Fury

by Fisher Amelie

  “What?” My smiled dropped. “I just meant it’s a little much for one person to do.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Ethan.”

  “Let’s get in the water,” he said, standing and walking into the bay.

  “Don’t do that, dude.”

  “Do what?” he asked.

  “Ignore me like that, Ethan.”

  He turned toward me. “I’m not ignoring you, Fin.”

  “The hell you are. Is this about your hair?”

  He laughed. “You think me that shallow?”

  “Well, no, but, I mean, it was a huge part of your heritage and you’d had it for so many years. I’d thought-thought you’d kept it long because of your mom.”

  He was ankle deep in the water. His head hung when I mentioned his mom, making my gut ache. I wished I’d never said a word.

  “I did,” he answered, staring out into the bay.

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned your mom. I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” he asked, his face drawn in confusion. “I love talking about her. I loved her. I love her.”

  “I just thought I might have offended you was all.”

  “I could never be offended by that,” he told me softly as I joined his side. “I did wear it long because of her. She always talked about her Echo Tribe ancestry, how it defined her in so many ways, how she cherished it, and how she wanted me to be familiar with it.”

  I grasped my throat. Don’t ask him why he’d cut it.

  He looked at me and smiled. The smile I’d been missing for a few days and didn’t know how much I’d wanted back. A little piece of my heart set at ease when I saw that smile.

  “Don’t,” he said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, his eyes still on the water.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t pretend like you’re not owed an explanation anymore. I belong to you, Fin. You know this. You have a right to know anything and everything about me.” He swallowed and dropped his arm, leaving me feeling ill to my stomach for some reason. “You just have to ask.”

  “Okay. So why did you cut your hair?” I asked him.

  He looked at me with severe eyes. “I was shedding an old skin when you cut my hair. Ridding myself of an old Ethan.”

  “I don’t like the way that sounds,” I told him. “I liked that old Ethan, as you put it. I loved him.”

  “Well, you’ll have to settle for this new one then because he’s long gone, Fin.” He paused. “He’s forever gone.”

  “You’re so confusing right now.”

  He turned toward me and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m being an asshole.” His hands found my shoulders. “Let’s test these waters, shall we?” he asked cryptically.

  I eyed him, trying to figure him out.

  He’s off.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Ethan

  That night, despite how worn out I was, I decided I needed to go out, to gauge the problems I’d caused by trying to help. I’d considered stopping altogether but quickly disregarded this option for several reasons. One, on Slánaigh’s regular busts, I’d be recognizable and I’d have to explain why, something I would never, ever do. Two, I knew if I didn’t take care of Khanh, find him, and take care of him, he’d expose me to the police, ultimately putting Slánaigh in danger, also something I would never, ever do.

  I’d never thought in a million years taking things into my own hands would have snowballed as it had. It seemed every time I set out to do one right, I was forced into ten wrongs. I was struggling with my conscience as well. On one hand, I was saving girls, saving them from continued and terrible fates. On the other, I’d been forced to kill seven men.

  Seven lives. I lined their blank, frozen-in-terror expressions in my mind and felt an overwhelming nausea.

  To combat the unease, I lined up the sweet, angelic faces of every girl I’d saved and my heart steadied, my stomach settled.

  But how can I get rid of Khanh? And what’s to stop someone from just rising in place and continuing where he’d left off?

  I knew the answer, and I also knew exactly what I needed to do. Your hands are about to get a lot bloodier. I needed to disarm, disassemble, weaken to the point of deterioration Khanh’s traffic ring. The only way to do that was to find Khanh himself. Khanh would surround himself with his most powerful men, men who were in charge of the small cells he kept around North Vietnam. I needed to devastate their operations so badly it couldn’t revive.

  Resolved in my plan, I set out that night with every intention of getting information from the smaller cells that would lead me to Khanh himself.

  I stayed to the shadows as I’d done the night before, searching the alleys, again as I’d done the night before, passing groups of people laughing and talking, passing lively storefronts, and street markets full of people bustling to and fro either working or buying.

  Without realizing, I’d stumbled upon the store that posed as the front for the den above, the one I’d stolen my first girl from. Resolute, I ducked and entered the store, quickly crossing behind the curtains into the shadows of the little room with the winding staircase.

  Breathe.

  There was no one there so I made my way up, struck with a sense of déjà vu as I unzipped my hoodie and removed a knife. I pulled back my hood, no longer afraid of being recognized.

  Breathe.

  I entered the hall boldly, half not expecting anyone to be there, and half not caring anymore. Bad sign, Ethan. Whatever.

  Breathe.

  I edged up to every door before opening each one. They were all empty. I didn’t bother closing them.

  Breathe.

  I made a beeline for the door at the end, the one full of men the last time I’d been there.

  Breathe.

  I leaned an ear against it and recognized low voices deep in discussion. I deciphered three men. I listened a little while longer, confident there were truly only three.

  Breathe.

  “Anyone there?” I asked facetiously at the door, tucking myself into the corner of the hall as far as I could get away from the door, smiling to myself.

  Breathe.

  There was an instant of silence followed by a barrage of bullets through the door. I ducked down as low as I could get. With my boot, I slammed the hall floor as hard as I could, attempting to give the impression they’d gotten me and that I’d fallen, eliciting another private smile.

  Breathe.

  When the bullets ceased, I stood swiftly, gathering my second knife and standing defensively as Akule had taught me.

  Breathe.

  There was a brief moment they waited before charging through.

  Breathe.

  My knife shot out, puncturing the first man’s throat. He fell where he’d stood.

  Breathe.

  I reached for the first man’s hand as he did and snatched the handgun from him. I pressed it against the second man’s temple and fired once before the third man even had time to register what was happening.

  Breathe.

  I pointed it at his head just as he fumbled with his own automatic, trying to aim it at me. I brought the gun down and shot him twice. Once in each arm, disabling him. He cried out in pain, groaning and mumbling in Vietnamese.

  Breathe.

  “Quiet,” I rasped. He cried out so I smacked him across the head with the butt of the gun. “Quiet.” He whimpered but obeyed for the most part. Tears streamed down his face. “Now,” I said, leaning over and removing my knife from the first man’s throat. I wiped the blade on his clothing. I sheathed both knives. “You are going to tell me where I can find Khanh.”

  He said something in Vietnamese. I could only guess he was trying to tell me he had no idea who Khanh was or that he didn’t know where I could find him. Either way, I didn’t have time for it. In a flash, I pulled a knife from my holster and slammed it into his upper thigh. He screamed so harshly I lifted his shirt and shoved it over his mouth to deafen the effects.

&
nbsp; When he’d controlled himself enough to stop screaming, I lifted my hand and the shirt fell. He cried in streaming tears.

  “Stop,” I ordered and he obeyed. “Khanh. Where is he?”

  “Don’t know,” he panted in perfect English. I twisted the knife in his leg and he screamed out. “I don’t know! I really don’t know! I swear! I swear!” I lifted my fingers from the knife’s handle. “Please, please, I promise. We’re not allowed to know. I only know my boss. Name is Dai.”

  “And where can I find Dai?” I asked him.

  “Nineteen Kim Mã. Hanoi.”

  “Thank you,” I told him.

  “Are you going to kill me?” he asked.

  “Are you going to tell ’em I’m coming?” I asked for my own entertainment.

  “No! No! I swear! I swear! I won’t say a word!”

  I snorted. “Yeah, right,” I told him, yanking the knife from his leg.

  This time he gritted his teeth through the pain, afraid to piss me off, I thought. I wiped the blood off my blade with his shirt.

  “Please,” he begged.

  “I’m going to let you go but only because I want you to tell them that I’m coming. I want them to know I’m out for blood and they are going to pay. Tell them I’m coming for them and they’re all going to die.”

  He whimpered like an animal.

  “And when I do, if I see you, the last face you will ever know is mine.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Finley

  Ethan was ignoring me, acting strangely, and so incredibly distracted. He wouldn’t talk to me even when I pried and demanded he answer, which only yielded me short, one-word replies. He was no longer playful. He’d lost tenderness, even compassion.

  I didn’t know where he’d put himself, stored himself away at, but I wasn’t going to let him get too far.

  Because I was afraid he wouldn’t come back.

  Ethan

  Detective Tran had come to Slánaigh the following afternoon and I’d made myself scarce, too many thoughts scattered around my head. I didn’t trust myself from blurting a confession, so I busied myself fixing the plumbing issues on Father’s houseboat.

  “What ’tis ’ye hands busied wit’, moiy son?” Father asked, startling me from my thoughts.

  I cleared my throat. “Oh, uh, just having a look at your pipes. I think I can fix them. I’ll just need pop into town and visit a hardware store.” I looked at his expectant face. “Unless you have something else for me to do?”

  “No, no, nothin’ else, boyo. Go on’ wit’ ya. I’ve a lead on one o’ the girls’ families an’ I mean ta’ go ’bout foindin’ ’em.” He smiled at me and my stomach plummeted. I swallowed the satisfaction I felt knowing I helped that girl escape as well as the guilt from the murders that helped her get there.

  It’s fine. It’s fine. Carry it all on your own. Carry it and keep it to yourself. Carry it and find solace in their freedoms.

  I breathed deeply, trying very hard to obey myself. “Okay, cool, uh, I’ll just head to town then.”

  I stood and sidled my way past him. As I did this, though, his eyes narrowed on me.

  “Ya roight, son? Ya need nothin’ while ya here? Ya look toired. I’d no’ begrudge ya toime off. Ya know this?”

  I tried my best to smile at him. “I know, Father. Thank you.”

  I practically sprinted out of the boathouse and down the dock, not bothering to look back. I knew he was watching me. I could feel his scrutiny. Being in his presence sent me into a deep, almost drowning guilt. Made all the worse in knowing I was lying to him. He trusted me implicitly.

  I ran down the beach, forgoing my usual hoodie. I’d come to hate the thing. It meant death, that hood. That dark, foreboding hood. I ran up the incline toward the canopy of trees and through the grove, over the path, hitting the shell gravel, my aim stood there but along with it came the sweetest yet most intimidating view.

  I slid to a stop in front of the bike. “Hello, Finley.”

  Her face was reserved, devoid of anything telling. “Hello, Ethan.”

  “I’m, uh, headed into town.”

  She straightened her back and folded her arms across her chest. “Oh yeah? For what?”

  “Gotta get a few parts for Father’s houseboat. It’s, uh, it’s fallin’ apart.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yup,” I said, shoving my hand into my pocket for the key to the bike. I memorized her face. That face. That face. That face. “You wanna come with me?” I asked, devastated by her, but not trying to show it. I climbed on and the entire bike sank lower with my weight as if in sync with my heart.

  Her brows furrowed. “Do you want me to?”

  My jaw clenched and I stared at her. “Of course I do. I want you with me. Always.”

  Her face softened a little but no words came as she straddled the bike, sitting behind me. My breaths sped up in preparation for her hands. Please, I thought. Her fingers found my sides and I clenched the muscles there to keep from trembling. Finally.

  I brought my right palm up and rested it on top of her left hand. I looked down and spoke in a low-pitched tone toward the earth. “I love you.”

  She hugged herself closer to me, wrapped her hands around me, and rested her cheek against my shoulder. “Do you?” she asked, making my heart break.

  “How could you ask me that?”

  She paused. “I love you too,” she declared softly, setting me back to rights.

  My hand left hers, found the key to the ignition, and turned. We rode into the town proper in search of a hardware store, not that I had any idea where one would be. We rode down the streetways, examining the shops around us in hopes of finding something that even remotely resembled one. We rode for almost an hour and by the end of that hour, I’d lost complete awareness of myself. I no longer cared for the repair shop. I cared for nothing but Fin.

  On a side glance, I noticed a tea shop tucked into a corner of an intersection and pulled over, parking my bike next to hundreds of others that lined the sides of the street. I turned the bike off but neither of us made a move to get off.

  “I’m very tired,” I told her.

  “Tired can mean so many things,” she replied.

  She got off the bike and headed into the small five-by-ten-foot tea shop. I found myself running my hands down both walls as I followed her through the narrow shop to the counter in the back. She ordered our teas in Vietnamese, paid quickly, then left me where I stood to sit at a table nearest the front of the shop. I walked back to the wide, exposed entrance open to the street and sat next to her.

  Her hands were folded on the table in front of her, her purple nail polish and many rings glistening in the noonday sun next to our teas. She turned to me, smiled sadly, then returned her gaze toward her hands. The thumb of her left hand began to trace the curling edges of the shop’s plastic menu.

  “Finley,” I spoke.

  Her thumb stilled. “Yes?”

  “Are you upset?”

  “Without a doubt,” she said without hesitation.

  “What about?” I asked, my heart racing in my chest. The palm of my hand found the pounding there and pressed.

  “You’re keeping something,” she said, watching my hand. I dropped it at my side. “I can’t figure it out because I can’t get close to you. You won’t let me.”

  “I’m right here,” I told her, sinking into my chair a little. I stared out into the street and observed the passersby.

  “You’re a million miles away,” she said.

  I turned my head her direction. “I’m here,” I said and sat up. I grabbed one of her hands with both of mine and brought it to my chest. “I’m right here.”

  She tugged her hand from mine. “No, I don’t think you are.”

  “I am,” I told her, running my hands through my short hair. I stared at her; my eyes pierced through hers. “What more do you want from me?”

  She smiled knowingly. “I don’t want anything from you at all,” s
he told me, wounding me.

  She stood, never having taken a single sip of her tea, and began to walk the sidewalk toward the day market. Something about our conversation scared me. So little had been said, yet there was something so final lying underneath it, like a venomous snake waiting to attack.

  I left my cup behind, its contents untouched, and pursued her. She walked briskly, as if her destination was a settled place, and I wondered where she was going.

  I sped up, determined to catch her. Don’t lose her. Don’t lose her. When I was near, I reached out and grabbed her elbow, staying her in her place in the middle of the busy sidewalk. People parted around us. We were jutting rocks in river rapids.

  “Every step you take away from me, Finley Dyer, is a knife to my chest!” I yelled over the din of voices and traffic. “I don’t know why! Why does this feel so painful?”

  She turned toward me, her eyes glassy. “This is what it feels like to be torn apart, Ethan, that’s why,” she yelled, not out of anger, but to be heard.

  I yanked her into me and hugged her to keep her near me. “Why do you think that?” I asked in her ear.

  “I can feel you,” she said, clutching my shirt at my shoulders. “I can touch you, feel you, smell you, see you, but you—” she said, pressing her palm into my chest, my heart, “this you is somewhere else, Ethan. I’ve been looking for you, searching for you, calling for you, but you don’t answer me. You’re living somewhere else and I feel the distance, smell the distance, see the distance. I can taste the distance, Ethan, and my God, is it bitter.” She let go of me and I detested the absence. “Come back to me, Ethan,” she whispered. “Come back. Come back. Come to me, Ethan,” she said, her hands fisting the fabric at her stomach. Tears spilled from her eyes.

  “I’m trying. Can’t you see that I’m trying? God!” I said, gripping the hair at the top of my head. “This was never my intention. I just wanted to earn you,” I foolishly admitted. “I wanted to earn you.”

  “How?” she asked, mistaking my meaning. “How could you earn me when I’ve given myself so freely to you, Ethan! How many times do I have to tell you that I already belong to you. You’ve already got me, Ethan. I’m yours,” she said, extending her arms at her side, making the unthinking, passing people bend to her whim, like leaves swirling with the wind.