A black BMW swerved around from behind the van to stop so closely to him that the front tire narrowly missed his foot. A tinted window lowered, and Ruark smirked at him from the driver's side. “If I were you, I'd get in.”
44
Black, scratchy fabric covered Starr's face. Smothering, she was smothering. Big, rough hands tossed her forward, and her ankle twisted against an uneven metal surface. A cry broke from her throat. Still, too little air came when she inhaled.
“Shut up, bitch.”
Just as little pricks of light danced before her eyes, the sandpaper fabric was dragged off her head. Light washed her face as her head was freed. Her body seized the opportunity and filled her lungs with blessed cool air. She tried to raise her hand to rub the grit that had landed in her eye, but a grip from behind stopped her.
“W-wha—”
Pain exploded across her forehead, cheek, and chin. The hard metal floor smacked the side of her face, and the vibration of the road thrummed underneath her.
“I said. Shut up.”
The tang of rust and salt settled on her tongue. Blood. She'd bitten the inside of her cheek. Bile rose in her throat, and her throat muscles threatened to contract. She took a second to collect her thoughts, blink back the hot tears stinging her eyes.
Phee. Luna. Nathan. Where were they? Sucking in air, she took a second to determine her surroundings. Oil mixed with sweat. She was in a van. And there were men—strange men. Ice filled her veins followed by a rush of adrenaline drowning her ability to think beyond that fact.
A man crouched before her. He cocked his head as if he observed a wounded animal on the side of the road. His lips curled in a twisted snarl, and his dark eyes filled with feral glee. A fury punched through her fear. His scalp was marked in colored tattoos, but it was the angry, pink scar across his neck that captured her attention. She only hoped the cause had been a murder attempt. Her head throbbed from his punch.
“Get there already, will ya?” A voice behind her roughed out the words in some accent she couldn't place.
“You want me to attract the cops?” Another male voice came from where the driver would sit. She swayed at a sharp turn and reached out with her arm to steady herself. Her fingers rested on a nest of ropes.
“Fuck, Remy, learn to drive.” Tattoo-head looked back at her. “So ...” He pushed her hair over her shoulder, and she shuddered. “You be a good girl, and maybe we'll be extra nice to you.”
Icy spangles of fear snaked up her legs and spine. She had to get a grip. She lowered her gaze as if that would help. Like maybe if she wasn't looking at him, he might not notice her?
He rose up, spreading his legs wide to steady himself. “Tie her up.”
Calloused hands forced her to sit upright. A shot of pain went through her right shoulder as her arms were yanked behind her back. Her wrists and forearms were roughly bound with scratchy rope. Her hands would be numb from the constriction in seconds. When done, he stepped back, and she toppled back to her side. The dress she wore rode up to expose her panties.
“I always did like pink.” It was the accented voice. A cold grip of fear seized her. They were going to rape her.
Over my fucking dead body.
She tested the ropes a little. Her legs were strong. She’d get a good kick to at least one set of balls before they did whatever they planned.
“Leave it.” Tattoo-head guy must be the leader.
Think, think, think. She demanded her brain to come up with something. What was she supposed to do when in danger? Make noise? Adrenaline pushed her heartbeat into her throat, her ears, her chest, blocking out any brainpower. Think, girl. Something about a second location. Her brain fought to latch on to something, anything, she could do to help herself. Yes, never let them take you to a second location. That's where the rape-murder happens.
She willed herself to look—really look—at the inside of the van. Was there anything sharp she might get a hold of? The door had two handles that needed to be pushed down to open them. Car sounds outside grew closer. If she could just kick the door handle, let someone behind them see who was in this van… Her fingers sought for purchase on the knots binding her hands. Damn it, where were they?
The vehicle slowed, turned, and her body jostled against the grooves in the van as it clanked over something hard and metal. The light dimmed.
When she was yanked upright, she finally got a look at the guy behind her. Twice the size of the head tattoo guy, his baby face did little to counter the menace in his soulless black eyes.
Forced to jump down to the ground, her bare feet hit rough concrete, gritty and cold. Where were her shoes? If she had to run, it'd be easier to be barefoot than in high heels, but already the uneven ground stung the soles of her feet.
They forced her to keep moving forward, and the pain in her shoulder sharpened.
She glanced around the space, trying to take in as much as possible. They were in an industrial warehouse. A row of fluorescent lights beamed a path over the uneven concrete floor. The second location. The cavernous space was stacked high with huge metal containers like those she'd seen whizz by on any of the endless trains that roared through Baltimore. So many places to hide a dead body—after they did whatever they were going to do to her.
Nathan saw her get snatched. Someone would come. Someone would surely come before things went too far? But who?
Nathan was on parole. He couldn’t risk it. Would he? He’d be outnumbered even if he could have somehow followed them.
That left the police. He’d call them but with no leads, no idea where the van headed, no one would find her before they used her.
She was left with only one option. Save herself.
The most ordinary guy in the world, dressed in jeans and polo shirt, jumped from the driver's seat just as tattoo-guy kicked an old metal chair toward her. “Sit your ass down.”
She didn't have a chance to obey because her other captor roughly sat her in the chair. He pushed her forward, and her shoulder threatened to spasm. She couldn't hold back a yelp. Her captors didn't care, and the rough rope scratched and bit into her wrists and forearms as he yanked them free. When her arms were released, tingles of blood ran through her veins, and her skin burned. She pushed her hands into her lap, hoping to pull her dress down without them noticing. Yeah, because driving attention away from her sex was going to help—not.
“You're not going to run.” The guy with the tattoos pulled up a second chair, turning it so he could straddle the seat. He leaned toward her until he balanced on two chair legs, and his liquor-breath ran over her face. “Are you, sweetheart?”
She shook her head, told her quivering chin to still. She needed time. So long as she acted compliant, she might not get smacked into unconsciousness. She couldn’t out-muscle these guys but she’d find a way to out-think them.
“That's a good girl.” The rear feet of his chair thunked back to the ground.
They’d left the large doors open, which was good because she could run. But faster than these two? Maybe not, but her screams could shatter a glass factory. It was a start—and something.
The whine of a car engine grew closer. Tattoo-man stood up and twisted the metal chair out of the way. All three of the men stood to attention as a BMW rolled up to them.
She blinked. “Nathan?”
His face stared at her from the passenger side. A deep gratitude warmed her chest and dulled the pains, now moving around her body like pinballs. He’d come for her. A rush of fear followed. They might hurt him.
He dove out of the car and rushed to squat in front of her. “Starr. Are you okay?” He ran his hands down her arms, taking in the scratches and bruises that lit up anew with his fingertips.
An odd paralysis took over her, and she was unable to form words.
Nathan shot to his feet and swung his fist hard toward the man with black eyes, a thick thud followed by bloody spittle splattering to the side. The guy righted himself with a smile and he punched Nathan in the gut so
hard, he was knocked off his feet.
She darted up, but Tattoo-guy grabbed her around the waist.
“You leave it,” he growled.
Nathan lay sputtering on the ground. She tried to reach for him and failed as iron arms held her fast. He had come for her, and they would kill him for it. An ache started low in her chest and spread like a cancer until she was veiled in sheer bleak truth. They weren’t going to be okay—not by a long shot. Only one emotion blazed strong, red-hot wrath because they didn’t deserve this torture.
“Now, now, Miss Starr.”
She looked up at the familiar voice. Ruark MacKenna had the gall to stand there in his cheap ass suit, grinning at her like they still sat at that coffee shop. Fire obliterated her thinking, and she struggled against the thickly muscled arms that squeezed her and held her to the hard metal chair. She kicked and sputtered, unable to form words, the pain in her shoulder growing distant and fuzzy. Fury raged on and on inside her, fed by Ruark's smug face grinning down at her.
She stilled when the tattooed-man kicked Nathan, hard, in the back, and Nathan grunted, blood bubbling out of his mouth.
“Leave him alone,” she managed to snarl.
“Now, Slate,” Ruark said. “Is that any way to treat our guests?”
Nathan spit blood and pushed himself to standing. “Fuck you.” He spun and punched the guy named Slate, hard, so he stumbled backward.
“Leave it, Slate.” Ruark clapped slowly. “Good man, Nathan. I'm sure your parole officer would love to hear of you throwing some punches.”
A line of blood spittle hung from Nathan's lips toward the floor. He swiped at his mouth. “That your plan? Get me back behind bars? You lack imagination.”
Ruark sucked air between his teeth. “Well, when they find out you've killed your girlfriend here, there'll be a chair waiting for you.”
Nathan groaned as he rose. He had to be hurt, given how he stood slightly hunched. “MacKenna, swear to God—”
Ruark reached behind his back and pulled out a Glock. She couldn't tear her eyes from it, the gunmetal-black against his skin, the way his hand molded the contours with ease, as if he’d used it—often.
Nathan shook his head slowly from side to side, a half-smile on his lips. “You always were dramatic. Sending a pig's heart, and now the big man with a gun on display.”
How could Nathan goad him? Forcing their hand to do something wasn’t wise. But then Nathan was a man of action. Her flagging hope kicked up a notch that maybe he had a plan.
“Tsk, tsk, guy.” Slate—what a stupid name—leered at Nathan. “Teasing Ruark isn't real smart.”
“Shut it.” Ruark pointed the gun at Nathan. “Now. Talk is over.”
45
Acid rumbled in his belly and climbed up his throat, which oddly, dulled the pains shooting through his back. His heart threatened to punch itself out of his rib cage. Not now. Fuck him if he was going to go down looking like a pussy. He glanced at Starr, latching on to the sight of her to steady himself. He needed to buy them some time so he could get her out of there. He fingered his phone in his pocket. Too bad his hands didn’t have eyes so they could hit the record button.
He spit blood from his mouth. “What do you want? You got any specifics for once?”
Ruark arched his eyebrow. “Want? I want what you stole from me.”
“I can't bring your brother back.” His throat was raw. “I'm sorry he's dead. Truly, I am.” The guy had no idea how sorry he was. He'd spent too many nights lying on a striped camping mattress, nursing bruises and cuts, listening to men cough and moan in the dark corners of cells, not to passionately regret his actions.
A maniacal laugh from Ruark cut through all the heaviness in his chest “You’re sorry Daniel’s dead? I'm not.” Ruark turned away, his lips twitching, his eyes downcast, as he slowly paced like a caged bird shuffling on a perch. “You just don't get it, do you? I hated the fucker.” He stopped and raised his gaze toward Nathan. “Wanted to kill him myself. Instead, you made him a God to my father and mother. My brother.” He rushed forward until he was inches from Nathan's face.
The gun barrel pressed on Nathan's temple. Cold fingers of dread wrapped around his limbs. He’d be no good to Starr dead.
Ruark sucked air through his teeth. “I was the one who was going to take him out, not some pussy college kid.” He stepped back and lowered the gun. “How dare you.”
The man was a psycho. He might have been speaking in Arabic for all the sense he made. Nathan forced air into his burning lungs, eyed the other men, and took stock of their positions. Ruark's three accomplices stared at him unflinching, their eyes flat with disinterest. The devil’s soldiers awaiting orders.
“You asked what I want?” Ruark jutted out his chin. “I want back my opportunity to lay him in the ground myself. Be the one to rise in my family. My father’s time is over, and it should be me who takes over. You gonna give that to me?” He snorted. “Naw, I didn't think so.”
Nathan swayed a little. His ribs pinched and shifted inside, stealing his breath. “You're insane, man. You can have whatever you want, MacKenna. Take it out on me, but let Starr go.”
“No can do, busboy. She's your collateral damage. Just like everyone else in your life.” He cocked his head. “Like your wife, your daughter. Oh, yes, I know all about them.”
His ribs swore at him as he inhaled sharply. The floor would just not stop tilting. Nathan glanced at Starr, her eyes a mixture of confusion and fear. He didn't believe it was possible to hate Ruark MacKenna any more than he did right now. The fucker stepped around Starr and stood behind her. He brushed her hair from her shoulder with the gun barrel. Trembling, her hands grasped the sides of the chair, and her eyes glazed over in wild alarm. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Did you know that, sweet Starr? That your boy abandoned a wife? A kid?”
Nathan fixed his eyes on Starr.
“Nathan?” His name was nothing more than a whisper.
He ached to crush his mouth to hers, to whisper he would fix everything.
MacKenna continued his rant. “You see, when I kill her and you” —he lifted his gun and gazed down the barrel— “I’ll be sure the gun ends up with your prints. That should be the end for you. Me, the brother, gets revenge for the death of Daniel, trying, but sadly failing, to save the girl. My parents will love that shit. Plus, taking care of unfinished business is always rewarded in my family.” He moved the gun to her temple, and Starr stiffened. Ruark’s eyes, two dark beams of hatred, bored into Nathan.
Nathan shuffled a few inches closer. Just two more steps and he'd be close enough to shove her aside, wrap his hands around MacKenna's throat.
“Okay, Ruark. That's enough.” A male voice thundered into the room. A silhouette of a large, stocky man framed by sunlight and black shadow stood at the entrance, hands shoved in pants pockets. “Now, you mind lowering that gun?”
When this new guy stepped inside, his features became visible. He had the same cloud of black hair and the same ice blue eyes as Ruark. Great. Another MacKenna. Yet this man was taller, wearing an I've-seen-this-all-before expression.
“Hello, brother.” Ruark stepped forward, putting some distance between him and Starr.
Nathan stared at the two men, his eyes trained on the gun hanging along Ruark's leg. His heart thumped with adrenaline. He was about to do something stupid.
Ruark pointed the gun toward his brother. “Stay out of this, Carragh.”
The guy strutted forward until the gun touched his chest. “Like I said. Lower the gun.”
Ruark obeyed, but his chin rose, and one of his legs danced as if this interruption agitated him.
Now was Nathan's chance. With them occupied, he closed the distance between himself and Starr and got behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, shook his head a little as her lips parted to speak.
Ruark sputtered. “You wanted out of this, so stay out of it.”
“Mind telling me what 'it' is, brother?”<
br />
“Don't play dumb.”
“Looks like you're ratcheting things up. First you went by Shakedown and got poor Seamus to run his car into the awning. I rather liked the door you smashed to smithereens, by the way. Yeah, we've been listening to the chatter, so I was sent to watch you. Sending a pig’s heart? You got us noticed by the police—again.”
Watch. All those sightings, at the club, outside his apartment ...
“Got a call from our father. You know how I hate to get those, Ruark. I was put on babysitting duty. He was curious to see how far my fucked-up younger brother was going to go. This is far enough, don't you think?”
“That's not our way,” Ruark spat. “No one lays one of ours in the ground and gets away with it.”
“I'd say no one got away with shit. Daniel was a fuck-up. Baldwin here paid for that fuck-up. So, you mind not furthering this fucked up situation? You're calling attention to us ... brother. Enough is enough.” His shoulders hardened. “We're calling it quits.”
“Like hell.” Ruark spun and raised the gun toward Starr. Sirens went from background noise to close vicinity. They were coming here. Carragh reached for Ruark's arm, and a gunshot blast pierced Nathan’s eardrum. His whole body lurched forward, met Starr's body, and pushed her off the chair. His chest collapsed, and air wasn't possible.
On the other side of a fuzzy ring in his ears, shouts sounded. Then blue and red lights danced against the shadowed corrugated steel of the building. His fingers touched silk. Starr. When he’d fallen, he'd crushed her underneath him.
46
Nathan cracked open his eyes. Through the emergency room’s white curtains, the back of a blue uniform was visible. Nathan shifted on the gurney and grunted in discomfort as something unseen stabbed his shoulder. The pain was sharp in contrast to the dull thud, thud, thud of his ribs. At least the bullet had only grazed his shoulder. No “internal damage,” they'd said, so he could go—at least to jail, which was next. They’d run his name, caught the not-so-little bit about him being on parole, and Erin was on her way. Yeah, life turnarounds were only for the rich and free.
Vote Then Read: Volume I Page 85
