by T. R. Ragan
“The house will be the third one on the right after we make a left onto Castro,” Kitally said. “We’ve been on Franklin turf for five or six blocks now.”
There wasn’t a fence, house, or mailbox that hadn’t been covered with graffiti marking the gang’s territory.
They made a right.
The street was reasonably quiet. A few houses were dark. Some had chain-link fences around their yards. Kitally pointed to a two-story home with a porch and a bench. Two young kids were sitting out front. One was smoking a cigarette. The other was playing around on his phone. Neither looked like he was much older than twelve.
The kid with the smoke elbowed his friend as they came up the walk. Without a word between them, the other kid made his way to the front door. Hayley and Kitally stopped just shy of the porch and watched the kid knock once, wait, and then knock three more times.
Hayley heard the rattle of a lock and chain, and then the door opened. Two giants came outside. One of them whistled like a bird. The kid with the phone went back to the bench and sat down.
The bodyguards or whatever they were wore humongous football jerseys with the numbers twenty-three and eleven.
Another minute passed before a scrawny guy in an unbuttoned plaid shirt appeared. His pale, skinny chest didn’t do his badass tattoos justice. His gaze fell on Kitally. “Hey, Kit. Thought I told you never to come around here again.”
Kitally chewed her gum; she didn’t look too worried, although her shoulders tensed. “Hey, Wolf. My friend here wants to ask you a question.”
Wolf didn’t look happy about that. A moment passed before he gestured for his two gargantuan subordinates to usher them inside.
“This could get ugly,” Kitally warned Hayley as the two guys came forward and led them into the house.
The door clicked shut behind them.
No sooner had the deadbolt slid into place than Hayley recognized the sound of a round being loaded into a firearm behind her. She didn’t turn. In another moment, the gun’s barrel pressed against her temple. The place hadn’t been hopping to begin with, but it was deadly quiet now.
Hayley shrugged. “Go ahead and blow my brains out, moron. I fucking dare you.”
Kitally stopped chewing her gum, her eyes wide, her face pale, which was saying a lot considering she looked as if she’d never spent two minutes of her life in the sun.
Wolf doubled over in laughter on the couch where he’d taken a seat.
The rest of his minions, or whatever the hell they were called, looked around, gauging the moment, not sure how to respond.
“So, you have a question, sweetheart?” Wolf turned both palms up. “Go for it. Ask away.”
“Tell your gun-happy underling to lower his weapon first.”
A nod from Wolf did the trick.
“A twelve-year-old girl was shot and killed,” Hayley began. “A kid just doing her homework. One of your guys was the shooter. I need a name.”
Wolf wasn’t smiling now. He gave his guys the eye, and it wasn’t a good eye—it was bad, definitely bad. Two of Wolf’s fingers on his left hand began to twitch.
“When a guy walks into this house and starts asking questions,” he told Hayley, “he’s gotta jump in with a good beating. What do you think about that?”
“Sounds like a dumb-ass ritual. I came here for a name.”
He grinned, revealing distinctive gold grills. “Because I believe in equal opportunity around here, you’re going to have the opportunity to jump in, too. But it’s gonna be a little different for you. The fellas will show you how things work around here.”
Wolf took a good look around the room, as if seeing most of the people hanging around for the first time. “Who ya gonna pick to take you in the back room first? Chuckles, the bald Korean standing in the back? Fuck Master, the African-American gentleman sitting on the couch, or my two white gorillas?”
He laughed again. Hayley wasn’t sure if he was just plain amused by the idea of anyone screwing the two giants, or if maybe he’d called the wrong guy Chuckles.
“What’s it going to be, beautiful? The Asian, the black, or the big creamy whites?”
“I’m color-blind,” she said. “Yellow, red, black, white, it doesn’t matter to me—they’re all assholes. I think I’ll let you pick which of these clowns is going to lose his eyeballs first.”
Another flash of gold teeth before he said, “I’m starting to like you, girl. You’re a mean one, aren’t you?”
Hayley wasn’t paying any attention to him. She had checked out thirty seconds ago, already working over all the possible scenarios in her head, starting with an inventory of weaponry stored on her body: two small knives strapped to her left leg and a six-inch blade strapped to her right, a small canister of Mace around her neck and tucked into her T-shirt, brass knuckles in her back pocket, and five golden rings, literally, on her right hand. And she never went anywhere without her favorite stick, the one with the extender.
“You’re so cocky,” Wolf said, “we’ll start with a double. My big guys don’t get much action,” Wolf said. “Take her on back, boys. Show her whatchya got. Don’t be shy.”
“Wolf,” Kitally said, the first word she’d spoken since entering the house—a new record for her. “She just has a question. Don’t do this.”
“You want some, too, Kit?”
Kitally said nothing.
“Then shut your mouth. You two bitches come around here with a fucking question, a question like that, about one of my guys, in the dead of night? Then this is how it’s going down.”
Hayley felt how she always felt in these types of situations: invincible, like she had just learned to fly and was now soaring over Death Valley—clear blue skies, a wicked breeze, and triple-digit temperatures.
She was pushed from behind as the two big guys in jerseys ushered her down a long narrow hallway. One giant led, the other following close enough to let her know he was excited about the sudden turn of events.
The instant the door locked, the Sasquatch behind her interlocked his flabby arms with her elbows and held her snug against him. His big belly jiggled against her back as he talked to his friend. “I’ll hold her while you pat her down, then take her clothes off.”
“Man, you look like you’re afraid of the bitch.”
“She didn’t care if Trigger put a bullet through her head. I’m not taking any chances.”
“She can’t weigh more than eighty pounds. Let her go.”
The instant Dumbass let her go, Hayley slammed her right foot into the crotch of the guy in front of her, already gripping the Mace around her neck and spraying as she wheeled, leaving both idiots scratching at their eyes. She stepped away from Dumbass, who was now spinning in place and squealing, while the other guy fell to the floor in a gutless heap. She grabbed the desk chair from the corner of the room and wheeled it to the door, using it as an extra lock to keep anyone else from joining in on the fun.
“What’s she doing?” Dumbass asked, his arms now waving blindly through the air, searching for her.
“I think she’s locking us in.”
“What the fuck?”
She pulled out her longest blade and said, “OK, who’s going to volunteer to lose his balls first?”
Dumbass wasn’t having any part of it. He started swinging. “You’re gonna die, bitch. You’re gonna die right now.”
Dumbass’s twin, still on all fours like the big stupid animal he was, looked at her through one squinty eye. “She’s got a big-ass knife and she looks happy. I wouldn’t go near her if I were you.”
He’s not as dumb as he looks, Hayley thought. She had fucking wings. She was soaring on thermals now, excited to reach a higher altitude so she could get to her final destination without using much energy.
Dumbass didn’t listen to his buddy’s advice, though. He screamed like a
banshee as he lunged for her.
When she sliced his arm, blood sprayed across his friend’s face.
Somebody pounded on the door.
“I’m not done yet,” Hayley shouted to whoever might be trying to get in, her adrenaline pumping.
Dumbass yelled at his twin mongrel to do something.
The other idiot tried to come to his feet, but didn’t manage it before she drove all her ninety-five (not eighty) pounds, along with her metal-covered knuckles, into his nose.
He toppled over again, coughing, blood spurting, both chubby hands clutching his face.
It sounded as if a stampede of people were on the other side of the door, pushing and trying to knock it down.
“Calm down, people, I’m coming out.” Hayley bent over and reached into the idiot’s back pocket for his subcompact Glock 26, a small, versatile gun with a short barrel. She checked the magazine clip to make sure it was loaded, then pulled the slide, put her finger on the trigger and opened the door.
There were six guys lining the hallway, three on each side.
“Who’s next?”
One brave soul stepped in front of her, blocking her way.
“Let her through,” Wolf ordered.
He moved out of her way. In fact, they all did as Wolf said and parted like the Red Sea, making just enough room for Hayley to walk by. Gun raised, she took her sweet time moving down the hallway.
Wolf stood across the room by the door, arms crossed. Despite the gun and what she’d done to his bodyguards, he had full control and they both knew it. Seven to one would be hard to beat. What Hayley had now, though, was respect. She hoped that was enough to get her out of there in one piece. “Where’s Kitally?” she asked.
He gestured with his chin outside. “What’s your story, bitch?”
“It’s simple. I need a name. Until I get one, a pregnant Kiki is going to remain behind bars.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Nope. Just stating the facts.”
“What are you, a cop?”
“Just a girl looking for a name.”
Wolf looked at her for a moment longer, peering into her eyes as if hoping to read her mind, then opened the door and held out his hand, palm up.
She turned over the gun to him and walked outside, knowing she might catch a bullet between her shoulder blades before she reached the end of the street.
Kitally was waiting for her at the bottom of the porch stairs. Neither of them said a word as they walked off.
CHAPTER 9
With a spine-jolting thud, Seth’s right front wheel dropped into a pothole, jerking him forward and slamming his chest into the steering wheel. Lucky for him, the front wheel came out as easily as it went in.
Don’t panic. Stay calm. Never mind the dead body in the trunk.
It was dark out. With the headlights turned off, he could hardly see two feet in front of him, but he didn’t want to risk being seen.
The wheels were out of alignment now and kept pulling to the right.
He stopped for a moment to wipe perspiration from his eyeglasses, then rolled down his window and listened for traffic above him on Highway 50. All he learned was that the frogs in the area were not yet hibernating. There had to be a large body of water nearby, because they were deafening. Since there were fewer trees to his right, he decided it was time to cut off the dirt road and hope he wouldn’t get stuck.
With the window down, he drove at a snail’s pace through muddy soil covered with thick layers of dead leaves. He wasn’t the only one jostled around as the car bounced over rough terrain. Every time he hit a bump, he heard the body clunk and roll.
The stench seeped through the vents, making the drive nearly unbearable. Once he could no longer see the dirt road behind him, he turned off the ignition, jumped out and sucked in a lungful of fresh air.
Without that god-awful smell clogging his brain, Seth could finally think. His first thought was about Madeline. Did she have any inkling that she no longer needed to fear for her life? He looked at his watch. It was after midnight. She would be home soon.
Time to get this over with.
He leaned into the backseat and unzipped the duffel bag he’d brought. He slipped on a pair of thick gloves and put plastic bags over his shoes, using twine to keep the plastic from slipping off his feet.
He grabbed the shovel and for the next thirty minutes he dug, relieved that the earth was fairly soft. Once the hole was deep enough, he walked back to the car and put on a disposable mask to help with the smell. Then he popped the trunk, wincing at the light that snapped on inside.
The exposed flesh was purple, green, and black in some places. The bacteria and enzymes were doing their job, breaking down their host. Even through the mask, he could smell the putrid gases, the same gas that had caused the body to bloat and made the eyes bulge. Death might be inevitable, but it wasn’t pretty.
He reached in and took hold of the corpse by its shoulders. Nails and teeth stayed intact, but he could literally feel the skin coming off the bone beneath the sweatshirt. Damn. He let go. This was disgusting.
After a moment, he tried again. This time he slid his hands under the corpse and lifted it out of the trunk, carrying him in the same way a groom might carry his bride over the threshold.
He had no desire to look at the man’s face, so he kept his gaze straight ahead, on the hole in the ground, and away from the corpse with its rotting, stinking skin. Standing on the edge of the pit, he thought about tossing the body inside. No. That wouldn’t do. Parts of him could fly off in a dozen directions. He needed to be smart. He slid down the side of the small crater and gently laid the body on the bottom of the pit.
Dark clouds had dispersed, making room for the moonlight. Standing tall, he suddenly found it difficult to take his eyes off the dead man. Although the man hardly resembled the person he’d confronted in the darkened alleyway, he knew it was him and he knew what he had done was wrong.
Old emotions that he’d pushed down and kept hidden for so many years began to surface. Instead of releasing tears of remorse, though, he felt the stirrings of amusement rise within, his muscles contracting right before he exploded with laughter. He had no idea what was wrong with him, but he couldn’t stop laughing. He had to wipe tears of amusement from his eyes. And then he looked at the corpse again and found himself wishing it were his mother’s corpse he was looking at instead. He imagined those were her eyes looking at him. And, of course, she was pleading for his forgiveness.
God, how good would that feel, to look over his mother’s rotted corpse? He didn’t know if the bitch was still alive. Maybe he would make a few calls and find out.
With renewed energy, he turned and looked around, then grabbed hold of the small boulder he’d moved out of his way earlier. Holding it high in both hands, he twisted back around and slammed the rock into the man’s face, crushing his skull.
CHAPTER 10
“Fighters, get into position,” the instructor shouted.
Lizzy walked to the middle of the ring. She was at the UFC fighting gym where she, Tommy, and Hayley trained at least twice a month. The floor was covered with thick mats. Sweat dripped from her face after a longer-than-normal warm-up.
As she had been taught, Lizzy staggered her feet—right foot back, left foot forward, about a foot and a half apart. Then she raised both gloved fists to just below her jaw.
The woman she’d been paired with and was now facing did the same.
Although Lizzy continued to teach teenage girls to defend themselves, she also liked to challenge herself and learn new defense techniques. She had been taking UFC fighting lessons for a couple of years. She recognized most of the people in the room, including Rhonda, the woman she was about to fight. Rhonda was stocky and well muscled, with hair cut short around her ears. Rhonda was also pissed off. They both wore headgear, b
ut nothing could hide the scowl on her face. If Lizzy knew Rhonda better, she might have asked her what the problem was, but it was too late now anyhow, since the fight was about to begin.
This was fight night. More people showed up for fight night than any other. There were rules: no knees to the groin or head. No eye gouging or fishhooking. No hair grabbing, no biting. No strikes to the throat or spine.
As instructed, they both jabbed air, first with their left fists, then their right, pointing with their thumbs and aiming with their knuckles. A few shouts from the crowd egged them on, although heckling from the crowd was not something they encouraged there.
The bell rang.
Lizzy moved forward and clipped Rhonda across the chin on the first jab, and then threw another quick combination to her shoulder and middle.
Rhonda literally growled as she lunged forward, hitting Lizzy with an uppercut, two jabs in the ribs, and a jarring right hook to her temple. Despite the padding beneath her shirt and the headgear, it took Lizzy a moment to regain her senses, which gave Rhonda time to put everything she had—her legs, her body, her whole being—into each strike.
Lizzy felt a sting in her face, shoulder, and ribs. She staggered backward until she was pressed against the rubber ropes. She tasted blood. Where the hell was everyone? When the referee at last appeared, he made the necessary motions to call off the fight.
But Rhonda wasn’t having any part of it. She wanted blood.
Fight nights were supposed to be all in good fun. The refs didn’t wear headgear.
Rhonda landed a perfect haymaker on the ref, knocking him to the ground. Before anyone else could get in the ring, Rhonda was coming at her again.
On any other day, Lizzy might have been worried. As it was, though, this chick wasn’t the only one who’d had a bad day. Lizzy pretended to wave her off, knowing Rhonda had already committed, then surprised Rhonda with some moves of her own: a fast jab to her chin, two more to the bad left shoulder she always bitched about. Two more strikes to her gut, a knee to her stomach, jab, jab, strike. Bringing her hips around, Lizzy ended with a hard kick to the woman’s side, eliciting a loud grunt.
