Makayla doesn’t say anything, but the look on her face says she does.
“Well, I guess you didn’t bother to read the terms. He and his lawyer apparently managed to get you covered for a lot of money. And since Hubert is the primary benefactor in the event of your death, well, he’s ready to cash in and get his business back on the ground.
A tear streaks down Makayla’s cheek. “He wouldn’t. He loves me.”
Liam shrugs. “I’m sure some farmers become attached to their cattle, but when the family’s stomach starts to rumble, the cow gets slaughtered all the same.”
“You’re lying. They could have hurt me whenever they wanted,” she says, looking to Edwards and Rosenthal. “If he had paid them to betray me, they wouldn’t have waited so long.”
“I only just managed to find a price they both found agreeable. Besides, you’re worth about three times as much if the death looks like an accident. Putting a bullet in your head would lose us a lot of money. I’m thinking a car accident will do the trick, but I don’t plan to let this body of yours go to waste before at least giving it a taste,” Liam steps forward and reaches for Makayla.
I land two thundering cross hooks. The first connecting with his eye and the second with his nose. His head snaps back twice, eyes glazing. Something hard and metallic slams into the back of my head, followed by two more blows. I fall to my knees, vision going black. I have just long enough to hate myself for failing Makayla before I lose consciousness.
67
Makayla
I’m being kept prisoner in a classically elegant room. The furniture all looks antique but well-maintained, and the room is furnished with a seemingly endless supply of ornamental pieces each looking more priceless than the last. I have half a mind to trash the place just to spite these assholes, but I know it wouldn’t be smart. Because it might make them kill you faster, whispers a small voice in my head. A wave of chills washes over me.
It still doesn’t feel completely real. The last few hours have been such an emotional rollercoaster that I still can’t completely wrap my head around it. Hell, the last few weeks have been an emotional roller coaster, except it seems like there have been way more downs than ups.
I can’t seem to go more than five minutes without thinking about Jesse. Without worrying about Jesse. Those men hit him so hard I thought they killed him. I nearly cried with relief when I saw that he was still breathing as they dragged him into a waiting car. But God, as horrible as it is, part of me almost wished he wasn’t breathing. I know what Liam plans to do to him and it’s eating me up inside.
I know I should be completely focused on getting myself out of here right now, but I’m finding it hard not to give into despair. Jesse is gone. They took him and he can’t save me. If I’m going to get out of here I’m going to have to do it myself. Easier said than done.
I pace around the room, thinking of every possible way out of this situation. I don’t know how long I have. All I really know is that Liam had some “business” to set in order before he could come “fuck the bitch.” I feel bile rise in my throat. I’ll bite off my own tongue before I let him touch me. It’s not going to come to that, because I’m going to find a way out of here. Somehow.
I stupidly reach for my purse to grab my phone on impulse. I have neither, of course. I still vividly remember watching my purse fall to the concrete when they dragged me to a car, its contents spilling to the concrete. As I remember the image, I fixate on my inhaler tumbling from the bag and an idea strikes me. I haven’t had an asthma attack since second grade, but every time I’ve changed purses, I’ve always moved the inhaler from purse to purse out of habit. Now that it sparked this idea, I know it might not have been a complete waste of effort.
I have to wait a few minutes until I hear men outside my door. I quickly put myself in the zone. Lights. Camera. Action.
I clutch my throat, gasping dramatically, wheezing in a pained breath like it might be my last. I choke out a strained “help,” pressing my mouth close to the door. I keep gasping and clawing at my throat as I fall to my knees, banging a hand on the door. It’s only a second before I hear a key scrabbling at the lock and the door swings open to reveal Edwards and Rosenthal.
Rosenthal looks annoyed, but Edwards’ face is lined with concern.
“The fuck?” asks Rosenthal.
“Asthma… attack…” I gasp. “Inhaler…”
The two men exchange a look. “Fuck, man,” Rosenthal says. “Liam’s going to be pissed if she dies before he gets to play with her.”
“We need to take her to see a doctor or something,” Edwards says.
“Are you fucking stupid?” Rosenthal asks. “That idiot told her we’re planning to kill her. We can’t take her anywhere.”
I squeeze my throat discreetly, making the blood rush to my face as I gasp, letting spit drip down from my mouth.
Edwards picks me up and throws me over his shoulder, heading toward the front door of the large house.
“Put her down,” says Rosenthal. “If she dies, she dies.”
“I’m not going to watch her suffer. This isn’t what I signed up--”
A gunshot blasts my eardrums. Edwards’ tall frame crumples beneath me and I’m slammed to the ground as he drops me. He falls to his knees, pulling a gun and turning in time to shoot once at Rosenthal before Rosenthal empties the rest of his clip into the man, squeezing the trigger several times after he’s out of bullets, making the gun click uselessly. I barely manage to crawl out of the crossfire.
I look to Rosenthal in horror.
He takes a step toward me, face contorted in rage. His steps falter and he falls to one knee, clutching his stomach. “Fuck!” he shouts, slamming the butt of his pistol on the ground. I realize his gun is empty and Edwards’ weapon is only a few inches from my hand. Rosenthal is looking down at his wound, pulling his bloody hand away and cursing again. I suck in a deep breath and grab Edwards’ gun before I have time to talk myself out of it. I aim it at Rosenthal just as he looks up and realizes what’s happening.
“You fucking--”
I fire three times. The first two shots are above him and to the left, but the third catches his forehead. I expect his head to snap back or explode in a show of gore, but all I see is a small black circle appear on his forehead, almost like a fly just landed there, and then I turn away before I throw up everything I’ve eaten in the last month.
I hear footsteps thumping from upstairs and raised voices. I force myself to my feet and run to a nearby closet, shutting the door and watching through the slits in the wood.
Men come down the stairs a few seconds later, cursing and making disgusted sounds as they take in the scene.
“What the fuck?” one of the men asks. “Weren’t they partners?”
“Maybe they wanted a bigger cut?”
“Hey!” someone shouts from down the hall. “The girl’s gone.”
“Shit!” another man yells as they all rush out the front door. I hear shouting from outside and car engines starting.
Within a minute, I’m completely alone in the house, except for two dead bodies.
68
Jesse
I wake and my hands are tied to a chair. I jolt with pure, liquid fear as I realize where I am. I’m in Afghanistan. I’m being tortured by that terrorist fucker. I suck in deep, hard breaths through my nose, trying not to hyperventilate. But as my vision clears, I realize this isn’t the war. I see the broad back of Liam bent over a table, sifting through metallic tools carefully.
“Glad to see you’re awake,” he says over his shoulder. “I’m anxious to get back and fuck that girl of yours. Was her pussy tight? She looks like she’d have a tight pussy.”
My hands clench, fingers digging painfully into my palms. “What did you do with her?”
“She’s being taken care of. For now.”
I wince as I watch him try to decide on which tool to torture me with first. My head pounds from where they hit me and my vision
is blurry, but even the pain can’t distract me from the throbbing hatred and rage threatening to boil over at any minute. I strain against the ropes behind my back. The knot is tight, but I swore I would never be victim to the same shit I went through during the war and I trained my body for this. I press my thumbs to my pinkies, narrowing the size of my hand and then use the rope to dislocate the joints in my hands. The pain is blinding, but I push through it, pulling up as hard as I can until both my hands are free.
My calves are tied together at the base of the chair still, but knowing my hands are free gives me some hope of escaping. I’m in some sort of a basement and the only exit seems to be at the top of a small set of stairs. I have no idea how many men could be waiting on the other side, but I learned a long time ago to tackle impossible situations one possibility at a time. Right now, all I need to focus on is the possibility of getting out of this chair and stopping Liam from killing me or crippling me to the point that I can’t help Makayla. More importantly, I need to try to gather some kind of information from him about where she’s being held, which means I need to stall as much as I can.
He picks up a meat cleaver after deliberating for a while, twirling it in his hand as he approaches me. I try not to think about the damage that knife could do, or what the blunted blade would feel like hacking through my flesh. Just think of Makayla. Think of how I’ll make this up to her when I get out of here and find a way to free her. Think of how I’ll never make the mistake of letting her go again. I clench my teeth together, fighting the urge to reach out and snatch the cleaver from Liam as soon as he’s within my reach. I need to get information if I can.
“I was thinking I could start with that famous cock of yours. It would almost be worth letting you go, cockless and neutered, just knowing Jesse fucking Slade would have to live out the rest of his life without a cock.”
I glare at him. “Where is she?” It’s not the most subtle line of questioning, but I don’t have much time.
“Oh, don’t you worry. She’s on standby. They may have scarred the shit out of me after you left me for dead, but they did leave me with a functioning cock, which is more than I can say for you if you make it out of here.”
He lifts the knife, looking at it curiously. “You know, I’ve heard a man can easily bleed out from losing his cock. Maybe I should chop you up a little before I risk losing you. That can be the finalé. I’ll bring Makayla a piece of you every day to remind her how pathetic you were in the end.”
So she’s within twelve hours of where he’s keeping me if he thinks he could bring pieces of me to her every day and get back here in time to keep it up. It’s not much at all, but it’s something. Assuming the psycho sleeps, that means she’s within more like six or eight hours. If she’s that close, chances are she’s really close. Still, I’m going to need a hell of a lot more than that.
“So you’re keeping her at your place?” I ask.
He laughs. “You’re still trying to gather information? It’s sad, really. I don’t think you’ve ever really experienced what it’s like to lose. You don’t realize it’s over. You still fucking think you’ll find a way out of this and save her?” He leans in close, pressing the blade of the cleaver to my cheek. I can smell his hot, sour breath as he breathes the words in my face. “Everybody loses eventually. And now it’s your turn, Slade.”
His phone rings from his pocket. He holds my gaze for a moment before sighing and stepping away to answer it. “This had better be fucking good.”
A pause. I see his knuckles turn white as he grips the phone. He raises it over his head and slams it on the ground, shattering it. “Fuck!” he yells, kneeling and clenching both fists. “Fuck!” He holds the cleaver to my face. “Your fucking bitch girlfriend escaped. Change of plans. I was going to take my time, but now I’m going to fuck her and then bring you the pieces of her day after day.”
I realize this is my last chance and I act. My hand flashes out, grabbing his wrist and squeezing. I rip the cleaver free while he’s distracted and slam it in his chest. It all happens in a split second and he has no idea it’s coming. His eyebrows dart up and his eyes widen as he looks down at his chest. Blood drizzles from the wound, splattering to the floor. I rip the cleaver free and he falls to his knees. I bend, using the edge of the blade to saw the ropes holding my legs in place free. Once standing, I look down at Liam. Blood is seeping from the corners of his mouth and he’s still looking down at his chest in shock.
“Where were you keeping her?” I ask.
He finds the strength to laugh, but the sound is cut short as he coughs up more blood. “Fuck you,” he says.
“I made the mistake of letting you go once,” I say. “Not again,” I growl as I slide the cleaver’s blade across his throat, bathing my hand in hot blood. My face contorts in disgust as I search his spasming body, finding car keys and his gun. I leave him, gurgling and bleeding to death. I climb the stairs and cautiously step out of the door, surprised to see a grassy field and a gravel road. His BMW is parked a few yards from the door. I turn to see a bunker-like entrance to what must be his torture cell. Sick fuck.
I search through his car. I’m surprised when I open his glove compartment and my phone tumbles out. I tap the home button and frown in confusion when I see a text from an unknown number.
931-555-2133 (4:31 p.m.): It’s Makayla. I’m with Kennedy. Got out. Called cops to find you. Hold tight. I love you.
My eyebrows draw down in confusion. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t just heard Liam admit she had escaped, but how could she already be with Kennedy? Maybe his men were afraid to call him when she first escaped and waited until they were sure they couldn’t find her? Shit. I don’t know why, but my heart is hammering in my chest. I want to believe it’s true so badly, but I’m afraid of latching on to the fantasy and finding out it’s false.
I throw the car in gear and look through my phone’s memory for Kennedy’s address. I stored it when I first took the job, always getting as much information as I possibly can has paid off in the past, and it looks like this time is no exception. It’s about fifteen minutes away, but I plan to make the drive in half that time.
69
Makayla
I’m pacing around Kennedy’s kitchen, phone clutched in my hand and blanket draped around my shoulders.
Kennedy leans against the sink, watching me nervously. “The police are going to do all they can, Makayla. Why don’t you take a shower and get the blood out of your hair?”
I shake off her suggestion. “He’s out there right now and all I can do is walk in circles in this fucking kitchen,” I snap. “I should be doing something.”
“You have no idea where they took him,” Kennedy soothes. “The police are going to do all they can. The smartest thing you can do is stay here where you’re safe. There are half a dozen cops out there in the hallway and more still in the lobby downstairs. No one is going to hurt you here. If you do something stupid and go driving around to look for him, the bad guys might find you again. Think about it.”
I don’t want to think about it. I just want to do something. I’m trying to sift through the tangle of emotions. The confusing, absolutely incomprehensible emotions. I must have mental whiplash by now with how many times my feelings for Jesse have changed. The truth is I’ve never really believed he wasn’t right for me. I’ve always known, but I’ve spent so much energy trying to convince myself that he wasn’t. Hell, Jesse has tried really hard to convince me too. But behind all of it is the way he makes me feel. When I’m near him my heart sings and my head feels light. I know he’s the one. I know it with so much certainty that it’s a wonder I’ve deluded myself into thinking I could live without him until now.
I just wish I had come to my senses before it was too late.
I’m about to yell something incoherent when the phone in my hand buzzes. “Oh my God. It’s Jesse,” I say breathlessly.
“What does it say?” Kennedy asks, rushing to my side.
J
esse (4:42 p.m.): Coming.
“How?” I ask.
Kennedy shakes her head. She smiles up at me a little uncertainly. “You did say he’s kind of a badass,” she suggests.
I feel tears well in my eyes. “How do I look?” I ask.
We both laugh as Kennedy gingerly lifts some of my hair. It’s matted with dried blood.
“Take a shower,” Kennedy suggests again. “It’ll help you calm down. He’s okay. He’s coming,” she says, smiling and gripping my shoulders. “It’s over.”
Not completely, I think. If what Liam said about my stepfather is true, he’s still out there and he still wants me dead. I told the cops what I knew, but so far everything is circumstantial. Unless something concrete turns up, it’s unlikely they will be able to do anything about him. Kennedy’s right though, everything may be a blur of confusion right now, but I know one thing for certain. I’m going to throw up again if I let this blood sit in my hair any longer.
I strip my filthy clothes and turn on the shower. I pointedly avoid the mirror before stepping into the steaming water, sighing with relief as I work the clumps of gore from my hair and skin. I may be able to wash it off my body, but I have a sinking feeling the memory of what I did and saw isn’t going to scrub away as easily. I have to avoid closing my eyes because I keep seeing the way the hole opened up in Rosenthal’s forehead when I shot him and the faint trail of smoke that rose from his skin. I see the way Edwards’ body jolted with each impact and the way blood sprayed behind him, splattering the floor.
I breathe deeply, wishing I could forget it all, trying to focus on the positive. He’s okay. Jesse is okay. He’s coming here.
Knocked Up and Punished Page 48
