by M. O. Mack
“Forty.” She chuckled bitterly and shoved her water and pretzels into her oversized purse. “At this rate, I’ll be lucky to make it to thirty.” Ed would never stop looking. He wouldn’t rest until she was dismembered, the pieces placed in ten different suitcases and sprinkled across one hundred and thirty miles of New Jersey coastline. Add to that threat her uncanny ability to pick the most dangerous people to connect herself with and an early death was a sure thing.
She headed for the front door and was about to reach for the handle when the door jerked open. Startled, Emily gasped and looked up, locking eyes with the tall man blocking her path. He looked to be in his early thirties. He had tanned skin, unkempt black hair, and a sturdy build. His clothes—faded jeans, heavy military-style boots, and a black T-shirt that hugged his broad chest—said he was the type who wanted to be noticed, that he’d fuck you up if you messed with him. His soulless gray eyes said he wouldn’t give a shit if you cried about it when he did.
“Where the hell is my money?” he said with a scratchy, deep voice.
It was him, the man who’d called yesterday and told her to shut the fuck up.
She didn’t like being spoken to that way, but out of self-preservation, Emily pushed the anger down a deep dark hole inside her mind where she kept all the bad stuff. It was getting pretty crowded in there.
“I’m sorry. I’m just the receptionist. I answer the phone. I take messages. That’s it,” she said, praying that he too would just leave. There’d be no hope if he wanted to hurt her, which she assumed he would if he didn’t get his way. She knew the type. Dangerous.
He narrowed those gray eyes. “Get Sampson on the phone.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, her voice as level as she could make it, “I just take messages.”
“You’re fucking telling me you can’t call him?”
She shook her head no.
He stepped forward, forcing her back against the desk, the front door closing behind him. He leaned down so she had a clear view of the displeasure in his eyes. “He knows the rules. He knows the consequences. If I leave here without my money, I’ll be forced to put a bullet in someone’s head. And, just in case you’re wondering, I only plan to stay for sixty seconds.” He reached one arm behind him.
She guessed he had a gun back there. Dangerous. Why did I have to be right about him? Maybe it was one of the few perks of her past life—she could now spot an Ed from a mile away.
“I want. My fifty. Thousand,” he added.
Fifty. Fifty. Her hands shaking, she slipped around to the other side of the desk and yanked open the drawer. “Here. Take it.” She slid the envelope toward him.
He snagged it, looked inside, and offered a snarl. “Tell Sampson to call me. Next time I have to come looking for my money, I’ll be going to his home, not his office.”
She watched the man leave, noting the huge gun shoved in the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.
I’m so done here. Whatever this place was, whatever services they provided, she was not having any of it.
She waited a minute, to ensure the guy was gone, and then walked outside, locked the door, and threw the key under the mat. Tomorrow she would start combing the job ads, but she was never coming back to this place.
CHAPTER THREE
Emily had no idea what would happen if she simply stopped showing up to suite forty-five. There had been no agreement with Mr. Sampson, verbal or otherwise, concerning the length of her employment. And, as far as he was concerned, she knew nothing about the real nature of his business. He would probably assume she’d shown up, saw the dump of an office, and decided it wasn’t for her. If he did turn out to be upset over her departure, well, too bad. Luckily, he didn’t know where she lived. All Sampson had was her name—the Emily Rockford one—and the email attached to her Zelle account. There was no way to track her down.
Why are you worried? she asked herself. The man had disappeared. Dead. Hiding. On the run. She didn’t know which, but there was no reason to work herself up over quitting. She’d simply put a block on her Zelle account so that no more payments came through.
Done.
She spent Friday and most of the weekend filling out job applications anywhere that wouldn’t be too nosy when it came to background checks—waitress at the hole-in-the-wall a few blocks down, cocktail server at the dive bar near the border crossing where the truckers liked to hang out, and car wash attendant.
There were plenty of jobs for those wanting to keep a low profile, but the problem with El Paso was its abundance of people just like her. Mexico was an arm’s reach away, and while most people were simply passing through and heading north, some were as broke and desperate as she was. They couldn’t afford to go anywhere else, so they kept their heads down, found whatever work they could, and then bought a ride out of town with one of the guys they called pajaros—birds to fly them away. In a car, of course. Airplanes required ID. Buses weren’t a good option this close to the border. (Too frequently stopped by Border Patrol.)
All these little facts came from her meticulous internet research conducted during short stints to the public library near her old house in Jersey. Ten minutes here, five minutes there, while coming or going to the grocery store so as not to rouse Ed’s suspicion. “Just checking out a book on gardening.” Or, “Just returning my book on gardening,” she’d say. It took over a year to examine prospective towns and plan her getaway, the biggest hurdle being that Ed kept a tight leash on money. She had gotten good at buying small things and returning them for cash. Socks, pens, conditioner that didn’t work, a BBQ grilling set, wine that had gone “bad”—you name it, she figured out how to return it for cash.
As for her logic behind choosing El Paso when she might’ve fared better elsewhere, somewhere quiet and remote like a few towns she’d scouted in North Dakota, it was simple. Ed had connections. He knew how to find people.
At least in this country.
A place like El Paso gave her somewhere to run if it ever came to that. From Mexico, she could keep going south. She could disappear forever.
Of course, that wasn’t her plan. She wasn’t done with Ed just yet. A bad man like him had to pay for the things he’d done and still did.
Only a matter of time. Patience and planning.
Early Monday morning, after a good sleep that left her head clear but her ears itchy from using wadded-up toilet paper as earplugs, she put on her black shorts, a light gray tee, and tennis shoes to go for a quick run before the sun came all the way up. She grabbed her credit card and ID and slid them into her bra. She would stop by the drugstore on the way back and buy more brown hair dye. Red roots were not conducive to hiding one’s identity. Looking average was the key—average height, common hair color, plain clothes. The only thing that stood out were her bright green eyes—her father’s eyes.
She stepped outside onto the concrete walkway that edged a row of carports where tarry black pools dotted the empty spaces. She shoved her key into the deadbolt and—
“Hello, Jane,” said an unhappy baritone voice.
Her heart jarred against her rib cage. For one split second, she thought it was Ed coming to collect on his dismemberment-suitcase promise, but the voice wasn’t his. Neither was the tall, lanky body with the sweaty brow and scar on the upper lip.
Rick. “What are you doing here?” She noted something bulky in his pants pocket. Possibly a gun. She tried to remain calm. Calm had always been her friend. Calm never failed to save her.
“I followed you the other day.”
Yeah, I got that, you psycho. She tightened her grip on the key inserted in the deadbolt while maintaining eye contact. Should she finish engaging the lock, or should she push on that door and attempt to get inside? No, she’d never make it; the man was standing too close.
“Why did you follow me?” She twisted her hand, yanked the key from the lock, and slid it into her shorts pocket.
“Because I knew you were going to rip m
e off. I just knew,” he growled.
She took it the job hadn’t been done on Saturday like he’d asked. But how was that her problem? She’d given the money to the guy with the scratchy voice. Not that this was any of her business.
Keep telling yourself that. She raised her hands, attempting to show Rick that she was no threat. Get his guard down. Then run. “I’m sorry. I only take messages. That’s it.” The snarl on his face told her he wasn’t going to accept her excuse, so she added, “But the money is still sitting in the drawer. Mr. Sampson never came to pick it up.” A partial lie.
“Why? Where is he?”
“I get paid to answer the phone. He doesn’t involve me in his business. But if you want your money back, we can go to the office right now, and I’ll give it to you.” She couldn’t tell him that she’d handed it over to some man who’d shown up and threatened her. He wouldn’t be happy. Convincing Rick to go to the office only bought her a few minutes to think. Or run. Or…something.
“Got a car? We can go right now,” she urged.
His brown eyes flickered with suspicion. He wasn’t biting.
“I’m sorry, Rick,” she added, hoping to sway him, “but it’s not like I have fifty thousand just sitting around to give you. Look where I live.”
He bit the edge of his lower lip and chewed aggressively. She was getting through to him. “I want to talk to Sampson.”
“Then call him. But if you think I’ve got some magic way to track him down or get him to answer, I don’t. He calls me when he needs something,” she lied. They’d only spoken the one time. Of course, the caller ID had been blocked, so she had no way of calling him back. The scratchy-voice man said he knew where Sampson lived, but it wasn’t like she’d be calling him for help. Even if she had his number. Which she didn’t.
Rick narrowed his shifty eyes. “Fine. We’ll go to the office, but if you try anything, I’ll kill you. Understand?”
Emily refrained from laughing. If she had a nickel for every time she’d heard those words, she’d be living on her own private island. “I understand.”
He jerked his head in the direction of a dark green SUV parked along the edge of the chain-link fence separating the apartment complex from the liquor store next door.
She marched toward the vehicle, trying to stay calm. Calm is my ally. Calm means survival.
“Nice place, by the way.” He kicked an empty beer can out of his way and then unlocked the passenger-side door for her.
He must’ve noticed the fancy decorative paper bags and discarded vodka fifths. They littered the patches of overgrown dried grass that had made homes along the base of the fence.
“Some see urban decay. I see motivation to work harder,” she said, getting into the SUV.
“You’re an odd one, aren’t you?”
Says the man threatening to kill me. She shrugged, trying to mask the panic swimming in her stomach.
“Guess you’d have to be if you’re working for Sampson.” He slammed the door shut and came around to the driver’s side, giving her a few seconds to firm up her plan. The street she lived on was a main thoroughfare that ran east to west through the south of town. There was a stoplight every few blocks, and at this time of day, traffic clogged every intersection. Most people turned and took shortcuts down the smaller side streets to avoid it. Whatever route he chose, he would have to stop or slow down. She would jump out at the first chance and run.
He would likely assume she’d come back here to her apartment to get her stuff, but she wouldn’t. There was nothing she couldn’t leave behind—a few toiletries from the dollar store, a frying pan and pot she’d picked up at the thrift store, along with her cheap work outfits. At best, it was a few hundred bucks’ worth of items, including the free mattress and sheets she’d gotten from the church down the road that helped women in need. Still, it killed her to have to run again, but what choice did she have?
The guy slid inside the SUV and grabbed her hand. Before she could react, he’d handcuffed himself to her.
“What the…?” Her mouth fell open.
“In case you get any bright ideas.”
Shit. Shit. Shit!
He cranked the engine and merged into traffic. Her mind spun frantically. If they made it back to that office, she was screwed.
* * *
She’d counted five opportunities she could have had to jump from the green SUV hurtling toward imminent doom. Five chances to save herself she’d never get. But they were already halfway to the office, and whining about hypotheticals wouldn’t help her.
Think of something. Think! A story to convince him not to kill her or a weapon inside the office. But there was nothing in that shithole that could kill him unless he was game to wait around for a cup of coffee. Her best bet was making a move before they got to the strip mall. With him driving, she might be able to discreetly signal someone who would then call the police.
No. Bad idea. Cops might save her initially, but then they’d start asking questions. They might ask for her ID and notice that the Emily in the picture had a round face compared to her oval one. Also, their noses were nothing alike, hers being much perkier with a scar in the middle—a gift from Ed.
The only option? Talk to Rick and keep him talking. She was good at that—making conversation. It had been one of the few tools she possessed when Ed was in a mood, ready to take it out on her. Talking calmed him, made him focus on something else.
“So, um…how do you know Mr. Sampson?” she asked.
The man glanced sideways but remained focused on the busy traffic. “Same as any person.”
“The want ads?”
He chuckled with a condescending edge. “Yeah, right.”
“That’s how I met him.”
“The want ads?” More condescending chuckles.
“I’m serious. I answered an ad for a receptionist. I don’t even know what he actually does.”
Rick rubbed his sweaty brow with the back of his hand, forcing her arm to go with it. “Don’t give a fuck. All I care about is getting my fifty thousand back.”
Suddenly, she saw a window cracked open, leading to salvation. “Yeah, but like you said, the job wasn’t done. Why not wait a few more days? See if Mr. Sampson can make things right?”
His one hand tightened on the steering wheel. “You think I’m fucking around here? We’re not talking about a pizza you mistakenly put pineapple on.”
Don’t say pizza. Her stomach rumbled. “Agreed. But I sense that whatever service Mr. Sampson provides is hard to come by.”
“He’s not on Yelp, that’s for fucking sure.”
“Then let me talk to Sampson—see what can be worked out.”
“You said you had no way to contact him.” Rick sounded cocky all of a sudden, like he’d caught her in a lie and that somehow made him a superior human being.
“Yes. He contacts me. And I’m sure he will.”
They arrived to the dumpy strip mall. Rick pulled into the spot right in front of the frosted-glass door. She looked up at the thick black numbers painted above the doorway. “Suite #45” was starting to feel like a curse.
Rick unlocked his end of the handcuffs and produced the gun she suspected was there all along. “No bullshit or I shoot you. Got it?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait for Mr. Samp—”
“I want my fucking money!” he yelled, his dark strands of hair falling in his face.
“Okay. Okay.” She slowly exited the car, praying for a miracle. There had to be some way out of this. She bent down and lifted the doormat, but—
Where’s the key? She spun in a circle. Maybe when I threw it, it bounced or—
“What are you doing?” Rick growled, standing beside her, the gun back in his pocket.
“The key’s gone.” She dropped the thick rubber mat.
He slapped her hard. “Stupid bitch! You left the key under the doormat, with my fifty thousand inside?”
She cupped her cheek and stared up
at him, that feeling she knew all too well seeping into her brain. Cold, hard fear. It was the sort of fear that triggered a chain reaction. First, all emotion shut down. Screaming or crying when Ed hit her only made it worse. He expected her to take her punishment and do nothing to make him feel guilty about being such a violent man. One tear, one whimper, and he unleashed hell. He hated weakness—in himself and within others. Second, her body went numb. Sometimes, she’d wake the next morning with cuts that still bled. She never remembered Ed giving them to her, but he had.
“You’d better pray the money’s still in there.” Rick walked back to his SUV, reached under the seat, and produced a crowbar.
It was her chance to run. Maybe her only chance. There were plenty of cars passing on the street, so all she needed was for one person to stop.
She turned her body, preparing to bolt, just as the office door popped open. Standing inside the office, with arms crossed over his large chest and a gun with a silencer in his hand, was the scratchy-voiced man.
“And just who the hell are you?” he growled at Rick.
Rick’s mouth flapped for a moment. “Are-are you Sampson?”
“No.”
Rick dropped the crowbar and grabbed her from behind, putting his gun to her head. It happened so fast, Emily felt her teeth clack.
The exterminator guy didn’t flinch. “You probably aren’t aware,” he said with an ominous tinge to his voice, “but there are rules in this line of work. For all the players, including clients. I’m assuming you’re unfamiliar with them, so I’ll give you three seconds to drop the gun, let her go, and leave.”
She couldn’t see Rick’s face, but she suspected he was either pissing himself or debating his next move. Possibly both.
“One,” said Mr. Cold Eyes. “Two.”