by M. O. Mack
Shorty groaned for another minute and then finally composed himself. He stood up, bent down, and backhanded her, this time nailing her nose.
The burning sensation shot right down her neck and spine. Crap. That hurts. She inhaled slowly and took in the pain like she’d done so many times before. But this time, she wouldn’t cower. She wouldn’t give him what he wanted: her dignity.
She lifted her chin. “In case you’re wondering, my husband hit me every other day for three years. And do you know what I learned from him? (A) he’s the biggest pussy on the planet because only pussies beat up on people who are smaller than them; and (B) his IQ was about as big as a chicken nugget. Real men use words. Real men know how to get what they want by working hard for it. You’re just a small prick in a big body with a raisin brain.” She spit the blood from her mouth onto the floor and then smiled.
He raised his fist and started to lean down again. She raised her chin another inch, staring up at him defiantly.
“Hey, man,” said the tall, skinny dude to the right, “if you kill her, she’s not much use to us.”
Shorty dropped his fist and looked over his shoulder. “Yeah. You’re right.” He pulled a sheathed knife from his back pocket. “I’ll just remove something she don’t need and mail it to Charge. That should inspire him.”
“So you guys don’t work for Charge?” she asked.
The men laughed in unison.
“I’ll take that as a no.” It wasn’t a relief exactly. Charge had put her through some pretty horrible things, all of which had led her here. “Okay. So you hate Charge, and you believe cutting off my…?”
“Your ear,” said Shorty.
She nodded. “Thank you. You believe that cutting off my ear will get him to do something. Has it crossed your minds that Charge doesn’t actually care about me? I mean, the guy has done nothing but lie and pull me into dangerous situation after dangerous situation. What makes you think he’ll give two shits about me, my ear, or any other body part?”
Shorty shrugged. “We don’t. But hey, it’s still worth a try.”
He leaned in with his knife, reaching for her ear.
“Wait.” She twisted her head. “Can you at least tell me who Charge is? I’d like to know why I’m losing something I’ve had since birth for a man I don’t even know.”
The men went silent.
Poker faces. “You don’t know either.” She laughed at the utter absurdity of it all. No one knew who Charge was.
“He’s been killing our men,” Shorty admitted reluctantly. “That’s all we need to know.”
“Hold on. Are you guys actual cartel members?”
“What kind of stupid bitch asks that?” Shorty said.
“Are you going to answer or just stand there trying to hurt my feelings?” she threw back.
They didn’t reply.
“Okay.” She chuckled, fully aware that she was losing her mind—the proof being that she didn’t feel afraid anymore but probably should. “Stupid bitch here will take that as another yes. Do any of you know a guy named Sampson?”
The three men exchanged glances.
“What?” she asked.
“That’s a trick question; no one knows him,” said the tall skinny guy. “He’s like a fucking ghost. He wants you dead, you’re dead.”
So no one knew him either, and now things made even less sense. On the bright side, they seemed afraid of Sampson, which felt like an opportunity.
“Well, that makes things extra interesting,” she grinned, “because Sampson is the man who hired me.”
The men didn’t look so tough all of a sudden, shifting their weight and putting hands into pockets.
“You lie,” said Shorty.
“No. I started working for him nine days ago. He asked me to help out answering the phones. Oh, and by the way, I personally agree with the whole ‘if he wants you dead, you’re dead’ thing because I read some of his files. He has killed a lot of people. People like you.”
“One second.” Shorty pulled the men aside out of earshot.
She watched their body language closely—hands waving frantically and repeated glances her way. Whatever that was about, it gave her hope. They might be rethinking their choice to hurt her.
They walked back over. “Tell us where Sampson hired you to work,” Shorty said.
They wanted proof she wasn’t BSing. Okay. But she wasn’t sure what was what: Who really hired her? On the other hand, she didn’t have any other cards to play. “Suite forty-five.”
They put back on their poker faces. She had said something right.
“Where is it?” Shorty asked.
She sensed a timber of anxiety in his voice. “I’ll take you there—no problem—but you have to let me go.” The irony of having gone full circle wasn’t lost on her. Once again, she’d been kidnapped and was using that damned suite to save herself. Rick two point oh.
The men looked eager, like bagging Sampson could result in some sort of notch in the old career belt.
“Yeah, sure, baby. We’ll let you go,” said Shorty.
She cocked her head to one side. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not actually stupid, guys. If you want me to take you there, I’ll do it. But you have to make me believe I’ll be let go. Otherwise, we can stay here and wait for Sampson to find out you took me.” It was a gamble playing the Sampson card in such a big way, but like her dad used to say, “When you’re fallin’ off a cliff, you grab for the closest branches.”
Shorty stared and scratched his scruffy jaw. He needed a push.
“Think about it,” she added. “You’re sitting here debating over keeping me—a nobody in your telenovela of guns and violence—or finding out the location of Sampson’s office. You’re trading a mouse for the bull. My meat isn’t a very juicy prize.” What the hell was she saying? Her tough-guy talk was lame.
“Fine,” said Shorty. “It’s the middle of the day. The mall is busy. I’ll drop you off with Rolo here.” He jerked his head toward the tall skinny guy. “You give us the address, and once we know you’ve told us the truth, we’ll tell him to let you go. But if you lie to us or cause a scene, he’ll shoot you on the spot. And, in case you’re wondering, Rolo shoots kids, women, dogs—he don’t care. He’ll shoot any witness standing around.”
He’ll be too busy chasing me through Sears to shoot anyone. She liked her odds. “Deal.”
The tall skinny guy, Rolo, removed a key from his pants pocket and unlocked her ankle. She slowly got to her feet, realizing that her head injury wasn’t minor. Every muscle in her body burned with pain, her stomach was queasy, and there was a loud ringing in her ears.
“On second thought,” she said, “how about a hospital? I don’t…I don’t feel so good.” She stumbled to one side, but Alfalfa, or whateverthehell the third guy’s name was, caught her.
“How about you shut the fuck up, or we put a bullet in your head?” Shorty offered sweetly.
See, now there is some legit tough-guy talk. “I-I can get it,” she swallowed down the bile, “get it together.”
“Good.”
But just as she said that, the walls started closing in. “I have a concussion.” She knew because she’d had them before. Compliments of Ed.
“She’s gonna draw too much attention, man,” said Rolo. “Look at her—she’s a fucking mess.”
“We can’t keep her here,” said guy three. “Not if it’ll bring Sampson.”
The Sampson card was backfiring. They didn’t mind going after the man on their terms, but apparently they objected to him knocking on their door.
Shorty bobbed his head in contemplation. “Clean her up and give her to Junior.”
I hope Junior is a doctor?
Shorty left. Rolo, who still had her by the arm, pushed her down and chained her back up. She considered fighting him, but the room just kept getting smaller and the ringing kept getting louder. “Who’s Junior?”
Rolo ignored her.
“Who’s Junior?” she repeated.<
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“Don’t worry, baby. He’ll take good care of you—like he does all his girls.”
No. No. No. They were going to sell her?
A few minutes later, guy number three returned. He pulled out a needle filled with a brownish liquid.
“What the hell is that?” Her eyes went wide.
The guy flicked the syringe. “Just a little H to calm you for Junior, baby. Don’t worry. You’ll love it.”
“Heroin? No, I will not love it! Don’t you fucking dare put that shit in me!” She started kicking and screaming for help. The two men wrestled with her.
“Sit on her, man!” the third guy told Rolo, who did just that.
Rolo pinned her arms over her head and straddled her body, sitting on her stomach, but she still had her legs free. She kneed Rolo in the back.
“Get her legs!” Rolo yelled.
Guy three grabbed her ankles. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but his weight crushed her legs as he sat on them.
“Get off me! I’ll fucking have you killed for this!” But her words were empty threats. Like all the times before, she knew no one would come for her. No one would care if she suffered. No one would notice if she dropped off the face of the earth.
But for once in her goddamned life, she cared. She fucking cared. And she would not go down silently. The days of keeping her mouth shut and simply trying to survive were over. She’d rather die than live in fear one more minute. Those women back in Jersey had merely been an excuse, a reason to tread carefully and keep hiding in the shadows. She kept telling herself it was okay because she had a plan, and the plan required her not to stand up and fight, to do whatever it took to stay alive. “One day soon, when everything’s perfect, I’ll go public and Ed will be stopped,” she’d told herself. But really, she had been hiding behind those women. She had been making excuses and justifying her lack of action.
The truth was she’d been too afraid to take her evidence to the authorities. She was afraid of facing Ed in court. She had just wanted to run away and never see him again. Like a coward.
And look where it got me? She wasn’t free. Not from Ed, not from the thugs of the world, and not from her past. Nothing would change until she stopped being terrified and learned to stand up for herself. She had to start fighting instead of running.
She felt her tennis shoe and sock come off. The guy pressed her foot into the concrete, stretching the tendons in her ankle.
“Get the hell off me!” She continued screaming and squirming, but the prick between her toes told her she’d lost the battle.
Not the war, though. Never that.
A burning sensation ran up her leg. “You think that’s going to stop me from hunting you down? Do you? I promise I’ll get free, and I will find you.” And after she did that, Ed would be next. No more plotting, planning, and hoping justice would be served in a pretty little box with a bow around it.
The men laughed and released her.
“Enjoy the ride, sweetheart.” Rolo hovered over her, looking amused.
She felt her brain detaching from her body, the pain evaporating like a wisp of steam on a hot day.
“Fuck you,” she growled.
Guy number three shook his head and grinned sadistically. “Junior’s gonna love you. He likes ’em feisty. Then he likes to break them.”
Her eyes started rolling back, the drug infusing her bloodstream, carrying her off into a dream. It’s not a dream. It’s not a dream. Stay awake. Fight.
A deafening noise exploded in the room.
She blinked hard, trying to focus and see what it was: Bodies flooding the warehouse. Men dressed in black masks. Gunshots. Rolo lying next to her, blood pouring from his mouth.
“Emily,” said a deep, scratchy voice, followed by a slap on her cheek. “Emily? Can you hear me?”
“Charge?” She tried to lift her head, but it was too heavy.
“What did they give you?” he asked.
“Heroin,” she muttered.
“Great.”
Her eyelids started to close. “Too heavy. They’re too heavy.”
“No. Don’t go to sleep.” Charge called out to someone to bring him “the kit.”
“Charge?” she mumbled.
“Yes, Emily?”
“Are you really a hit man?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Yes, and luckily for you, I’m the best.”
“Oh.” She smiled and drifted off.
CHAPTER TWELVE
This time when Emily woke, she had a completely different kind of headache. This one felt like a massive hangover. Her mouth was dry, she was sweating but had the chills, and her stomach was a mess of churning cramps.
Where am I? She opened her eyes, noting the soft clean sheets and warm bed cocooning her body. From the appearance of the room, she was in a cabin—wood-paneled walls, red-plaid curtains, and pine trees just outside the large window.
She carefully sat up, feeling a tug on her hand and something taped to the skin. Her eyes followed the clear plastic tube running to a bag of saline hanging off a stand next to the bed. A log crackled in the fireplace across the room. A few feet from the bed sat a mocha-colored leather armchair and a small round table with a coffee cup, a stack of folded newspapers, and a gun.
Gun. Not good.
Was she still a prisoner? She had a vague recollection of Charge coming for her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a danger. Luckily, the knotted-pine bedroom door was open, leading out into a hallway. There weren’t any locks or bars on the window either. Time to go.
She pulled off the blanket and looked down at her naked body. Her blood went cold with rage. Who removed her clothes? What had been done to her?
Heavy footsteps approached in the hallway.
Crap. She slid from the bed, grabbed the gun, and got back under the covers, hiding the weapon under the blanket.
Charge appeared in the doorway, wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt. “You’re awake.”
His familiar face only provided a sliver of comfort—at least he wasn’t some cartel guy named Junior.
“How are you feeling?” he added.
“That depends on what’s happening.” She glanced down at her covered body.
“Ah. That.” He leaned against the doorjamb and folded his thick arms over his broad chest, the ropes of muscle in his forearms tensing and bulging. He liked to do that when he wanted her to know he wasn’t playing around, as if showboating his male strength gave him more authority.
“I had a doctor—a friend of mine—look you over,” he said. “She wasn’t sure what injuries you had, and you weren’t in a very chatty mood.”
Oh, goodie. I wasn’t raped. Funny how that lifted her spirits. Not, “I got a promotion, I met the man of my dreams, or I won the lottery.” Nope. I just wasn’t raped. It’s a great day. She really needed to raise the bar.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“About three hours north of El Paso. This is my place. You’re safe here.”
Safe? She coughed instead of laughing. Her throat felt like she’d swallowed rusty nails.
“Let me get you something to drink—some apple juice is what the doctor—”
“No. Thank you. That can wait.” She pointed to the leather armchair. “Sit.”
He was about to speak, but as his eyes hit the table, he probably realized something was missing. He nodded and sat anyway, leaning his square shoulders back. Maybe he didn’t believe she would shoot him.
Cocky. “Let’s start with who you really are,” she said.
“With your permission, I’d prefer to begin with something more pressing.”
“Okay.”
“Are you…all right?” His tone was serious and riddled with tension.
She stared, wondering why he’d care. What was the angle? “Why do you ask?”
“Those men who took you. What did they do?”
“You mean the cartel guys who kidnapped me from your staged hostage situation?”
&
nbsp; He let out a guttural groan, but she didn’t know what it meant. “Yes.”
“They hit me. They drugged me. That’s all.”
He released a slow breath, looking relieved.
What game was he playing with all this concern over her well-being? Whatever the case, she was done with these games. She wanted answers, and no one was leaving the room until she got them.
“They were very interested in sending my ear to you,” she added. “Then I mentioned Sampson and they collectively pissed themselves. So, in light of all that, mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
He raked his fingertips over his thick, dark stubble.
“Well?” she pushed.
“I know who you are, Justine Hays.”
Justine. Justine Hays. It was a name she hadn’t said out loud or even thought to herself since she’d left New Jersey. The strange part was that hearing it now didn’t evoke any deep emotions. Justine Hays was just some woman from a past life who no longer existed.
“Who told you?” she asked.
“No one. Not really. The hit on you—or should I say on Emily Rockford—was out on the dark web a week before you showed up and answered the job ad.”
Her mind quickly shuffled the pieces. “Ed put a hit on me?”
Charge nodded.
That meant it had only taken Ed three weeks to find out her new identity. “How? How did he find out my new name?”
He shrugged. “Clearly he knew who to ask—not that many people run around selling quality fake identities to the public. But the hit wasn’t just for you. There were twenty-six names on the list, along with your picture with red hair. My guess is your husband found out who you went to for a new identity. The guy ran or died before they could get the information from him, but they probably found his inventory list or something.”
Oh God. “So Ed put a hit on every name, hoping one of them might be me?”
“I believe so. Yes. And the only reason he hasn’t caught up with you yet is because you’ve been very careful not to leave a footprint—and trust me, I checked.”
She had her bank account, but that had been set up through another name and social. That fake ID had cost only two hundred bucks, and she only used it to facilitate a few necessary transactions. She knew if anything ever happened and Ed found out her alias, the first thing he’d search for was bank activity under the Emily name. And, of course, running is difficult if you don’t have money, so it was something she wanted to protect with an additional layer of caution.