by Tom Abrahams
How did I not notice her?
She slinked more than walked, and she did it in a way that told Zeke she knew how to handle herself. He swung back around to face Pedro. “Where is here?” he asked.
Before Pedro answered, the woman sidled up to the bar next to Zeke. The floral scent of her perfume overwhelmed his senses. The pleasantness of the perfume was in stark contrast to her appearance.
She’d been poured into her clothing. Tight black leather hid the parts of her she didn’t want people to see, and boldly colorful body art covered the rest. Only her palms, face, and scalp were unpainted as far as Zeke could tell. The most prominent of the ink was on her hip, in the space between the waistline of her low-slung pants and the bottom of the short leather top. It was a flaming sword that ran diagonally toward her navel, encircled with a disc that looked like a simplistic, flat rendition of the sun.
Her head was shaved on the sides, but the auburn mane of hair that ran along the center of her head ran to the middle of her back. It was braided with a pink bow.
On one wrist was a collection of knotted string, like a friendship bracelet. On the other was a paracord bracelet with a metal point at the clasp.
Her eyes were stunningly green, glowing almost. Her light-colored lashes were long, her nose sharp. It was what Zeke had heard was once called a Roman nose. She wasn’t beautiful, not in the classic sense. She was, however, intriguing. There was a story behind her appearance. Zeke was sure the tale was rich.
She was a study in contradiction every bit as much as the bar itself. Her voice was as sure as it was feminine. There was a raw, controlled power when she spoke.
“This is Pedro’s Cantina,” she said. “And I’ll have what he’s having.”
Pedro withdrew another glass from underneath the bar as the woman adjusted herself on the stool. She brushed against Zeke, and he swore electricity sparked across his body.
He tried not to look at her. Instead, he stared into his glass. The ice shrank against the heat of its surroundings. So did Zeke.
“You want it on the rocks?” asked Pedro.
“Why not?” she said.
Pedro tipped the bottle to the new glass and filled it halfway. He paused, eyed the woman, who raised her eyebrows at him, and topped off the glass. Pedro’s dog waddled over to her and rubbed his side against her leg like it was a cat. She made kissing sounds and stroked the dog’s head until it had had enough attention and waddled back toward its master.
She lifted the glass. “Who’s the new meat?”
Zeke knew she was talking about him, but he wasn’t about to answer. He hadn’t been this intimidated by a woman since, well, he didn’t want to think about it. He tightened his grip on his glass and took a healthy swig. The ice bobbed, and he resisted the urge to suck it into his mouth and gnash it between his teeth.
“This is Zeke,” said Pedro. “Zeke, this is my friend Uriel.”
Uriel pivoted to face Zeke, but her gaze lingered on Pedro. She smirked and tipped her glass toward the barkeep. “So, we’re friends, are we?”
“I’ve never met a stranger,” said Pedro. He capped the bottle, whipped the rag from his shoulder, wiped clean the rings left by the twin glasses, and stepped back to replace the bottle on the shelf.
Uriel turned her attention to Zeke. Her eyes moved down toward his boots and back up again, holding his gaze with an invisible tractor beam.
Zeke couldn’t look away, even as his pulse quickened and heat flushed his cheeks. He was mesmerized by her.
She set the drink on the bar, punched her tongue into her cheek, and twirled the end of her ponytail. She kicked one of her heels up and down impatiently. “Zeke, huh?” she said. “Momma didn’t love you?”
Zeke’s brow furrowed with confusion. He swallowed hard.
Uriel laughed and slapped his thigh with her hand. He noticed the length of her nails. They were manicured to fine points and painted with the same shade of pink as the bow, diamond studs embedded in the thumbnails.
“Loosen up, Zeke.” She said his name like the four-letter word it was. “I’m playing with you.”
“Oh, okay. Got it.” He secretly cursed himself. Who was this guy inhabiting his body? Why wasn’t he the confident, bordering-on-cocky man he’d been? He was an alien unto himself.
Uriel gripped the top of her glass and moved it in circles without lifting it from the bar. It scraped rhythmically against the surface, the liquid swirling around inside, washing against the sides.
“Of all the joints, in all the towns, in all the world, he walks into mine,” said Uriel, clearly paraphrasing a familiar quote. He couldn’t place it but thought it was from a movie or a book.
“Are you a bad guy who’s struggling with goodness or a good guy fighting off the bad?” she asked.
Before Zeke answered, Pedro did. “Aren’t we all a little bit of both, Uriel?” he asked. “I think we are. Now, you’ve been monopolizing Zeke here. I’ve got some things to discuss with him. Why don’t you go dance with Phil or play darts with Gabe?”
Uriel leered at Zeke, threw back the rest of the whiskey, and eyed her options. “Well,” she said to Pedro, “Gabe’s already claimed himself a woman this go-around, and Phil’s not so light on his feet. I think I’ll deal in a hand or three with Raf and Barach.”
Zeke observed the table where he’d seen men playing cards. He didn’t know who was who, but one of them had a large stack of chips. The others appeared frustrated, fidgety in their seats.
By the time he’d spun back to the bar, Uriel was on her feet. She straightened her top, tugging at the leather partially covering her breasts, and apparently caught Zeke lingering on her efforts.
She reached out with a long finger, touching the underside of his chin with her fingernail. A flirty twinkle sparkled in her eyes. “You’re definitely bad,” she said. “Def. In. It. Ly.”
Zeke’s mouth was dry again. He chuckled nervously.
Uriel let him off the hook with a wink and sauntered away from him. Zeke blew out a mouthful of air.
“Uriel is a piece of work,” said Pedro, scanning his establishment, “as is everyone here.” His gaze drifted back to Zeke and locked on him. His features darkened. “That includes you, Ezekiel Watson.”
“How did you know—” Zeke started, then stopped, remembering the wallet in his back pocket. “My ID?”
Pedro nodded. “Why do you think you’re here?”
Zeke studied his host, trying to understand the question beyond its face value. He cleared his throat. “Uh,” he said the most obvious of all the possibilities, “because the Tic chased me here. You took me in. Helped me out.”
Pedro’s ice-blue eyes drilled into Zeke. They were suggesting, no, strongly denying, that Zeke’s arrival was as coincidental as that. But Pedro didn’t correct him. Instead, the intensity in his gaze relaxed.
“Why does the Tic want you?” he asked. “What did you do?”
Zeke lowered his head. “That’s a long story,” he mumbled. “And, Pedro, as thankful as I am to be here, I need to get going. People need me.”
“I’m well aware of that,” said Pedro. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. But truth be told, son, we have all the time in the world.”
Zeke paused, considering. “Suffice it to say, without getting into specifics, I’ve done some bad things. I abandoned people…well, a person…I shouldn’t have left behind. She’s in trouble. I have to get back to her.”
“What did you do?” asked Pedro.
“A lot of things. Some of which couldn’t be helped.”
“Whom did you abandon?”
“My girl. Adaliah.”
“Adaliah,” repeated Pedro, the name sounding musical when he said it.
“Li for short.”
Pedro asked, “What couldn’t be helped?”
Zeke shrugged. “A lot of things.”
“Like what?”
Zeke didn’t want to answer, but something unseen compelled him to speak. He was in a tr
ance, unable to resist the lull of Pedro’s voice, smooth as the whiskey he’d been drinking. “Joining the Tic.”
“What could be helped?” asked the barkeep.
Zeke’s stomach turned. His head swam. Perspiration formed at his temples. The longer he was here, wherever here was, the more it felt…wrong. He wanted out of here. He had things to do, people to find. Nausea crept up his throat.
“Leaving her,” he said.
“Adaliah,” Pedro clarified.
“Yeah.” Zeke sucked in a deep breath, the lingering floral scent of Uriel’s perfume filling his nostrils. Adaliah was the one who’d tried to make him a better man. She was the one who’d accepted him for who, and what, he was. He’d dragged her down with him, a drowning man clinging to his rescuer until she too was pulled beneath the surface and unable to breathe.
Pedro’s next question shook him from his reverie. The old man had leaned in so close now, his licorice-scented breath overwhelmed the perfume. His leather vest creaked against the bar as it stretched.
“So your quest is to retrieve her from the violent clutches of the Tic before they exact your punishment on her?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
Zeke straightened his back, putting space between him and Pedro. “I guess. Yeah. I owe it to her.”
“Would you like some help?”
Zeke studied Pedro’s flat expression. The man wasn’t joking. At least Zeke didn’t think he was.
“Uh, okay?” he stammered. “But how do you—”
Pedro suddenly shifted his focus over Zeke’s shoulder. Zeke turned and sensed the weight of a presence behind him. He spun to find Uriel was back, hands on her hips. Her finger was tapping the flaming sword tattoo. Her seemingly permanent smirk gave her the look of someone who knew things, secret things she shouldn’t know but did.
She wasn’t alone, however.
She stood amongst four of the other bar patrons, all of whom had snuck up on Zeke. There was Phil, Gabe, and two of the men from the card table, who Zeke assumed were Raf and Barach.
Phil stroked his beard. The bowler was pitched back on his head, revealing a high forehead and a few locks of curly hair peeking out the sides.
Gabe had his muscular arms folded across his barrel chest. The veins that snaked under the surface of his forearms accentuated the strength of his artfully chiseled physique. On his neck was a scripted tattoo that read “Do Not Fear.” Zeke wondered if he was trying to be ironic.
One of the remaining two, the one who’d had the pile of chips in front of him, held his shoulders back and his chin up. He had jet-black hair that ran in waves across his head. A sweep of bangs covered one of his eyes, almost disguising a long, thin scar that ran along one side of his face. Around his neck was something that looked like a stethoscope.
The other card player was smaller than the others. He was bald and clean shaven. In his hand was a torn piece of bread. He chewed on what Zeke imagined was the rest of it. Despite his stature, he stood closer to Zeke than the others and gave the distinct impression he was the leader of the group.
Zeke stood from the stool and backed into the bar. In his experience, a ragtag-looking group like this sneaking up on you always meant bad news.
“What is this?” he asked.
“These are the people who will help you,” Pedro replied.
Chapter Three
Adaliah Bancroft saw Zeke. He was at the far end of a long, brightly lit tunnel. Or was it a hallway? She couldn’t be sure. The light, so bright it was blinding, made it difficult to sense her surroundings. But she knew Zeke was there. His arms were outstretched. He was trying to reach for her, pull her toward him. She couldn’t move. She was stuck in place, her feet cemented to the floor beneath her.
“Zeke,” she called, “can you see me? Can you see me?”
He yelled back to her, but his words were muddled and unintelligible. Why wasn’t he coming to her? Why was he so far away?
Then water rushed in from the sides of the corridor’s walls, like a dike spilling its charge. Roiling water, cold and impatient, flooded the space. It was above her ankles. She was shivering now. Zeke’s image was fading. The water was at her chest. The light dimmed. Her body shivered in the cold. The water, metallic and sour, was at her mouth and rising above her nose. She was stuck to the floor, unable to swim or float. Panic swelled in her chest, pushing a wave of anxiety through her tired, aching body. Her knees weakened despite her inability to move. She was stuck.
Adaliah Bancroft gasped for air as she regained consciousness. She was on her back, tied to a bench. A sopping cloth that smelled like cooking grease covered her face. She felt no pain, but her body trembled uncontrollably.
A shadowy figure stood above her, a vague form against the diffused light that shone through the cloth over Adaliah’s head. Then she felt weight press against her body, like the woman sat on her.
“Where is he, Li?” asked Brina. Her hot, stale breath filtered through the cloth. Her voice was gravelly and strained from years of chain-smoking. It was as masculine as it was feminine, and had Adaliah not known the woman, she’d have thought her a man. But she did know her. She knew the monstrous enforcer named Brina. Everybody knew her. Even those who’d never met her, never seen her vacant, reptilian gaze, knew the legend of the Tic’s sadistic information extractor.
Li shook her head in denial. She tried moving her legs. They were bound. Her wrists were too. “I don’t know,” she coughed out. “I told you. I don’t know.”
“Where is he?” Brina asked again. “I will not stop until you tell me. This is personal for me, which makes it personal for you. Where is he?”
It was the only question she’d asked during the countless hours Li had been here, over and over again. Where was her boyfriend? Where was the man who’d betrayed the Tic and left her to fend for herself?
A confusing stew of sadness, worry, and anger swirled amongst her innumerable thoughts, emotions, and sensations. Part of her understood. He’d been caught. He had to leave. But couldn’t he have told her his plans?
Maybe not. Maybe plausible deniability was her best defense. He was thinking of her. But as she lay strapped to a bench, tortured for what she didn’t know, there was no defense for what he’d done.
“I. Don’t. Know,” Li said defiantly, punching each word with as much force as she wished she could unleash on Brina. “He left me. The coward left me here. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know.”
Brina removed the cloth from Li’s face. She shook it free of the remnant water, sprinkling Li with it. Then she tossed the cloth aside and pulled up a chair. Its legs raked across concrete, screeching until Brina stopped and plopped her heft into the seat.
Li squinted against the light and blinked back the combination of tears and water that blurred her vision.
Brina put a hand on Li’s midsection, and Li instinctively recoiled from the touch.
“I believe you,” said Brina. “I believe you don’t know where Ezekiel went. If you did, you’d have told me. My experience, which I assure you is extensive, tells me you aren’t the kind to keep secrets against the threat of pain. You’d have spilled anything you knew by now.”
The funny thing was that there wasn’t any pain. In fact, if anything, the torture was painless. The repeated threat of drowning was worse than the drowning itself.
Li had survived all four of the attempts to extract information she didn’t have. But her mind believed she might be dying. Every time she’d passed out, it was as if she was on her way elsewhere, to the place between life and death. That hadn’t been the case though. She’d returned to this hell every time, wishing more and more that she had drowned.
She’d always known this was a possibility. The Tic was known for its brutality, even more than the Overseers. They met violent oppression with violent subterfuge. There was something brutal about using water for punishment. There was so little in the world now. It was such a precious commodity, the center of the legal and illegal economies. Y
et, here was Brina using gallons to flush out the truth. It was a layered torture, Li understood. It was as much mental as physical. She’d seen it applied to others before. She’d stood and watched, never understanding its purpose.
Was it to extract information, snippets and clues, which gave power and wealth to the already powerful and wealthy? Or was it a sick game those charged with enforcing the Tic’s underground kingdom enjoyed regardless of its efficacy? Regardless, Li was aware violence was part of the world now. It was a commodity like water, though more plentiful in its abundance and, in some ways for some people, more valuable.
Still, she never thought she’d experience it firsthand. At least not from Brina. Not this way.
Li was attached to one of the Tic’s most valuable assets in Zeke. So when the masked, anonymous enforcers stormed her modest apartment before dawn, she’d thought they had the wrong place. She was sure, in fact.
In the haze between sleep and consciousness, she’d shot up in bed at the sound of banging at her front door. She’d felt beside her, expecting to feel the familiar warmth of Zeke’s body. Instead, she’d gripped a handful of cool cotton sheet, and her heart had leapt into her throat.
“Zeke?” she’d called. No answer.
She’d planted her feet on the travertine floor, the cold seeping through its hard surface, and moved toward the bathroom. A chill had traveled up her spine as the pounding at the door amplified. Men yelled.
“Open up!” they’d demanded. “Open the damn door!”
The bathroom had been empty. The kitchen too. The cramped living room, stuffed with the trinkets of the life they’d tenuously built, had been as she’d left it the night before. Along one wall was a collection of books. They were ancient tomes from Homer, Shakespeare, and Goethe. Dog-eared copies of the Farmer’s Almanac were wedged between rare books by men named Obama, Trump, and Kennedy. There was one by a woman named Clinton and another by one called Mata Hari. These were the possessions that had turned this house into a home.
“Zeke?” she’d called, her voice cracking with the realization he was gone. Ignoring the fisted pounding on the door, she’d scurried to the window and swept back the white sheer stained yellow with age.
