by Meg Jackson
There was one man sitting at the table in the center of the room, where three candles offered a paltry illumination of the huge kitchen. Another man crouched at the wood-burning stove, feeding sticks into the iron belly. Cristov and Damon had rounded the side of the house, where a second window offered a different view.
Ricky looked, desperately, for signs of Tricia but saw none. No matter what, though, these men definitely weren’t supposed to be there. They sure as hell weren’t the Hutchins’ sons.
She was reaching for her phone, lodged in her back pocket, when harsh whispering reached her ears from the other side of the house, where Cristov and Damon were. She and Kennick shared a dire look before creeping towards the corner to see what had happened; it became clear enough as they approached, when Damon’s massive body could be seen crossing the ground between the house and the barn at a crouched run, his hand clearly moving towards the gun in his waistband. Wide-eyed, Cristov turned to meet Ricky’s stare; what the hell is he doing? was the unspoken question passing between them.
“He said he heard something,” Cristov hissed, anxiously looked back through the window to see if the men inside had any hint of what was happening just outside.
“Why the fuck…” Kennick whispered, running his hands through his long hair and staring after his brother, who’d made it to the barn door and turned, pointing to the latch that should have been locked, but which hung open.
“Fine, asshole, now get back here,” Cristov murmured, even though there was no chance Damon could hear him. Kennick turned to Ricky and pointed at the phone; she nodded and began to dial, looking up just as Damon disappeared through the door. She heard the dispatcher’s voice. And then she dropped the phone, her heart stopping, her blood running cold.
“Fucking run, Ricky,” Cristov said, drawing her dazed attention towards the sound of his voice.
It took her mind a moment to register the sound as a gunshot. It took her longer to realize what that meant. Cristov took one long, striding step towards the barn, Kennick starting to follow, when the sound of a screen door slamming open had them turning towards the corner of the house.
The two men inside revealed themselves and, in what Ricky would later see as a blessing, looked confusedly toward the barn before approaching it. The ten seconds they’d spent looking at the barn from the corner of the house, baffled by the source of the gunshot, gave Kennick and Cristov time to drawn their own guns. The two men started running, unaware of the danger at their backs, reaching for their own weapons.
“Wanna get shot, motherfuckers?” Kennick yelled, and the two men came to a sudden stop. Cristov took his eyes off them long enough to look at Ricky one more time.
“For Christ’s sake, go,” he spat. Ricky’s mind was blank with shock. The last thing she saw before instinct took over was one of the men, his hand on the handle of his gun, beginning to turn in her direction.
The last thing she heard before her feet seemed to leave the ground in their desperate race to get away was another gunshot, so close it rang in her ears.
And the last thing she thought before blacking out was that she’d dropped her phone.
After that, she was just a blur of sensation, two arms ripping through the bushes and branches that blocked her way, two legs pumping as fast as they could, and a heart that beat two names in rapid succession. Cristov. Tricia. Cristov. Tricia.
40
The man crumpled to his knees, an agonizing scream bleating through the ringing in Cristov’s ears. Had he pulled the trigger, or was it Kennick’s bullet that found the man’s thigh and brought him down? Either way, the man’s gun was lying a few feet away as he moaned and writhed against the grass.
The other man, the slower one, shouted something as he jackknifed away from his fallen comrade, his eyes wide and shaking with fear. He turned to face the source of his friend’s pain. Cristov’s finger twitched on the trigger.
He wasn’t really a man, though, as Cristov could now see; he was just a kid. He was 18 if he was a day. Cristov swallowed hard. When the kid, hands shaking, dropped his gun and turned on his heel, running towards the woods in the distance, Cristov breathed a sigh of relief. But he didn’t lower his weapon until the kid was out of sight. Kennick had already approached the fallen man, kicking the discarded guns out of range.
“Damon,” Cristov said, and Kennick nodded, his eyes steady although his body was tense.
“Stay with this one,” Kennick ordered, pointing to the whimpering form on the ground. “I’m going to…”
“Fuck that,” Cristov spat. “He’s not going anywhere, and I’m not losing two brothers in one day.”
Kennick’s face contorted, Cristov’s words giving form to the fear they shared. But he didn’t protest, just ran towards the barn, where the silence was as unsettling as the gunshot had been. Kennick went first, gun drawn, approaching the slightly-open door at a creep.
Cristov wanted to rush the entrance, his fear making adrenaline pump through his body, the slow pace Kennick set almost painful to follow. Kennick peered into the dim space; when his shoulders slumped, gun falling to his side, Cristov felt relief and panic flooding him in equal measure. The danger had passed, evidently, but what did that mean for Damon?
Kennick slipped through the door, Cristov bouncing behind him at his heels. Eyes adjusting to the dark room, Cristov saw two figures huddled in a corner; another figure slumped at an unnatural angle in a chair set across the far wall. Whispered words echoed against the wood rafters. In contrast, Kennick’s voice was like a cannonball ripping through the stillness.
“Damon,” he said. “Are you hurt?”
The figures moved; Cristov squinted, could see his brother crouched down beside Tricia. Beside them, some rags and a length of rope coiled on the ground. Damon was untying another rope that was tied tight around Tricia’s ankles.
Cristov’s gun fell to the ground, his heart aching with relief, his body suddenly wearier than he could ever remember. He leaned forward, hands on his knees. He couldn’t look at the lifeless body slumped in the chair. When he closed his eyes, all he saw was Ricky, the fear in her face. What if there were more of these guys, and they’d caught her in the woods as she ran? What if she got lost in her panic? He felt sick.
“I’m fine,” Damon’s voice resounded across the cavernous space. “I shot him.”
He said it like he was reporting the weather. Kennick, looking back at Cristov, raised his eyebrows.
“I can see that,” Kennick said finally. “Is she okay?”
“I’m fine,” Tricia’s voice sounded frail and shaky, but the fact that she was speaking at all bolstered Cristov’s spirits. “I’m…I’m cold.”
“The cops are coming,” Kennick said, and then Cristov remembered that Ricky had dropped her phone when she turned to run; had she managed to say anything before she fled? Were the cops on their way?
Another fear began to boil in his stomach: if the cops were coming, and Damon had…
Damon was speaking to Tricia again, his voice too low for Kennick and Cristov to hear.
“Kennick,” Cristov said, hoping his own voice wouldn’t carry. “I don’t know if the cops are coming. I don’t think Ricky had a chance to make the call. She dropped her phone.”
“Shit,” Kennick said. “Well, go get it. I’m not…”
“What about him?” Cristov interrupted, motioning to the dead body. “They’re gonna take Damon in for that.”
Kennick nodded.
“I know,” he said. “I know they will.”
Cristov’s eyes went wide. Kennick wasn’t actually about to throw their own brother under the bus, was he? Surely there was some way they could get out of this if they just had a little more time…
“They’re gonna take all of us in,” Kennick went on, reaching out to grab Cristov’s arm. “But we’ve got to get her help. She needs a hospital and shit. And we did the right thing. No matter what happens, we know we did the right thing. That’ll come back in our fav
or.”
“What makes you so sure anyone will see it our way?” Cristov spat, not willing to belief what his brother was saying. They were gypsies. They’d never have the benefit of the doubt.
“Men take responsibility for their actions,” Kennick said, cocking his head. Over his shoulder, Cristov watched Damon help Tricia stand up; she fell, slightly, and he caught her, lifting her up to carry her in his arms. He wondered if Damon, who had the most to lose from telling the truth, would agree with Kennick’s words.
He thought that Damon probably would.
Without another word, he trotted from the barn and across the grounds, stopping at the house and crouching down to find Ricky’s phone. It was easy enough to spot, though the light was swiftly dwindling. Kennick and Damon emerged, with Tricia in Damon’s arms, and motioned to Cristov that they were going back to the car; Tricia was visibly trembling.
Cristov held the phone in his hand and stared at the lump of man in the grass; he’d passed out, it seemed. When Cristov approached, violent anger rising in his throat towards the man who’d willingly hurt an innocent person over a damn drug deal, the man didn’t stir. Cristov dropped to his haunches and saw the man’s back rising steadily; he was still alive, at least, but judging from the blood still trickling from his thigh, that could change if he was left alone for a few more hours.
“You fuckers picked the wrong people to mess with,” Cristov said, spitting on the man’s body. He knew he couldn’t hear, but Cristov hoped his words would find their way, somehow, into the man’s unconscious. “And now, you’re getting what you deserve. Just wish you hadn’t had to pull the rest of us down with you. Te bisterdon tumare anava.”
May your names be forgotten.
He rose and began to walk towards the woods, raising the phone to his ear as he did so.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“We’re on Route 9, outside of Kingdom, at the Hutchins’ farm. It’s a little complicated, but you’re gonna want to send out a couple units…”
41
Ricky was waiting for them at the car, the engine running as she paced back and forth.
“I’m sorry,” she cried as soon as Damon and Kennick appeared. “I’m so sorry, I just left you and…where’s Cristov? Where is he? Oh my God, Tricia! Tricia, are you okay? What did they do to you? Where’s Cristov?!”
“He’s fine,” Kennick said, putting his hands on her shoulders to stop her frantic movements. Her eyes were trained on Tricia’s trembling figure as Damon pushed past her, opening the car door and sliding Tricia into the backseat.
“She needs to get warm,” Damon said, closing the door and trotting around the front of the car, letting himself into the front seat. Ricky tore herself from Kennick and scrambled with the door handle, finally getting it open and vaulting herself into the backseat beside her friend. Tricia didn’t speak, barely looked at Ricky, as her friend wrapped her in a hug. Kennick let himself into the driver’s seat.
“Tricia, you’re okay now, you’re okay, we’ve got you, oh, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault, this is all my fault, I’m so sorry,” Ricky was whispering into Tricia’s ear; in the front, Damon and Kennick stared at each other without speaking. Moments later, Cristov appeared, crashing through the bushes, the phone in his hand. Ricky smoothed down Tricia’s hair and kissed her temple. Cristov let himself into the car, sitting on the opposite side of Tricia.
“Cops are on their way,” Cristov said. “That guy passed out. He won’t be getting far.”
“The other one, though…” Kennick said, turning his gaze away from Damon to look at Cristov.
“He was just a kid,” Cristov said, voice low. “Did you see him? He was just a kid.”
“Kids don’t kidnap people,” Damon growled from the front seat. No one could think of anything to say in response. Cristov looked first at Tricia, then over her head, at Ricky. Ricky’s pale eyes were fixed on him. He saw relief and anger and confusion and sadness and regret battling in her shimmering irises. He couldn’t think of anything to say in response to that, either. For a long time, no one said anything, the only noise coming from the heater.
“What are you going to tell them, Damon?” Kennick finally said, looking at his brother. Damon’s eyes were unreadable. Tricia looked up at Kennick’s words, her cheeks rosy and her mouth parting slightly. “You’re going to have to tell them something.”
“It’s up to you,” Damon said, looking back at Tricia, whose shaking had finally stopped after ten minutes in the car with the heat blasting. “It’s all up to you.”
The cops were on their way, but it was a bit of a haul from Kingdom to the farm, and they hadn’t arrived yet.
“I want to feel safe,” she said, her voice frail. Ricky squeezed her hand. “I don’t know how to do that now.”
“If we said it was self-defense, no one would question it,” Cristov said, holding his head in his hands.
“It wasn’t, though,” Damon said, eyes cold, body stiff.
“Yes, it was,” Tricia said, her voice suddenly gaining strength. “Don’t you remember, Damon? He had me by the neck, with a gun to my head. He was going to kill me. You shot him to save my life. He would have killed me otherwise. Remember?”
Silence reigned for a long moment, no one daring even to breathe. The air was so tense that it would have laid heavy in their lungs and choked them.
“You don’t have to lie for me,” Damon said finally, his eyes locked on Tricia’s.
“I know,” she said. “I know I don’t. But can you live with it if I do?”
Damon turned away; Kennick at the steering wheel stared at the side of his brother’s head, trying to figure out what he was thinking, what he would say. Damon had always had a strong sense of what was right, had always been willing to take responsibility for his actions, had striven to do the honorable thing.
“Those guys hurt a lot of people,” Ricky said, not knowing what had transpired but doing her best to fill in the blanks. “Whatever you did…I’m sure you had a good reason.”
“Tell whatever story you want, Tricia,” Damon said at last. “I’ll live with the consequences.”
And in that way, the matter was settled, though no one in the car was foolish enough to believe that it would ever truly be resolved. In the near distance, at last, sirens sounded.
42
Halfway to Baltimore, Jenner was waved over by an orange-vested man at a construction site. He’d taken the backroads, as instructed, and now he was going to be late. True, that was somewhat his own fault; he’d had to wait until nightfall to get on the road, not wanting to raise any suspicions or answer any questions. The note he’d left on the table would do all the talking for him, and he had to hope it would be enough. He didn’t know how long he’d be gone. He hoped it would just be a day or two. But he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be safe with his kumpania, either.
The kid was going to squeal like a pig, and if Jenner’s name came out of his mouth…
But never mind that now. The construction worker, stealing a glance back at the yellow Cat reaping havoc on the pavement, approached the car. Jenner grumbled under his breath; now what? Detour? The worker tapped on the window.
“What?” Jenner snapped, impatient to be on his way. “When can I pass?”
“Ain’t supposed to pass,” the construction worker said; his southern accent was strong, an odd occurrence this side of the Mason-Dixon. “Not far, anyway. Take the next turn-off and go up the dirt road. You’ll see ‘em.”
Jenner’s eyes darkened.
“What the hell? Who are you? I’m going to Baltimore, motherfu…”
“Change of plans,” the construction worker drawled, and raised his arm slightly, meaningfully. Jenner glanced at the tattoo on the man’s wrist. That was the Steel Dragons’ calling card, all right.
“Why the change of plans? What’s going on?” Jenner felt unease sitting heavy in his stomach, his body turning to lead in the driver’s seat.
; “Don’t know, don’t care, just here to tell ya where to go. I’d hoof it, if I were you,” the man said, knocking his knuckles on the hood of the car before moving away, the conversation apparently over. Jenner mumbled to himself as he rolled the window up and sped off, leaning forward now to try and see the road in front of his lights.
The turnoff appeared, he took it. There was the dirt road. His heart was thudding heavy in his chest. This did not seem right. It did not feel right. But it wasn’t his fault, was it? He’d given the club everything he could. They were the ones who fucked up. They should have sent more guys, shouldn’t have underestimated the Volanis brothers. He’d been pretty clear about that up front.
He slowed as his headlights lit upon some figures standing in the road. On the side of the road, in the grass, glinting metal hinted at the bikes there. The men were unfamiliar to Jenner. They did not look happy.
He rolled to a stop, his car idling in the middle of the road, three men illuminated in the circle of his lights. He was still grasping the steering wheel when they approached. One, a red-haired monster of a man, leaned at his window. Another, an equally humungous bald man, didn’t wait for an invitation before pulling on the passenger side door. Jenner was happy he’d kept it locked. Rolling down the window, he prepared himself for an argument.
“What’s this about? I’m supposed to be in Baltimore,” he said, wanting to get the upper hand in the conversation by speaking first.
“I’d unlock that door for my friend if I were you,” the ginger said, a sardonic smile painting his face as he leaned his massive head through the window. “It’s cold out here.”
“I asked you a question,” Jenner spat, willing his voice not to betray his fear.