Vicious Loves: Vicious City, Book Three

by Renard, Loki

  They’re still firing at the car. I can hear bullets hitting the doors and panels, going through them like butter and ricocheting off either the steel frame or the road below. They’re not going to take us alive. They don’t give a fuck if we make it.

  “STOP! You’ll hit the chip. Get the girl!” I hear a yell from the outside.

  “Don’t let them take you,” Vicious rasps. I don’t like his color. His skin isn’t just pale now, it’s closer to gray, and there’s an unpleasant blue tinge to his lips. I reach for him, but there’s nothing I can do.

  Behind me, the door opens. Big hands grab me and pull me away from him. I find myself fighting between large men who handle me roughly over to a man who looks like he sells home insurance aside from the rather large gun in his hand.

  Tears are running down my face, but I’m not aware of crying. I’m only aware of adrenaline and rage, two forces animating me to fight even though my struggles are useless.

  “Take her and cut that thing out of her,” the man says, his voice thick with Russian accent. He’s speaking English for my benefit, I suppose, letting me know what vivisectional horrors await me.

  My mind shuts down. Survival instinct shuts off all comprehension of what is happening as they argue over me. They have different ideas how it should be done. They are pulling me one way and then the other, dragging me over painful ground, baring my body for their desecration.

  A knife flashes in the sun. I scream at the top of my lungs - and against all odds, I am saved.

  Several cars come speeding along the road, big black sedans which scream FEDERAL even with their complete lack of markings.

  They draw to a halt and the cruel men preparing to stab me drop me and flee, shouting what sounds like angry accusations at one another in Russian.

  I try to get back to Vicious, but there are people getting out of the sedans, CIA agents who pull me away from the car where he still lies. They take me into custody in the back of their vehicle. I try to fight against them too, but they are just as strong as the Russians were, and the waning of my exhausted adrenal response has left me weak.

  My world has become a parade of people who drag me in and out of their vehicles. I try to tell them Vicious needs help, but they tell me to relax and calm down. They tell me it’s going to be okay. It’s not going to be okay. It’s never going to be okay.

  11

  Vicious

  I wasn’t expecting to wake up. I thought my life had ended in Pennsylvania, bleeding out on the road. It’s nothing better than I deserved. Instead, I smell hospital, feel the ache of wounds treated and yet still serious.

  I try to lift my wrist. It’s shackled to the bed.

  “Easy, buddy.”

  Slick is sitting next to my bed.

  “Oh you bloody asshole,” I groan.

  “Bloody asshole?” He makes a half-hearted attempt at mimicking my accent. “I don’t think so. I think I saved your life from rogue Russian spetsnaz.”

  “Where’s Kitty?”

  “She’s safe.”

  “Safe where?”

  “You know where,” he says, stretching his legs out in front of him. “You shouldn’t have sent Coco in. Now she’s facing the same charges you are. Serious charges, I’m afraid. You’re looking at deportation.”

  “For what?”

  “Stealing federal property, perhaps?”

  “Kitty isn’t property. She’s mine.”

  “Your property,” Slick says, his lip curling with disdain. “You almost got her killed, Arthur. She was seconds away from being gutted on the side of the road because you decided that you should have her. That was selfish of you.”

  So that’s why he’s here, to lecture me. To make himself feel better about being the white knight, savior of all lost girls. Pity we both know that’s bullshit.

  “Being used by you is better for her, is it?”

  “I’m not going to put her through her sexual paces to work for me,” Slick says. “She’ll choose her own partner when she’s ready, not because she has to.”

  “Well aren’t you just a knight in shining armor. Pity Blaze still won’t fuck you.”

  “This isn’t about Blaze.”

  “Oh yes it is. She turned you down, so now you’ve taken Kitty. If you can’t get your girl, then I have to loose mine. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  He looks disturbed at the notion he could be so petty. Slick likes to think of himself as nice and noble, but the reason we have gotten on so well is because underneath that All-American exterior, he’s just as twisted, craven, and broken as I am.

  “You really want to get rid of me, Slick? You do that and you won’t have anyone to feel better in comparison to.”

  “There are plenty of scumbags in this city, and this country.”

  “You’d miss me.”

  He smirks. “Maybe.”

  In spite of the fact that he and I are on opposite sides of ideology and law, there’s no doubt that we are friends. It’s a real friendship. Not one of convenience, or of shared beliefs. Most friendships are facile, coming easily between likeminded people. Slick and I could not be any less alike, but I have come to view him as a brother. That doesn’t mean our anger isn’t real, or dangerous. Cain killed Abel, after all.

  “You’re not going to send me back to England. We both know I’m more useful here. And you’re going to give Kitty back to me too.”

  “And why would we do that?”

  I force a smile through a spasm of pain. “Because you’re not going to be able to handle her.”

  12

  Kitty

  “Let me fucking go!”

  I bang the food tray against the door, slamming it back and forth over the ridge of the food slot. After being ‘rescued’, I was taken here, to a place that looks, feels, and smells like prison. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. Maybe a week. Maybe a month. One day feels like another when every day is the same.

  I have a bed which is covered in plastic, sheets I don’t trust, a blanket that wouldn’t be fit for a shelter dog, and an attitude that just won’t quit. They don’t care how much noise I make though. They leave me there to make my protests.

  I scream and kick and yell and keep making a racket until something happens. It takes a long time, but my energy has to go somewhere, and impotent rage is as good a place as any.

  CREEEEEAAKKKKK!

  The door swings open, and a man with a build like a brick wall pushes through. He’s not wearing a suit like most of them wear. He’s wearing dark gray overalls. He looks like a janitor or a welder. His hair is dark and short, with a coarse texture to it which makes his scalp visible around each and every follicle. If I had to guess at his age, I’d say forty. Or maybe fifty. His skin has that sun-worn look men of action get. He has ex-military practically stamped on his forehead.

  He looks at me and there’s nothing in his eye that suggests he has anything but professional disinterest in me. It’s completely different from how Vicious looks at me. The opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s indifference.

  I back up against the cell wall. Something tells me to give him space. Judging by his size and demeanor, they’ve sent him in to intimidate me, and it’s working. He has to be at least three times my size.

  “You’re feeling better,” he says, his voice harsh and gravelly. It’s like being talked to by a mountain.

  “I’m feeling pissed off. Let me go. I won’t help you. I won’t do a goddamn thing until you let me go!”

  He stands there, his presence brutal as I yap my objections at him.

  “Who do you want us to release you to? To the foreign agents interested in carving you up to get at the chip? Or the criminal who brutalized you?”

  He’s talking about Vicious.

  “Open the fucking door and let me go free. I can look after myself.”

  “That’s not the impression the bodycam footage gave when you were picked up,” the meathead says. “You were screaming and begging for mercy. Have
you forgotten that already?”

  I haven’t forgotten anything. Not the cold lizard look in their Russian eyes, or the sharpness of the knife they were going to gut me with. I haven’t forgotten the way they held me down, one man on each of my limbs, my midsection bared for the blade.

  There was an argument. My Russian isn’t good, but in retrospect, I believe picked up some of the words. One of them wanted to shoot me in the head first, but he was vetoed. The other one wanted to hear me scream. Vicious was right. The men who want me are true monsters. They make him look like an angel by comparison.

  I miss him. I need him. I hate him. But I can’t help it. I was infected by him the moment we met. In some intangible way, we connected, and that connection has only grown stronger in his absence. Before we were caught by the Russians, my rage made me try to hurt him. He has hurt me. He has lied to me. Maybe I should feel safer in this cell, with these agents of the law who cannot be overrun by vivisectionist mercenaries. But I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again without him.

  “Let me go.”

  “No.”

  “Then go fuck yourself.”

  “THAT’S ENOUGH!”

  He shouts the words at me, drill sergeant-style, my military suspicions confirmed in the blast radius of his volume.

  “YOU WILL SIT DOWN. YOU WILL BE QUIET. YOU WILL DO AS YOU ARE TOLD!”

  He closes the space between us until he’s shouting down at me. This is not what I need right now. I need Arthur’s arms wrapped around me. I need to feel safe. I don’t need to be treated like a cross between a captive and some kind of rookie.

  “Or fucking what?” I ask the question in the brief silence between his shouted words.

  “OR I WILL MAKE YOU REGRET THE DAY YOU WERE BORN, MAGGOT!”

  “Too late. What else have you got?”

  Meathead smiles unpleasantly. “I’m going to have fun breaking you down.”

  “Oh go fuck yourself.”

  What are they going to do? Nothing, that’s what. They need me for the chip. They could knock me out, kill me, take it, but they obviously don’t want to do that, or they would have already. And I’ve already been with someone who knows how to use a different kind of force. I’m immune to this shouty wall of a man.

  He does not like the “fuck yourself” part. It unleashes a torrent of very loud military-esque shouting, which admittedly, is hard on the ear drums, but not much of anything else. I almost died. More than once. They’ve taken me away from the one man I feel passion for. This bullshit shrieking coming from a grown man, a technique designed to work on impressionable fresh-faced eighteen year olds hoping to earn approval, leaves me cold.

  I stand there and wait for him to run out of breath.

  “You done?”

  “I WILL BE DONE WHEN I SAY I’M DONE, YOU LITTLE SHIT!”

  “So, no. Alright.”

  Another tirade explodes from him, culminating in “DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY!”

  “Nope.” I give him a pitying look. “You don’t have any leverage, Hulk. This shit works when someone gives a fuck what you might do to them. I don’t care.”

  He takes a deep breath and deflates. He’s no physically smaller, but the aggressive energy slips away.

  “Alright,” he says, his voice much more casual. “Good luck, kid.”

  He turns and walks away, leaving me alone in the cell again.

  * * *

  The next man to come and see me not an hour later is a tall, handsome one. He has dark hair, blue eyes, and he looks like someone who would get pinned in a HOT GUYZ section of a internet bulletin board for people who think wire coat hangers can make equally good lampshades, and think putting the word “EAT” in large letters on the kitchen wall doesn’t make their house look like it is inhabited by perpetual amnesiacs.

  “Hello,” he smiles. “I’m Greg.”

  “Hi Greg. What do you want?”

  “Just to see how you’re doing.”

  Oh I see what they’re doing here. Right. Bad cop. Good cop. Trick old as time.

  “Pretty shitty, Greg. Thanks.”

  “You’re probably hungry. Want to grab some food?” He smiles a white toothed smile. “You can have ice cream if you want.”

  Ice cream. The words trigger the memory of Blaze and Slick. He bought her ice cream too. It was his way of defusing her anger and getting under her skin. But why is this guy…

  I suddenly realize what they’re trying to do. They’re trying to find me a new handler. They’re trying to replace Vicious, and they’re not giving me much of any down time after the Russians because they want to use that recent trauma to bond me to someone new.

  Holy fuck. They’re completely sick. Worse than Vicious. Even at his most theatrically manipulative, he was never this bad. His relationship with me is fucked up, but real. I could feel it on a pheromonal level. Vicious and I are bonded at the meat. This smooth guy couldn’t bond with superglue, everything slides off his vapid exterior.

  “Sure,” I smile. “I’d love some ice cream.”

  “Let’s get out of this cell,” he winks. “I can get you some clothes that fit a bit better than that jumpsuit.”

  “Oh wow, we can leave?” I put just the right amount of surprise into my voice.

  “Sure,” he says. “You’re not a prisoner. You’re just being held for your own safety.”

  “Oh my own safety? Oh okay.”

  He gets me some clothes. Nothing special, just jeans and a t-shirt, but it is amazing how being dressed in “normal” clothing helps shift my mindset.

  Once I’m dressed, Greg escorts me out of the cell. I pretend to me awestruck by him. These people clearly think I’ve let Vicious do what he does because of how he looks. That has very little to do with it. Yes, Vicious is hot, but it’s his mind that’s magnetic. He has a depth of character, a twisted internal world which draws me in and makes me want him. ‘Greg’ has none of that. He’s like a wipe down countertop, shiny on the outside, hollow on the inside.

  The cell I was in turns out to be inside an otherwise unremarkable midtown office building. The frightening part of what these men and women do is that, a lot like criminals, they operate under the noses of the general public. Nobody knows what goes on way up on the fourth floor and nobody cares.

  I am disoriented as we step out into the flow of people. Greg is by my side, saying relatable things. I say relatable things back, but I’m not paying attention. I’m scanning the world around me for any signs of Vicious or his people. Blaze would be such a fucking welcome sight now.

  I don’t see anyone I know. I feel disconnected from the crowd, from the city which used to swallow me. I’m separate from it now, a thing apart from the energy which swirls around me.

  God, where is Vicious?

  “What flavor do you want?”

  We’ve walked to the park, and now we’re standing in front of an ice cream cart. It’s as if I blinked and transported there.

  “Oh, uhm, I don’t care.”

  Where is Vicious? I know he can’t be far away. I know he’s not going to let these spooks take me.

  And then it hits me. A thought that should have been obvious from the outset. It must have occurred to some part of my mind, but I blocked it out as unthinkable.

  What if Vicious didn’t survive the attack? I can’t imagine anything killing Vicious, but I can’t deny he was dying the last time I saw him. What if he’s dead and gone? What if I’m suddenly more alone in the world than I’ve ever been?

  Before Vicious, I was fine on my own. After Vicious, I’m not sure how I can survive without him.

  Greg is paying for ice cream, his back to me when I take off at a sprint, using the crowd against him as I make my entirely predictable escape. I could try Vicious’ apartment, but if he’s dead, there’s no point. I could go to Coco’s salon, but fuck that. Times like these, a girl needs her best friend. I need Blaze.

  * * *

  It’s been a while since I was at Blaze’s place. She lives
in a shitty little apartment with about the worst neighbors I can think of. They’re playing heavy bass music at ten in the morning and one of them is hanging out the window limply. Maybe alive. Maybe dead. Don’t care.

  Her front door is open a crack. That’s when I know something is wrong. Her place is a fortress. There are traps all over it. Even I’m a little cautious about walking into her place, but I have to.

  The second I step inside, my suspicions are confirmed. It’s fucking carnage in here. There are spots where something has burned into the linoleum tile, it smells like petrol with just a hint of homemade napalm. Shit is everywhere. The place has been smashed apart. The cabinets are broken into smithereens. There’s something I think is blood smeared across the walls and floor. The bass from the apartments above and next door thrums through the place, making little shards of ceramic dance.

  I want to call her name, but I don’t know that this place isn’t empty. For all I know, whoever did this is still here. For once, I really wish Vicious would make an appearance, but I look behind me and nobody is there. I’m alone. When I turn back, I notice an arrow is buried in the wall at head height. There’s what looks like hair and blood stuck to the shaft. Jesus. That hit someone.

  Everywhere I look there’s more chaos. The entire place is a sign of a struggle.

  “Blaze!” I yell her name. Fuck it.

  Under the pounding of the bass, I hear what might be a pained groan. I’m almost scared to follow it, but I have to.

  “Oh shit. Oh no. Oh my fucking god.”

  Blaze is lying on her bedroom floor. Her face is swollen almost beyond recognition, her lip is split open, her eyes are blown up, two big black spheres.

  Fear and rage hit me in equal measure. Who the fuck did this to her? I go to my knees beside her, try to work out if she’s still alive. Just. She’s barely breathing. Her pulse is weak, but she’s still with us.