by Holly Hart
And the man with the wedding ring tattoos might be many things: evil, possessed, mad – but he’s not stupid. From the sounds of things, he’s a damn fine commander of men.
Which means Frankie’s in a whole lot of trouble.
I bring the cell phone to eye level. I don’t recognize the number. I bring it up on screen.
And almost double over with shock.
It’s a picture message. A girl. Frankie.
It’s hard to make much out from the poor quality photograph. Frankie’s in the middle of a large room – perhaps a basement. She’s standing half-crouched, almost holding her arms out in front of her for balance.
“What the hell?”
I bring the phone closer to my eyes and squint to make out every last detail. I quickly wish that I hadn’t.
Because Frankie’s standing on a landmine.
23
Frankie
I knew the Templars were evil. I’ve lived through the proof of that once already. I vowed that I would never do it again.
I’ve broken that vow.
I’ve failed.
How could I be so stupid? Whatever problems I might have had, what the hell possessed me to just walk out on them, instead of trying to fight, to work them out?
Besides, they pale compared to this.
Adultero paces – dragging his still-bandaged leg behind him. His movement is jerky, neurotic even. It’s like he’s gobbled down half a pack of Ritalin, and followed it up with a hit from a crack pipe to wash away the pain. His men hang back, downstairs somewhere. They are scared to enter this room – scared of their own master. I hate them, but I don’t blame them. Not for that.
And that just leaves adultero and me.
I don’t know his real name. I don’t want to know his real name. It’s enough that his face will haunt my dreams for the rest of my life – short as that might now be.
“Where is he, girl?” The tattooed gangster spits, turning to face me. His expression is enraged. “It’s been an hour.”
I don’t know how to respond. My arms ache, my legs are numb. I’ve been standing on this pressure plate for hours, eyes focused on a green box in front of me. It’s marked with Chinese glyphs, painted on white. I don’t know exactly what it is – but it doesn’t take a genius to guess.
It’s some kind of explosive. And it’s pointed right at me.
There’s a glint in adultero’s eye. “Did my men tell you what that was?” He asks, gesturing down at the pressure plate beneath the soles of my feet.
I shake my head. “No,” I croak. And then I say it again, clearing my throat. I don’t know why – it won’t change anything – but I don’t want to let this monster think of me as weak. I’m not. I’m just a bad girl in a worse situation.
“No.”
I don’t beg for my freedom. I don’t plead with this freak. I’ve seen the movies and I’ve read the books. I know how this ends. That kind of behavior won’t get me anywhere. If I’m going to die, I’m going to do it with honor.
The Mexican gangster walks over towards me. His arm trembles. I don’t think he even notices it, but the more I watch the man close up, the more I think that he’s under the influence of something. Some drug – or maybe just it’s madness. In the end, I guess it doesn’t really matter. Not to me.
He strokes my chin. My eyes narrow with barely suppressed hatred.
“You think you’re brave, girl?” Adultero asks, his tone scornful. “You think you’re the only girl who’s ever tried this act on with me?”
I stand still – and not just to avoid going up in flames.
“Keep quiet, then,” he growls, leaning forward, whispering into my ear. The gangster’s breath stinks: an acrid, rotten scent, like an abattoir in the heat of summer. “It won’t save you. It won’t make you any less dead.”
“You’re a monster,” I spit.
Literally. Flecks of saliva collide with adultero’s face. A smile of satisfaction curls across my face.
“I don’t care. About anything you have to say to me.”
“You’ll be dead soon enough,” adultero shrugs. A snarl – an expression caught between a grin and a grimace, twists his face. “You and that boyfriend of yours. We can bury you together, if you want?”
I don’t reply. I stand, fists clenched, trembling with rage. But I don’t reply. This monster isn’t worth it.
“It’s a Type 66 Claymore mine, since you asked so nicely,” he says, crouching to examine the metal plate beneath my feet. “Connected to this,” he says, tapping the plate. “A pressure plate. Rated for more than 100 pounds. You know what that means?”
I glare at him, but don’t say a word.
“Of course not,” the gangster grins, standing back up. “Why should you? But I’ll tell you, if you want. It means that the second you step off it, or collapse with exhaustion, this mine over here –,” he points at the curved green box facing me, “– will detonate.”
“It’s packed with bearing balls, you know?” The gangster adds in a conversational tone, walking to the other side of the room. “They’ll rip through your body before the shock wave even reaches you. You’ll die quick, if that’s any consolation…”
“It’s not,” I growl, unable to prevent myself. “But what’s stopping me from doing it now? I could move, and blow us both up.”
Now I’ve said it out loud, the threat feels real. I’ve been playing with the idea in my mind for hours: dreaming of blowing the smug grin on adultero’s face to smithereens.
Sure, I would die as well.
It wouldn’t save my girls.
But it would be a start.
Adultero glances up at me and grins. My forehead wrinkles. I didn’t expect that reaction. A knot starts to writhe in my stomach.
“You can. And maybe you will. Maybe you won’t have a choice – your legs will only hold you up for so long. But you’ll only kill yourself. You see –,” he reaches out and strokes the curved green mine. “One of my favorite features about the Type 66 is that it’s a Claymore. You know what that is?”
“Oh, I just bet you’re about to tell me…” I glower.
The gangster’s face scrunches up with anger. I can tell he doesn’t often tangle with people willing to stand up to him – especially not women. But I have nothing to lose. After all, I’m standing on a damn landmine!
My life was forfeit the second I woke up in this room. I would never forgive myself if I didn’t at least try to tweak the tiger’s tail.
“You think you’re so fucking clever?” My captor roars. It’s terrifying how quickly his expression shifts. He’s overtaken by a black rage, a darkness. I look away, half-worried that if I keep staring, it’ll suck me in.
“You fucking girls, you’re all the same,” adultero shouts. “And you know what? You all sound the same when I’ve got my cock in you. When you’re begging me to stop, telling me about your mamas, your kids, your fucking whatever…”
For the first time, I’m glad I’m standing on this pressure plate. If I wasn’t, I’m sure that the monster opposite me would already be standing over my brutalized body. Heck, I’m not even sure that it will stop him. I start to worry that the rage will make my captor forget, blind him to the consequences of knocking me off this plate.
“I don’t have a mama,” I say. “Or kids. Or anyone looking out for me, for that matter,” I lie. It’s one last desperate attempt to save Ridley’s life. If he charges in here to rescue me, I know we’ll both die. That’s the last thing I want.
“I don’t know what you think –.”
“Shut the fuck up,” the gangster growls.
The longer this goes on, the more unhinged adultero is beginning to look. I don’t know why, but it’s like my escape did something to the cartel lieutenant: like it pushed him over the edge. I don’t remember him acting like this the first time. He was evil, sure, but not crazy. Not like this.
“What do you think you’re going to get out of this?” I ask, trying again.
I keep my voice quiet, almost as though I’m begging. I’m not, but this monster doesn’t need to know that. I’ll give him what he wants: subservience, at least on the surface. It’s not a strong hand, but playing to adultero’s dismissive, hateful view of women is the only card I have. So I’ll play the hell out of it.
“I’m no one,” I say, my voice plaintive. “No one’s out there looking for me. All the Irishman was looking for,” I lie, “was sex. He used me up and spat me out. Just like you were going to do. You men are all the same, all animals…”
“Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet,” the gangster snarls, imitating a chattering mouth with his right hand. He limps towards me, but catches himself on the other side of the mine.
“I never did finish telling you about this thing, did I?” He whispers, taking outside pleasure in the story he’s about to tell me.
“Wasn’t easy – smuggling it into the states, you know. But you pay the right people, grease the right palms, you’ll get anything across the border. American border patrol agents aren’t too different from the ones with we get back home. Money talks, wherever you are in the world.”
I can’t take my eyes off the green explosive device. The gangster’s voice starts to fade away. The beating of my heart overtakes it: louder and louder in my eardrums. Will I really be able to step off this plate? Knowing that it will cost me my life.
I don’t know.
“It won’t stop me from killing you –.”
Adultero holds up his hand. Somehow he steals the words from my mouth. “Oh, but it will stop you killing me,” he smiles. “Because – you see this white text?”
My eyes trace the faded white hieroglyphics. How could I not see them… They are all I’ve been staring at for the last ten minutes: trying to decipher the words that might mean everything to my fate.
“Do you?” The gangster spits
“Yes.” The sullenness of my reply doesn’t seem to bother adultero. If anything, he revels in it, as though it’s a badge of honor. I glance up at him. My eyes trace the line of wedding ring tattoos streaking out from his eye like tears.
It is a badge of honor. To him.
“Where was I?” Adultero walks backward, then leans against the far wall. “Ah, yes. The letters. They say face towards the enemy. You know why?”
I close my eyes. I don’t have to answer. The realization dawns over me. Suddenly I understand exactly why the gangster doesn’t seem bothered about being in the same room as a high explosive device.
“Exactly,” he crows. “As long as it’s pointed at you, that’s the way it’ll blow. Sure, my ears might ring for an hour or so –.”
He leans forward. The movement dislodges a few flakes of peeling paint from the wall of the old apartment building.
“– But it’ll be worth it. Have you ever seen a woman get blown apart? No, of course you haven’t. You should, sometime. It’s a shame you’ll not get the chance, in a way. There’s something special about it. Sexual, even. I never get so hard as when I see a girl’s bloodied foot flying across the room.”
A wave of bile rises in my throat. The acid burns as I choke it back. Maybe I shouldn’t bother. Maybe I should just spit it out, see if I can hit my tormentor with it. He’d probably shoot me, but it would be worth it.
“What’s wrong with you?” I whisper.
I figure there’s no point in hiding my disgust. I can’t believe that anyone can actually be this sick, this twisted. Doesn’t he hear himself? What happened to him to make in this way? Surely no one could be born like this… And if he’s just saying these crazed things for show, not because he means them, then is that any better?
A tic shivers on his cheek: a muscle twitching. I wonder if it reflects the man’s madness starting to spill out. “Too much to bother listing,” he growls.
A phone rings. It’s harsh loudness startles me. The chords don’t sound like they should fit here: too modern for this dark, damp room that stinks of despair.
Adultero glances at the screen. Then his face lights up with twisted happiness. “About time,” he mutters with glee, glancing up at me. He shakes the screen, though it’s glowing brightness is too far away for me to make out any kind of detail.
“It’s your boyfriend,” he adds helpfully. “Want to listen in?”
“He’s not my –.”
My pleas fall on deaf ears. Adultero waves them away, and taps the front of the phone. The speaker rings out.
“You’re late,” the monster growls. “I told you an hour. You want your woman to die because you couldn’t follow simple instructions?”
There’s a long pause before I hear anything on the other end of the line.
“Nice to hear from ye again, too –,” Ridley grins.
I can tell he’s grinning. I don’t know how, but I can picture his face. I close my eyes, concentrating on it. And because I don’t want to see any more of this hell.
“– Even if I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances, now.”
“Don’t play games with me, Ridley Byrne,” adultero growls. “You see – I know who you are. I know everything about you, Irishman.”
“Ye do now, do ye?” Ridley replies. His voice is flat and bored. “Thing is, I’ve been asking my boys a few questions about you, too. Ye know what I found out?”
“Enough!” My tormentor growls. “You want your girl to die because –.”
“My girl?” Ridley interrupts, sounding entirely disinterested. “You think I care about the redhead?”
Ridley’s words attack me like hammer blows. A wave of nausea rises in my stomach. He can’t think like that, can he? It must be a game. A strategy: something he’s saying to trick the Templar.
Or…
Maybe he’s telling the truth. Perhaps I never meant anything to him. Maybe I was right, earlier – even if it was accidental. Maybe all men are the same. And maybe even Ridley is one of them.
No!
I refuse to believe it.
“Her goose –,” a pause, “was cooked the second she met you. I got me fill of her. Don’t mean I felt nothing for her, does it?”
Goose. The word fills me with relief. I know how carefully Ridley’s chosen it. He’s sending me a message: that’s clear as day. I can ignore what he’s saying. I just need to listen to how he saying it.
“So maybe I should just kill the bitch,” adultero growls. He’s not a man who enjoys being made a fool of, that much is clear. “Put a bullet in her head and be done with it?”
Ridley pauses again.
“You ever hear the phrase: when you hear gunfire, duck, duck, goose?”
Adultero’s face scrunches up with confusion. I have to admit, for a second mine does too. The words that are coming out of Ridley’s mouth are nonsense, plain and simple. That’s not a phrase – least not one I’ve ever heard.
I play it back in my mind, concentrating on what Ridley wants me to hear. The message he’s sending. “When you hear gunfire, duck – Goose.”
Said like that, it makes a whole lot more sense. I don’t know how he’s going to do it, but now I know for sure. Ridley’s coming to save me.
“What are you talking about?” Adultero growls.
“I told ye,” Ridley says airily. “I never cared about the redhead. Yer safe house on the other hand – ye know, the one with all those girls in…”
“You stay away, Byrne,” the gangster spits. “Or I’ll tear this city apart.”
But Ridley’s gone. In the distance, at least a couple of blocks away, I hear the crackle of gunfire.
Duck, Goose.
I do as I’m told.
24
Ridley
I’ve got to move fast. Frankie’s life depends on it. I know she must be dazed and confused right now, and I don’t blame her.
The second I had Mac and his boys open fire on the Templar safe house – the one the sick bastards are storing their trafficked women in – I started a clock ticking in my head. The sand is tumbling dow
n in the egg timer now. It’s time for me to step up and save Frankie.
I tap the pistol holstered at my hip for good luck. For the time being, my weapon of choice is an old Army knife. It’s been in the family for years – ever since pa did his time in Vietnam back in the seventies. He didn’t talk about it much, but I don’t doubt he killed men while he was out there. I don’t doubt that sometimes he had to do it by hand. Vietnam was a nasty war.
“I’m coming fer ye, Frankie,” I mutter under my breath.
That’s the signal for me to get moving. I’m doing this alone. I need to be stealthy: not give the game away by kicking down the front door. It’s the only way to give Frankie even a snowball’s chance in hell of staying alive.
A voice sounds from the other side of a thin plaster wall. “You hear that?”
I freeze. Adrenaline starts pumping in my veins. It lends everything a heightened sense of importance: as if it needed it. In front of me I see a tunnel, a cone. Everything that isn’t directly relevant to keeping me alive seems blurred and irrelevant.
“Hear what?”
I press my back up against the wall, clutching the knife at hip height. I made my way into the decaying, abandoned apartment building – only a block away from the one Mac and I staked out earlier – through a service tunnel. I’m glad my nose turned off half an hour ago. I must smell like crap.
Two men, my brain notes. It’s feeding me information now, a torrent of it. It’s like being in the matrix. I can’t see them, but I know everything about each one of them, just from the sound of their voices, by the tones they’re using: one nervous, probably young; the other older – jaded by experience.
“Not sure. A sound. Should we tell the boss?”
A laugh. “Tell him what? That you’re hearing things? Hey, you wanna put your life on the line like that, be my guest…”
A pause. “You’re right.
“Go check it out.”
“I thought you said –.”
