by Holly Hart
“Are you scared?” I ask, my own eyes flickering back towards the Mexican cartel thug in front of me. But I keep my voice soft. I’m speaking to both of them now: the girl, and the gangster. I’m speaking to all three of these sick, depraved men.
“Scared?” The man with the knife scoffs. He pulls his lip back over his teeth and bares them at me. I only see it out of the corner of my eye. I’m watching the girl – waiting for her reaction. She nods. It’s a tiny, jerking movement: imperceptible, unless you’re watching closely. I am.
“You should be,” I mutter. But this time I’m talking to only one person: the man with the knife. He comes to a halt about ten feet away from me. He’s close enough that he could sprint towards me in less time than it would take to draw my weapon from the small of my back. I might be able to put two in his chest before he reached me, but I wouldn’t bet on it.
And I’m a betting man.
“You’re brave to talk to me like dis,” the Mexican snarls. “De las’ man who did,” he grins, looking back at his two companions who gawp back at him, jaws jutting out like simple-minded sycophants, “didn’ live to regret it…”
As he turns away from me, I let my right hand slide into the fold between my thick winter coat and my side. The cold chill bites against my skin, but I ignore it. If anything, it wakes me up. The prancing fool with a knife doesn’t notice. He’s too busy showing off in front of the soldiers under his command. I’d shake my head, but he doesn’t deserve even that.
“Get the hell out of here, jefe,” the Mexican snarls, all traces of amusement dying on his face. It happens in an instant. It reminds me of a dark swarm of locusts sweeping across a field of wheat and turning it dark in an instant. “Go, before you give me a reason to doubt my generosity.”
I glance back at the redhead. Her eyes are still flickering, dancing a wild jig in their sockets. I half-wonder if she’s as terrified as she should be, but I dismiss the thought out of hand. I know what fear looks like. I know what fear smells like. This girl – whoever she is and however she got mixed up in this – isn’t afraid: not completely, anyway. She’s determined. She’s looking for a route out of this hell.
“What are you doing with the girl?” I ask, keeping my voice even-tempered. Deep down I know that there’s no way this situation resolves without a fight. But – strangely – I feel like I’m on show. I feel like the redhead is watching me, and I don’t want to let the demon inside me out; not unless I have to.
But, if I have to …
… I will.
“Are you serious, gringo?” The gangster asks. His face twists with a mixture of surprise and amusement. I hear a chuckle from one of the animals holding the redhead tight between them. It’s a high-pitched laugh. It reminds me of a jackal’s mating cry, or the cough of a vulture. He looks back at his men one last time, and I take the opportunity to close my fingers around the butt of my handgun.
“Deadly,” I reply. My voice is firm. If this thug knew who I was, he’d be running. I’m giving him a warning, but I know he won’t take it.
“One las’ chance, gringo,” the gangster snarls taking a step toward me. “Because dis don’ concern you.”
The redhead tries to tug herself loose. She only succeeds in letting out a cry of pain as both her captors squeeze her shoulders tight. A flash of anger bursts inside me like a volcano, the promise of violence soaring down every nerve like super-heated magma. I clench my free fist tight, and my fingernails bite into the soft skin of my palm. I ignore it.
“My streets,” I grunt, “my problem.”
This is a dumb move. I know it even before I say it. But I can’t help myself. I’m being carried forward on an unstoppable river of rage. It’s burning inside me, whipping me, pushing me to do something I’ll regret.
Like start a war.
The gangster scowls, but I don’t give him a second to pay attention to my words. I shouldn’t have given him any hint of who I am: a Byrne. Rule number one: you never want your opponent to know how dangerous you really are.
I stare at the man. I pay attention to his tattoos for the first time: three wedding rings high on his left cheek, falling from the corner of his eye. I’ve seen this kind of tattoo before, but usually the design is of tears, signifying the number of men a man has killed. I don’t know what the rings are supposed to mean. Whatever it is, I don’t like it.
“What are you doing with the girl?” I ask. I intentionally slur my words, to make it seem as though I’m more drunk than I actually am. I take a step forward and sway slightly. I don’t know how convincing the act is, but it seems to do the trick.
“She’s ours,” the gangster says, with a possessive glint in his eye. “If you so interested, maybe you can pay for her…”
He flicks the knife in his hand. It’s a long practiced motion, the wrist dancing up so quickly it’s hard to see with the naked eye. He catches the flying knife – by the blade. It doesn’t impress me much.
I don’t let it show, but inside, my blood cools. Where a second ago, a raging torrent of flame burned through a dusty plain, now a blast of chill wind swirled through frozen tundra. I know exactly what is going on here. These men – these animals – have kidnapped this girl. They kidnapped her for a purpose:
to use her;
to abuse her;
to break her;
to profit off of her.
“How much?” I cough, bringing my left hand up to cover my mouth. I splutter, as though I’ve swallowed a fly. It’s all an act – sleight-of-hand. I want them looking at my left so that I can go for my weapon with my right; every second counts.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” the gangster laughs. He glances back at his men; both are wearing big, shit-eating grins. “Get the hell out of here, mick. I know you Irish. You couldn’t afford an hour wit’ her if you emptied your wallet.”
I pull the weapon from my waistband an inch at a time. It’s too dark for him to see. It looks like I’m going for my wallet.
“Not yet, anyway,” the gangster chuckles. “Maybe in a couple of mont’s when I’ve,” he licks his lips and grabs his crotch, “taken the bitch for everyt’ing she’s worth. Maybe you can ride her den. But I doubt it.”
“Feck ye, then,” I swear, waving my left hand with fake anger. Well, the anger is real – but not because of what the gangster’s saying. It’s because of what he’s doing – what he represents. “Keep the bitch.”
I watch the redhead out of the corner of my eye. When I speak, it’s like the hope dies inside her. She folds over – disappointment in her eyes – like she’s taken a body blow to the stomach. The sight twists my gut.
I turn away. I take a step back, toward the pub. I hear the scrape of a boot against the asphalt as the cartel thug turns away from me. I hear the beginnings of a throaty, cackling laugh escape his mouth.
And I keep turning. I spin. I draw the weapon from my waistband and turn the full 360°.
I flick the safety.
“Didn’t your mom ever tell you not to bring a knife to a gunfight?” I chuckle. The gangster’s accomplices scream a warning, and the thug spins back to face me. He lurches toward me before stopping dead. His jaw tightens with suppressed rage.
“I could drop you in a second,” I warn. “Don’t give me a reason – another reason – to put two in your chest and one in your head.”
“You don’ know what you’re doing, gringo,” he says, voice low. “You don’ know who we are.”
I see movement behind him, and let the barrel of my weapon dance lazily towards the culprit. He freezes…
“You want to die today, boy?” I hiss at the man to the left of the redhead. He can’t be more than a day over twenty. I don’t like dealing with kids that young – they always want to be a hero. I don’t like killing them. But I will, if I need to.
He shakes his head.
I turn my attention back to the man with the knife. “Drop it,” I say, jerking my chin. He grimaces, grinding his teeth together like the
rattle of a dying chainsaw.
“I asked,” wedding-ring-tattoo says – and it sounds like ‘axed’ –, “if you know who we are? You want to turn away, Irishman, and maybe I’ll forget this ever happened. Maybe.”
I laugh. It’s cold, hard and dead. There’s no humor there. “Oh, I know. You’re cartel scum. I just don’t give a fuck. I don’t like men – bitches – who mess with women. It don’t sit right with me, ye know?”
The gangster inches towards me.
“I said –,” I say, but there’s no time to finish my sentence. There’s a flurry of movement from behind him, and the redhead tries to break free.
“Crap,” I mutter. I don’t blame the girl for moving, but she’s thrown a wrench in my plan. This makes things a hell of a lot more difficult. I see the flash of the knife speeding towards me and I fire on instinct. The gun in my hand bucks like a donkey, and a splatter of blood flies towards me. The thug falls to the ground, clutching his side. It’s not a killing blow – least, I don’t think so. But I don’t have time to think.
I fire again – this time hitting the man chasing the redhead. The bullet hits the man in the shoulder and he spins, winged: another one down; another pawn off the chessboard.
The third cartel member – the young kid – freezes. He puts his hands above his head. I’d swear – if I didn’t know better – that I can see a tear leaking from his eye.
“Get the hell out of here,” I growl, pointing with my gun. “Before you make me change my mind.”
Cries of pain squeal through the quiet night air as the kid drags his accomplices to their feet. Judging by the look of anger on the lead thug’s face as he turns it toward me, he’s not dying anytime soon.
More’s the pity. I watch as they drag themselves into the darkness.
Then I turn toward the redhead. She froze when I started shooting, and she’s looking at me with an expression I can barely describe. It’s a mixture of relief, sheer terror and confusion: making it absolutely clear she has no idea what happens next.
I don’t blame her.
Neither do I.
I walk towards her, because at least my legs work. I don’t know what the hell to say. I hold out my hand and she takes it, as if on autopilot. Her skin is so soft and warm. It feels like holding a cloud.
The redhead looks up at me. She’s trembling.
I need to break the silence. My lips start moving before my brain catches up with them. “Well, shit.”
3
Frankie
Who is this man? He saved my life, and I don’t even know his name.
Or did he save me?
Maybe he’s just as bad as all the rest.
Maybe he’s going to take me and keep me:
to use me;
to shame me;
to break me.
After all, how many normal men walk around the streets of Boston carrying a gun? How many would stare down a brutal gang of cartel members without so much as flinching?
Whoever he is, he’s no civilian. He carries an indescribable scent of menace. There’s something about him that screams danger; but whether that’s danger to me, or to my enemies, I don’t know. Rather, I don’t know yet.
He stands over six feet tall. I’ve never seen a man with shoulders like the monsters riding the black-haired man’s back. His overcoat hugs his body, but I can tell there’s a strength and thickness underneath it that I’ve never encountered before.
But his touch is soft and gentle. It doesn’t matter that he’s got a gun in his hand: a gun that’s still smoking. It doesn’t matter that there are splatters of blood on the ground. He touches me like a lover, not a fighter.
And still, I don’t know his name.
He shakes his head, cocking it and looking at me side-eyed. I look back up at him, taking strength from his warm touch. It’s feeding me, caressing me, making me whole again.
“Who are ye, then?” He asks with genuine interest. I stare up at him, losing myself in his eyes. They glitter – like cat’s eyes – and then I realize they are each a different color. I’ve never seen anything like it. I can’t look away. They are like emeralds dancing in the streetlight.
The man – my Savior – shakes his head. Is he my Savior? Or just another shark sensing blood on the waves.
I can’t speak. My jaw is clenched tight, but only because I know that if I don’t, my teeth will start chattering like a newspaper office full of old fashioned typewriters. I think I’m in shock.
“Just tell me yer name, doll,” the Irishman says. His voice is soft, gentle. “That’s all.”
I squeeze his fingers. I don’t think he’s going to hurt me. No; I know he isn’t. I don’t know how I know, but I do. I’m exhausted, drained; every muscle feels as limp as wilted spinach. I spent all that time running, hiding, and it was for nothing.
They found me.
They were going to take me: beat me; rape me.
That is, until he showed up.
I owe him this much, at least. I owe him my name. It’s a small price to pay for a life.
“Frankie,” I whisper, through mouth that’s dry as desert dunes. “It’s Frankie…”
Now that my adrenaline is rushing out of my body, just saying those three words leaves me spent. I’m cold, so cold. I want this man to take me in his arms, hug me and tell me it’s all going to be better.
But he doesn’t.
He reaches for his phone.
My body searches for any last reserve of adrenaline. It dumps it into my bloodstream. I need to hide. They could be listening.
I shake my head.
“Don’t…” I whisper. I grab the Irishman’s forearm and squeeze it, pulling his hand – and phone – away from his ear. My hands are white with tension, and yet my intention is nothing compared to his strength. My fingers look cold, stiff, and shiny as a corpse’s twisted extremities. My rescuer’s hands, by contrast, are alive and flushed with energy. He could shake me off as he might a toddler’s weak grasp.
But he doesn’t.
His eyes fill with tenderness.
“I won’t hurt ye, doll,” he says. “But I can’t leave you on your own. Yer in some deep shit and you need help.”
Everything he says is true. I know it is. How can I deny it? The evidence still paints the asphalt red in front of me, even as the gangster’s blood congeals and rusts against the filthy asphalt.
“Please,” I say, begging him with all the strength I can muster. “Don’t call anyone. Just let me go: by myself; I’ll be okay.”
It’s a lie. I might live, or I might die – but at least it would be on my own terms. I’m done relying on other people. I want to be, anyway. But I know that path leads straight to the morgue.
The Irishman chews his lip. I can’t take my eyes off him: not just because he has a magnetism about him that I’ve never sensed from anyone before; but because my life might rest on his answer. I don’t know how those gangsters found me, but I can’t risk being found again.
I won’t survive.
“Well, shit,” he says, repeating himself. “I’m Ridley, by the way,” he says.
Ridley shakes my hand. I’m still clutching his like a lost child, so it isn’t hard. Then he shakes his head, like he’s trying to figure out what the hell to do. He lets go of me, and a shiver runs through my body. I can’t hold back the chattering of my teeth anymore: it feels like an iceberg has burst loose inside me. I need to get somewhere warm. I need someone to hold me.
Ridley shrugs off his overcoat and wraps it around me. It’s still warm from his body, and the heat helps slow the dancing of my teeth.
“Let’s get you somewhere warm,” he says. “We can figure the rest of it out later.”
Ridley loops his arm around my body and pulls me into him. To the rest of the world, we must look like a couple out for a nighttime stroll; a wife, sharing her husband’s jacket. If only they knew.
“It’s not far,” Ridley says, glancing down at me. His expression is inscrutable,
though his eyes questioning: at least he’s too well-mannered to probe. I’m too cold and too tired to explain how I arrived in this mess.
I rest my head against Ridley’s shoulder. I give in to the flow of the river of circumstance that’s carrying me along. I don’t feel like I have a choice in the matter. I don’t want to have a choice. With Ridley, I feel safe.
Every time we pass a CCTV camera, I flinch and hide from it. I feel the warmth of Ridley’s curious gaze falling on me every time, but I ignore it.
We don’t walk long – maybe ten minutes – before we reach our destination: the Sunset Motel. Ridley tracks my gaze as I look up at the broken, blinking neon sign. He chuckles, as if we are just a couple out for a nighttime walk. As if this is the least unusual thing that’s happened to him all week.
“I know what you’re thinking – not very original, right?”
I nod. I’m exhausted, and I just want to fall asleep. But more than that, I want to please this man, who is helping me without expecting a damn thing in return. I think. I nod, though my muscles are cold and tired and all I want to do is close my eyes. He smiles, and crow’s feet wrinkle around his eyes.
“I know the owner. Charlie,” he chuckles. “I went to high school with him. He’s an asshole, but he doesn’t ask questions. He’s my asshole –.”
“Umm, wait. Not like that, I mean –. Anyway, what was I saying? That work for you?”
Ridley’s face wrinkles, reddens, and he speaks with flustered embarrassment. It’s that, or it’s an act he’s adopted to put me at ease.
I nod – again. It’s starting to feel like the only thing I can do. I clear my throat. “Yes,” I whisper. “That works for me.”
Ridley tells me to wait outside and steps inside the front office. I press myself against a gray, graffiti-sprayed concrete pillar and look around, clutching Ridley’s coat tight around my body. It wouldn’t be a cold night – not if it were any other – but tonight I feel I might freeze at any second. I watch as Ridley shakes hands with the proprietor. All I can see of the owner is his hand – lined with thick, curly black hair.
