by Kerri Ann
Eyeing that shard of glass, seeing it shimmer like a beacon, I memorize how far it is, how many steps until I get there, and how many times I’ll have a chance to strike before they kill me. I’ll gladly cut up my hands if it means we’re not used as playthings to useless men.
Looking at Jazzy, she braids back her long, thick, jet-black hair and slings it over her shoulder, tying it with a hair elastic she had wrapped around her wrist. I’m kind of disappointed with myself for not having one too. I could desperately do with my long hair out of the way.
Venturing a look upstairs, I see the belligerent men toasting one another with glasses of wine and beer. They’re so pleased with themselves.
Concentrating on each, memorizing their looks, I start with the loudest. The man that called us trash and whores. His dark hair, dark olive complexion, and tight dress shirt tells me he’s someone that looks after himself. Though his bad hair is a hereditary issue that he can’t avoid and control. He’s compensating with a bad toupee. It’s easy to see that with a stiff breeze it would be gone. He’s probably South American. With that fancy, gaudy attire and the accent, maybe Columbian. He’s someone who feels important. He feels powerful in this group. As powerful as you can be when you make people slaves to your whims.
The second, he’s quiet. Reserved. Deadly. Even with the constant barbs from his buddy, he hasn’t said another word beyond that first. His eyes are transfixed on us.
Gnawing at his lip, he contemplates how best to devour us. His hands grip the railing tightly as he imagines our bodies naked and in the throes of passion, or at the least, his hands wrapped around our necks as he murders us. I’ll bet he gets off on it. He’s deadly. Him, I’m afraid of. He won’t slip up with us. He won’t be like Nock.
He won’t let my death bother him.
The third? To explain him by outfit, stature, and style, it feels wishy-washy. He’s at least six feet tall, thick like a linebacker, a strong jaw, deep set dark eyes, and a look that tells of pain, contempt, heartlessness and maliciousness. Thing is, there’s certain things about him that are...almost, but not quite recognizable. I can’t place a finger on it, though. Staring down at us, eyeing us with lust and darkness, I feel sullied and uncomfortable.
“Do you know any of them up there?” I ask Jazzy.
Not venturing a gaze up, training her eyes to the concrete, she says, “You mean, other than the DEA that I know? No. The hulking black guy, and the crass Italian are not two I’ve seen before.”
“I think he’s South American.”
“Same difference when you’re an asshole.”
True.
“Well, he gives me the heebie-jeebies.” I flick a finger toward him. “He’s too pompous to be scary. The other two, though, the one would use my veins as tooth floss, and the other would tattoo my dead stare on his chest to look at in the mirror each morning.”
She leans forward, acting as if she’s fucking with her shoe. “He is kinda familiar, though. Right? Or am I crazy?”
“I thought the same thing.” Totally familiar. In a scary way, I’m fearful to find out the truth.
“Well, regardless, we have to find a way out of this. A way not to die.”
“Agreed. Suggestions or thoughts on how we’ll do that? King and his boyband members don’t seem the kind that will trip up.”
She grins in a wicked way, which tells me Jazzy has a dastardly evil plan. “Well, if it takes a bit of persuasion, we might have to...get close.”
“Ugh.”
“We are piruja, after all. We might as well use that to our advantage.”
Great. Just what I wanted as a new memory in this building.
I hate this building. I wish to burn it to the fucking cement. I want dust on the wind kind of reminders and nothing further. No one should ever have to step foot in here again.
As we silently devise a plan, King tosses his glass toward the bedroom up there. The sound reverberates off the walls.
For some reason, King is pissed, yelling out, “Fuck! Why can’t he just play the part he was trained for!”
King’s tirade is loud. The only person I can think of that would piss anyone off that good is Lucius.
“Don’t worry, pendejo. He’s no match for us,” the Columbian dude answers.
Cocky?
Misguided?
I doubt you’re as dangerous as you put on. I think you’re a man who works out in a gym, not one who’s fighting on the streets for his life.
Lucius will wipe your ass with your toupee. You’re done. I’m glad you’ll stain this place.
The second man, man number two, is still sullen and silent. He looks down on us, but stays reserved and observant of the affair.
Man three. He’s turned, walking down the stairs slowly and deliberately. It’s a model perfected runway entrance if I’d ever seen one. Clicking his heavy boots on the stairs, his body arcs back and forth as he shifts. His hulking size covers the width of the space, railing to railing, in an imposing way.
Walking toward our containment, his face comes into view better. He’s a good-looking man. Still dangerous and scary, but for an older guy, he’s well-kempt. There are tattoos covering his arms, abstract and dark. From afar, it seemed that he was wearing a long shirt that covered to his wrists. Up close, as I sneak peeks, I see he’s well-built and even scarier than I’d originally thought.
Not daring to raise our eyes his way, even as his feet come into view, Jazzy and I train our gazes on the shards that will save our lives or end them if need be.
“I know who you are,” he says, standing by the cage door, arms crossed and inspecting us.
We don’t speak.
“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe here, coño.”
Wow. Calling me a cunt? This guy isn’t gaining brownie points. Great. Now I’m having to use my very limited Mexican curse vocabulary.
Ignoring him further, I keep my mind on task. Shard. Life. Shard. Life. Anything else and I’m leaving Jazzy and I vulnerable. Too many have died because of me, so that won’t fucking happen.
“You know he can’t save you. It’s not in his cards. It never was. He was too soft. Too sweet. I tried, though, you know?” Bending down, he leans on the cage’s cross rails. “He would have been a god. Now he’s less. Just another puta madre in my way.” Reaching out to touch my hair, he strokes it between his fingers. I feel ill letting him put his hands on me. I still. I stay quiet.
“Fuck me!” King yells as he bounds down the stairs. Picking up an AK that was leaning on the railing, he checks the cartridge with a loud slam and click. “I guess I have to do everything myself. I can’t leave torture and main to someone else because that fucker can’t leave things alone,” he mutters before crossing toward the security pad. King is furious.
“What’s the issue, King?” The dark and deadly man asks as he stands back up.
King punches in a set of numbers. “It’s nothing, really. It’s that your sons have killed my guards outside and are walking toward the door with hand grenades and C-4.”
King gives us a seedy glare. “Don’t worry, ladies.” Hearing the door to our cage unlock, King snaps, “We’re bringing you to where it’s safe.”
Shard.
Life.
Shard.
Death.
No matter what he says, I don’t feel safe in his company. King with a large gun removes my ability to feel safe. Knowing that he’s about to walk in, gun in hand, I act as if I’m scrambling away from the door, away from him, but I’m really shifting over to my glass. Jazzy does the same.
“Mind helping out?” he asks the other man.
Leaning on the cage, right by my glass, I don’t dare look up. I don’t want him to know what I’m doing, that I’m looking for my lifeline.
“Not my issue, cabrón.”
“That’s fine, Jefe.” Grabbing the door to our room, he slides in, tough and tumble. “I’ll have my boys help then. This’ll cost you, though.”
“Nothing costs me.
It costs you, diablo.”
Halting, King stills for a moment before advancing on me. “Time to go, Oubliette. Your man is on the way. I’d hate to see you hurt because of him blowing a hole in the wall where you are.” Reaching to grab my shoulder, King presses his fingers deep in my skin.
Without choice, I rise. I rise with the shard in my hand. Moving as he asks, doing what he instructs, the gun of his causes me pause. He could turn it on Jazzy if I attack him with my glass.
I wait.
“Henerd!” he yells up the stairs. “Get your ass down here and grab the other bitch.”
Standing tall, stiff fingers in my shoulder, I slip the glass into my pocket.
“Move,” King snaps at me. “We’re relocating you for your safety. I really wish you’d understand I’m the good guy, Oubliette.” Stepping to the door of the cage, involuntarily, I look the dark and dangerous man in the eye. Piercing, his gaze is trained on King. With a look like that, I’d hate to be on the receiving end.
“Don’t turn your back on that one, King. She has your death planned out.” With a slow blink, he drags his eyes toward the pocket where I’m housing my weapon. A smile creeps across his face before he turns his eyes my way and winks.
“I have the gun. I think I have the upper hand, Jefe.”
Walking off toward the upper deck, taking the steps heavily, he leaves me to King’s control.
“I don’t think that gun will save you from her, King. Keep wary,” he states with a sinister smile, looking again at my pocket.
My heart races, my body vibrates with the fear of being outed, and I do everything I can to still my features. Don’t give it away. Don’t show fear. Don’t give away that you’re dying inside with the thought of hurting another again. Don’t break down.
As the agent bypasses us on the stairs, presumably to grab Jazzy, I walk where King directs. Edging me up, he pushes me forward quickly. Touching the first, then the next, his gun is close enough that I feel it resting on my back. His fingers are so tight in my shoulder, I know there’ll be immediate bruising.
“Fucking move, woman!” he yells. As we move to the top stair, an explosion rocks the building.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Oubliette
Running up the rest of the way, King pushes me forward ahead of him in a rush. “Jesus fucking Christ!” Hitting the top stair, he roughly guides me to the couch I’d once occupied.
That was before.
That was when I hated Lucius.
That was before I learned he was—is, fantastic.
“Take a fucking seat and do me a favor—don’t move.”
As shots ring out, with his gun trained on the men below, I hide on the far side of the leather. King spins on his heels, concentrating on the intruders.
Glancing around the couch, I watch with shock as the professional asshole in the million-dollar suit takes a hit to the head. His body spins and falls fast, the meticulous outfit twisted from the force.
With his eyes turned my way, the vacant look reminds me of Nock.
What did I do in a past life to deserve this? This consistency of death? Maybe I should embrace it and let it swallow me whole.
I could take it and let it fuel me toward my escape.
But could I?
Knowing that running now constitutes a bullet like the million-dollar guy, what choice do I have but to stay low?
Feeling a pinch in my side, I’m reminded that the shard is in my pocket. I contemplate attacking King while his back is turned, but that again requires me to leave the protection of the couch. Taking in the whole room, seeing one of the DEA agents take a hard hit to the chest, he harrumphs and falls to the floor. That leaves King, the not so fancy guy, and one more agent. Not-so-fancy is leaning on the far wall at the entrance to the bedroom with a beer in hand, more interested in something on his phone than the gunfire. He’s very calm in this situation. Aloof and uninterested in the destruction.
With the agent pinned down on the right by another shooter, one I can’t see, the shots are consistent and deadly. As one squarely nails the agent in the head, I wince as the splatter coats the room surrounding him. He had no chance. Yeah, King has the law on his side, but the law doesn’t give you an invisible shield to protect you from those with better aim.
Settling behind the couch, attempting to decrease my target, I hope for safety. That’s when I think about Jazzy. Where is she? Is she safe? Is she caught in the crossfire? Shifting slightly, hoping to see down below, dark scuffed boots halt my advance, blocking my view. Standing where he is, the not-so-fancy guy is relatively clean—no marks and no bloodstains. He hasn’t sustained damage. Yet.
“Going somewhere?”
I don’t feel it requires a reply, so I keep my mouth shut.
“Don’t move,” he says coolly, sipping again once more on that sweat drenched bottle.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I say. My voice is strong, and the comment sterner than I’d thought to reply. Knowing that the man before me is the scariest of them all, I wonder when I grew balls the size of watermelons.
“Fine. Stand up if you’re so tough,” he chides.
Steeling my spine, hoping that my body doesn’t shake with fear and give away my inherent unease of him, I spit out, “I’m not tough. I’m only looking for my friend.”
Guzzling back more beer, he sets the empty bottle on the table. With a wipe to his mouth with the back of his hand, he shrugs. “The gunfire is pretty much done, Princesa. Come out.” Holding out a hand, his menacing form looms above me. “I won’t hurt you. It wouldn’t do me any good.” That’s when a shot hits his leg. I see the bullet pierce his pants, and the blood slowly starts to stain the material. It doesn’t seem to faze him. With his hand still out, waiting on me, I consider my options. Not great I’m afraid. Gritting my teeth, I rise.
With the assistance of the menacing man, standing to my full height, my tiny size compared to his hulking form, it brings me only to his chest. Laying a finger under my chin, raising my face to meet his, he smiles. It’s not creepy like Nock, but not really welcoming either. I stay silent as he peruses my face and mutters, “Guera.”
Reaching his other hand out, fiddling with my blonde hair that loosely rests across my forehead, I still like a deer in headlights. Not-so-fancy guy up close is a scary. His body is strong, his face is youthful, even as his jet-black hair is peppered with gray. His bright eyes tell me he sees everything. With a stiff grin, his lip turns up as he blows out a haughty laugh. “You’re tough, aren’t you? Just a little scorpion waiting to strike.” Laying a hand on my pocket, he slowly pulls out the shard of glass. “You won’t need this.” Lifting it free and with ease, he’s taken my only protection.
Feeling uncomfortable with the exchange, knowing he has what could kill me, I take a step back. His smile doesn’t decrease with the motion. On the contrary, it ramps up. He enjoys my defiance.
Noticing the silence, that the gunfire has ceased, I look to King. His body armor is covered in stains, a hole in his arm is leaking, blood is smeared across his forehead, and there’s a worn, weary look in his eyes.
“Jefe, I see you’re still standing.” Looking at his partners splayed out on the floor, I track as his eyes pause on one in particular. “I see Jorge and my men didn’t fare so well.”
“They didn’t know how to duck.” Crossing his arms, thickening out his form, scary guy hides the shard. His whole character makes his comment contemptuous. King may think he’s running something here, but this man is the power.
“Do you think it’s time we got on with the introductions? After all, we’ve built up the surprise for so long.” King grins with a sense of control. He thinks he still holds the ace. Even as he’s now outnumbered by bad guys, King has a false sense of security. Honestly, I’m rooting for the bad guys.
Not rising to the poke, not bothered by King’s obvious attempt to control the situation, he shrugs and offers a look of simple boredom. “By all means. I’m sure they’r
e dying to find out what the fuck you’re up to, cabrón.”
“Let’s start, Hector.” King holsters his gun and yells throughout the space, “Come on up! We have something to discuss.” He smirks. “You might as well bring everyone with you, Lucius. At least they can have a beer and patch up.”
Pointing to the blood pouring out of King’s shoulder, Hector walks to the fridge. “Might want to take your own advice, Magnus.” Pulling free a beer, he uncaps it and guzzles a monster mouthful.
“Yeah, suppose I should.” Grabbing a bottle of tequila off the counter, King pops the top and pours it across his arm. He winces slightly but shakes it off and swigs directly from the bottle.
Hearing the heavy footfalls on the stairs, I nervously watch for the owners of the noise. I’m watching for Jasmine and Bennett, sure, but more than that, I’m afraid of not seeing them.
As each come into view, I smile, knowing that even though Death took damage, he’s alive and well. Jazzy is helping him as he limps through a bullet to the leg. Cresting the stairs, helping her brother toward the couch, I run over to assist.
Helping them the last of the way, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Eyeing the not-so-fancy guy and King, Bennett’s scowl deepens. “You good?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m good.” Shaking my head a little too vigorously, I smile the fakest smile I can muster.
As he flops down heavily on the leather, Jazzy asks, “Is there a kit here?”
“Yeah. Hang on, let me look,” I say, starting off to look in the kitchen.
“It’s in the cabinet under the sink, Obi.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, I don’t dare turn and look at Lucius. If I do that, I know that I’ll never get to Bennett. If I see damage on him, or see that smile of his looking my way, I’ll break down and run into his arms.
Pulling the plastic box out from under the sink, I turn toward the couch. Still not looking at Lucius, I cross the space while clicking open the first-aid kit. “Here,” I say, pulling out gauze and alcohol.
