldn’t help her, and she couldn’t help herself. It was the worst feeling she had ever experienced.

  Hot, fearful tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, and she had to clench her teeth together to stifle a whimper of panic.

  “Shh,” said the man, reaching forward to catch a tear before it reached her lips.

  His skin smelled strongly of lighter fluid, and that one sharp chemical whiff triggered a response so powerful that it forced the last vestiges of Bernie’s fight-or-flight instincts to surface.

  In a single burst of Herculean strength, she tightened her core and flung herself up off the couch. Bernie wobbled on the spot, and a surge of agony shot up her injured leg. The pain was so intense that she thought for a moment that she might black out, but she threw herself across the room as far as she could go.

  For a brief moment, she thought she might make it. But then she felt her weight shift, and she teetered to the right. Her forward momentum had been too much, and she had no way to regain her balance.

  She swayed dangerously on the spot before the man’s arms engulfed her. His sharp, sweaty smell assaulted Bernie’s senses, and she thought she might be sick. She threw back an elbow, but it never made contact.

  In one furious movement, the man shoved her back onto the couch, and Bernie’s legs flew out from under her. Her throbbing head struck the wall, and the man tossed a leg over her hips.

  “You fucking bitch,” he whispered, sending a whiff of nasty breath down Bernie’s throat. “You’re jus’ like all the rest of ’em.”

  Bernie leaned away, glaring daggers at him.

  “Lying — cheating — slut!”

  Raw, unchecked terror spilled into Bernie’s stomach. This wasn’t about her — not really. This man was a violent psychopath, and he was gearing up to take all his anger and aggression out on her.

  This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. But the man’s ugly, sweaty face was inches from hers, and she could feel every part of his body pressed against her. Crude prison tattoos snaked around his grubby fingers, and when the neck of his filthy T-shirt moved, she caught a glimpse of a swastika inked on his chest.