by M. O. Mack
As for this neighborhood, well…yeah, it was pretty rough: abandoned burned-out cars with graffiti, weeds growing in the cracked sidewalks, and trash just about everywhere. But none of that unnerved her nearly as much as the immaculate mansion smack in the middle of it all. Whoever lived here either had the community’s respect or their fear.
Emily pulled into the driveway, lowered the window, and punched the red intercom button just outside the gate. After a moment, a deep voice crackled over the speaker. “Yeah?”
“I’m here with a delivery.”
“From who?”
She had no clue if it was okay to say Charge’s name. He hadn’t given her instructions. “Names aren’t any of my business. All I know is I’ve got an envelope and a truck.”
The gate buzzed open.
Guess that means come on in. She pulled forward and drove the truck all the way around the fountain, leaving the vehicle pointed toward the gate. Could she push this thing through that fence if she had to get out quickly? Who knew? But better to have the option.
She took the keys with her this time and shoved them in her front jeans pocket. The envelope was in her purse along with the gun.
She stepped up the front porch to the huge iron doors and rang the bell. The door popped open.
Standing there was a Caucasian guy in a baggy white T-shirt, torn jeans, and army boots. His thick arms were covered in tattoos.
“Well. Hi there.” He looked her over like a piece of meat and then flashed a sinister smile.
Her blood pressure hit the roof. His smile reminded her of Ed’s dirty friends—the way they used to look at her.
Panic speared the middle of her stomach. Charge hadn’t said anything about the threat being here at the drop-off spot, but he also hadn’t told her it was safe. Logic said if these guys were holding a woman hostage, they weren’t the nicest people on the planet.
She resisted the urge to reach in her purse and rest her hand on the loaded gun inside. She didn’t want to draw attention to the only thing that might keep her safe.
Dammit. I really hope I don’t have to shoot anyone. It was a line she never wanted to cross.
The man stepped aside and allowed her to pass. “You can wait in there, sweetheart. Marco will be down in a minute.” The man indicated she should go to the room just right of the grand staircase with a gold metal railing and a huge gold-and-crystal chandelier hanging over it. The floors in the entry were all white marble, and the walls were painted peach. Beveled mirrors and photos of lions hung everywhere. Apparently, Liberace decorated the house. Flamboyant gangster chic.
“I’ll wait here by the door, thank you,” she replied.
His eyes turned hard, and his posture went rigid. Maybe he wasn’t used to people saying no.
“Look,” she added, trying to look confident and not fidget in her Converse, “I’m here to drop off the envelope and truck. I’m not here to socialize.”
Suddenly, she wondered what would become of the woman. How had she not thought to ask Charge about this? Oh, yeah. We had a mob of gangsters barreling toward us. It had been a smidgeon distracting, but that was no excuse for the last forty-five minutes while she was en route to her apartment then to here. What was supposed to happen at the end of this deal? Would they hand over the hostage or drop her off at some predetermined location?
“Who the fuck are you?” A tall man with thick wavy black hair, wearing a white button-down shirt and black pants, stood at the top of the ornate staircase. He had tanned skin and stunning light eyes—maybe light green or hazel—he was too far away to tell, but what struck her instantly was the coldness in them. They reminded her of Charge, of someone who’d probably killed a lot of people and, in doing so, had lost all human warmth.
“You must be Marco. I’m the delivery person.” She lifted her chin, trying to be brave, but her hands were sweaty and her heart was beating like a war drum. Oh, God. I think I’m going to throw up.
“Where’s Charge?” Marco asked.
“Tied up, I guess.” She was about to produce the envelope, but something stopped her. “He said you’re supposed to show me the woman first—make sure she’s okay. Then you can have what I’ve brought.”
He stared for a long moment from atop his perch, zero emotion showing through that rough exterior. Her sweaty hand started to twitch. Her fingers tingled with the urge to go for her gun. The air filled with thick, stifling tension. She could hardly breathe.
Marco suddenly threw back his head, letting out a husky laugh. “Okay, honey. You want to see the woman? You can see the woman.” He waved his hand. “Come on up.”
Oh God no. “Bring her down.”
“Look, sweetheart. If you want to see her, then you’ll need to come up here, because I’m not cutting her loose from that bed until I have what Charge promised.”
Emily’s heart revolted in her chest. They’d tied her to the bed. God only knew what they’d done to her. I changed my mind. Now I really do want to shoot someone.
She growled at the man and then stomped up the marble stairs, giving him a little bump as she passed.
The man laughed. “You’re a feisty one. Where’d Charge find you?”
“The want ads,” she said flatly. “Where is she?”
“Second door on the right.”
Emily marched to the door, consumed with anger. She turned the handle and pushed open the door. Against the wall, directly across from her, was a woman with dark hair and a gag in her mouth, tied to a bed. She had dried mascara stains down her cheeks. To the woman’s side, a man with a beer belly and greasy black hair had his pudgy hand on the woman’s breast.
A flash of white-hot rage ignited. The ability to think or rationalize left Emily. All she saw was herself on that bed. The pain. The torment.
Emily looked down at her hand just as the gun went off. She hadn’t even realized she’d gone for it. But she had.
And fuck. I missed. Who knew where the bullet went, but at least it hadn’t hit the woman.
Startled, the man stood from the bed and stumbled back.
Knowing that Marco was behind her in the hall, probably drawing his own gun, Emily stepped into the room and pushed her back against the wall just left of the doorway. She immediately turned her body and pointed the gun just as Marco stepped into the room, gun out.
In that moment, everything happened so fast.
He pivoted his body toward her. She shot first.
After that, everything moved in slow motion.
Marco stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. She saw the terror in his light cold eyes. The shock, the pain. He couldn’t believe she’d put a hole in his chest. Neither could she. It was horrific, ending another person’s life. Didn’t matter how justified, it was the sort of thing that would leave a permanent scar on her soul. She didn’t need hours, days, or years to process it. She just knew.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He pressed his hand over the spot, and she watched the bright red stain seep into the white fabric of his shirt, spreading down like floodwater gushing through a ravine.
Her consciousness kicked in, telling her there was still another threat in the room and another man outside. Maybe several men.
She swiveled on her heel and pointed the gun at the big-belly man, Mr. Fondler. “Untie her,” Emily barked.
The man scrambled to the bed and hastily began undoing the knots. With her first hand free, the woman pulled the gag from her mouth and started panting.
“How many are in the house?” Emily growled at Mr. Fondler.
“Just the one. Just the one.”
“Bullshit!” Emily shook the gun at him. “Don’t fucking lie to me!”
“Okay. Okay. Five. There are five more.”
“Who is second-in-command?” she asked.
The large man blinked at her.
“Who!” she urged.
“Um. Um…Bruno.”
She figured Bruno couldn’t be far. “Bruno! You the
re in the hallway?”
“Yeah,” the deep voice echoed outside.
“Well, I killed your boss apparently, which now puts you in charge. You’re welcome, by the way. Now, can I have your word that I’ll be allowed to leave here with this nice woman?”
Silence.
“I’ll take your friend with me as insurance, of course,” she added. “But I promise to only break his hand and not kill him for accosting the hostage. That is, if I have your word?”
“I want what’s in the truck and that envelope.”
“Fine by me. Do we have a deal?” She raised a brow and looked at the man across the room, who was now sweating profusely. The woman was busy untying her foot.
“Yes. You are free to go,” Bruno said.
Emily crinkled her nose at the big-bellied guy. “Come here, dickface.” It was a good thing that the guy liked his beer because he would be the perfect shield.
The woman, now free, scrambled from the bed and started attacking the guy. “I’ll kill you, motherfucker! I’ll rip off your balls.”
Emily exhaled. “Excuse me. Excuse me. We need to go, but I promise you can do what you like with his balls once we’re safely away.”
The woman stopped and looked up at Emily, her eyes filled with emotion and despair.
It broke Emily’s heart. “Scout’s honor.” Emily raised her left hand. “But let me try to get us out of here alive.”
The woman backed off.
“Thank you.” Emily jerked the gun at her human escape shield. “You first, big man. And keep your hands up.” She had no clue what she was doing, but this wasn’t the time to get out the pen and paper to brainstorm. They needed to get the hell out of there.
Emily pushed the gun into the small of the man’s back, and he stepped into the hallway first. She peeked her head out quickly, noting three men waiting for them. I don’t think they’re keeping their word.
She reached behind her, grabbing the woman’s wrist. “Run!”
She pushed the large man into the waiting group and turned toward the stairs with the woman in tow. “Go! Go!” They both stumbled down the grand staircase, getting to the front door as the men chased after them. Emily flung the door open, and both of them stopped.
An even larger group waited outside.
“Oh shit.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emily thought she’d gone into this evening prepared for anything, but boy, was she wrong. The large group gathered outside the front door looked mean and deadly, like someone had just scooped them up from some commando, Navy SEAL mission from the middle of a war zone, dressed them in Must Have Tees, and then dropped them right on this doorstep.
I think I’m going to wet myself. But as her bladder threatened to betray her, a few very peculiar things stood out from her elevated vantage point on the front steps.
One, she could see right into the truck she’d driven here, and the back was open and empty. Two, the men weren’t all men. There were female faces sprinkled in the crowd, too. One was the woman from the other day who’d come into the suite looking beat up. Today, she had on a dark green baseball cap, but Emily would recognize her anywhere even if the black eye was miraculously absent. Three, while the large group of maybe twenty or thirty people looked tough as hell, none were reaching for weapons.
Charge’s black sedan pulled through the open gate.
Right behind it were those two black pickups from earlier.
What the hell is going on? With her hand still gripping the gun, Emily watched as Charge got out of the sedan. The look on his face was so insane, so uncharacteristically happy, that she was absolutely certain she had not made it out of that bedroom back there.
Charge walked over, all heads following him as he stopped a few feet in front of the steps where Emily and the woman stood.
“What the hell is this?” Emily snarled.
Charge opened his mouth just as a loud noise exploded through the air. A gunshot.
Everyone’s attention turned in the direction of three beige vans pulling up on the sidewalk just outside the wrought-iron fence. The side doors slid open, revealing men with heavy guns. They jumped out, ran up against the fence, and started shooting through it straight at the group in front of her.
Charge’s eyes went wide, and he dashed up the steps where Emily stood. “Get down!” He grabbed her wrist and yanked her so hard, she flew forward, cracking the side of her head on the pavers below. A searing pain rushed through her skull, but she noticed the woman still standing at the top of the steps clutching her stomach, blood pouring between her fingers. The woman dropped.
They shot her? They shot her! Emily winced as the house, people, and voices all around swirled into her own private tornado of chaos and pain.
“Don’t move, Emily. Just stay down,” said that gruff, familiar voice, lying on the ground next to her.
“Not going anywhere,” she groaned.
Charge got up and scurried behind his sedan at the edge of the driveway.
She couldn’t see straight, but it didn’t take clear vision to know that the men in the beige vans were trying to kill everyone who was now taking cover behind the truck she’d driven here and some of the other vehicles.
I’m going to be sick. One man lay on the pavers in the driveway a few yards away. The empty glazed-over look in his eyes said it all. Dead.
I need to get out of here. She thought of those women back in New Jersey. If she didn’t make it, who would help them? Who would make sure Ed and his band of violent corrupt buddies paid for what they’d done? But as important as those things were to her, Emily couldn’t stop the bullets from flying. She couldn’t stop the night sky from spinning. And there was something supremely terrifying about knowing she was about to lose consciousness in the middle of a violent shoot-out. In just a matter of seconds, whatever happened would be entirely out of her control.
Emily squinted across the courtyard toward Charge’s sedan. Those cold gray eyes drilled into her, as if he were trying to tell her something. But what?
Black shadows began closing around her vision just as she spotted another set of eyes: Those of the man she’d shot. Marco. He was ducking behind Charge’s car, too.
What…the…
* * *
When Emily’s brain began sparking back to a conscious state, she had the odd sensation that things hadn’t ended so great back at the gangster palace. Maybe it was the cold concrete floor pressed to her face. Maybe it was the throbbing ache in her head. Didn’t really matter much, now did it? She knew that she had been taken by someone. The men in the van? The men from the house? Charge? But as much pain as she felt throughout her tired, hungry body, it wasn’t herself she worried about.
What had happened to that woman she’d tried to rescue? Had she really been shot?
Emily’s eyes fluttered open, and she sat up, taking in the cavernous, dimly lit warehouse space. It smelled like lumber but was basically empty aside from a stack of pallets over by a door with newspaper on the window.
And my foot is chained to… Her eyes followed the heavy steel links to a post a few feet away. The post was made of steel and set into the concrete floor, running all the way up to the metal roof.
Great. I’m padlocked to that? Her mind scrambled, looking for anything to pick the lock—a discarded nail, a piece of wire, anything. But the floor around her was clean, which meant her only way out would be to negotiate with them.
Big problem. I don’t know who they are or what they want. She had no idea what had happened back at that mansion.
Suddenly, the memories began pouring in.
She had shot a man. She had watched him die and fall to the floor. Moments later, he was alive and well at Charge’s side. That woman, who Charge claimed had worked for the cartel and set him up, had also been in the crowd. Finally, the men in the two black pickups showed up with Charge and were also by his side after the shooting started.
She had been set up. That was the only explanation.
The entire thing had been some sort of… Fuck. I don’t know. Her earlier theory had been that these men were some sort of law enforcement trying to infiltrate a group of hit men who’d disbanded. Now, she didn’t know what to think. That entire scene back at the house had been fake up until those beige vans arrived.
At least, I think those were real bullets. But she couldn’t know for certain about anything at this point. This is insane. All of it.
About fifty feet away, the newspaper-covered door opened, flooding the room with blinding sunlight. She squinted and watched three large figures coming toward her. The shorter one—a bald guy in his twenties, with a huge-ass calligraphy tattoo on his forehead—came up on her and crouched.
She blinked at him. “Who are you?”
He pulled back his fist and punched her in the mouth.
Her head whiplashed, and she felt warm blood trickling from her bottom lip, down her chin.
That was not fake. And neither was her anger. How many times had she been hit and said nothing? How many times had she just let it happen? How many nights had she blacked out because her body thought it was better if her mind went somewhere else?
Honestly, she could take the pain, but she couldn’t take being a victim. Not anymore.
She lifted her leg and kicked him right in the crotch.
He fell back moaning, cupping himself. “I’m going to kill you,” he grunted.
“Yeah? Well, step in line, dick.”
The men who stood behind Shorty, one on each side, started to chuckle. They were both in baggy black pants and plaid shirts. The tall skinny one looked about twenty, tops. The third guy had to be about forty with another face tattoo—two lines of words across his cheek, which she couldn’t read.