by Rainy Kaye
His gaze lingers over her so long I'm about to gouge his face, but he finally puts his eyes away and turns back to me. “What you kids doing in my house, anyway?”
“Billy's house,” Syd says.
I cringe. I wish she wouldn't talk to him. In fact, I wish she wasn't here so he would have never seen her. I know what sorts of thoughts are reeling in his mind. Syd is hot, and I'm beginning to think this wife of his is actually a blow up doll named Kelly.
He takes another puff and snickers. “It ain't Billy's house no more. In fact, anything that winds up on my property is, well, mine.”
His gaze drifts over to Syd again. My hand twitches for the gun.
“Billy's friend showed up all cocky and shit, thinking he was gonna run me out. See how that worked for him?”
The triumph on his face makes me want bash his head in with a tire iron. Something tells me Billy wouldn't mind, if he weren't dead and all.
“Yep, took his car, his shoes, and his pride. Gave him fear. Plenty of it. Never seen anyone run so fast.” The man chuckles as he snuffs his cigar in the ashtray on the table. “Ran off yelling about Satan coming for him and shit. Real nutcase.”
I glance at Syd. Our investigation is turning up things not on the agenda. We need to leave.
She sits forward, clasping her hands. The man can see right down her shirt. I resist throwing the blanket over her.
“You took his car,” she says, a hint of contemplation in her voice. “So what happened to it?”
He turns to her again, but his gaze isn't on her face. “Emptied all his crap into the garage and sold the car over the border. Was a fancy thing. Got a nice bit of pocket change.”
She gives a sly smile. “Spent it all on hookers and blow?”
I suppress a groan. I can't believe she's talking to him like this. Come to think of it, I can't believe I'm sitting in the house of a man killed by a jinn, listening to the torture stories of a lunatic squatter. Meanwhile, on a beach in Italy, Zoe is soaking up the Mediterranean sun. God dammit.
“Well, it's been a pleasure,” I say, starting to stand, “but we really should—”
Noises erupt in the house. I pull Syd down, and duck and cover us from the explosion.
Men charge through the front door, guns at the ready. Big guns.
Not an explosion. An invasion.
I bolt to my feet. Syd is right at my side. My hand goes to the gun in my pocket.
The men surround us. Syd yelps and clutches my jacket. A man pulls her off. I turn to swing, but I'm shoved the other direction. I stumble back a few steps, catch my balance. Syd yells my name. The men close in on me, prodding me forward. Blocking my sight.
Horrific thoughts flash through my brain, all the things that could be—or will be—happening to her.
Someone clutches my arms, turning me away. I shove back with my elbows, hard. Then I twist free and dip low. Hands grapple for me. I barrel through the group.
Syd is right where I left her. Wide-eyed. Untouched.
I usher her down the hallway. We trip over each other, fumbling with the first door.
Noises seem to fill the entire house. Sounds I can't identify over my sudden gasping. I yank open the door, shove Syd inside, and slam it closed behind us. Syd keeps herself together, but twists the ring on her finger. I hold the door shut with my back against it. My mind races to put together the situation. To devise an escape plan.
Shadows play behind the curtains. My head snaps up. Before I can say anything, Syd crosses the room and throws back the coverings.
The panes are blurry. Like covered by a grate.
What in the hell?
I start to move forward, then halt. Can't leave the door. I'm surprised the men aren't trying to knock it down yet. They must be getting the battering ram.
I assess the room. Bed, dresser, nightstands, chairs. Walk-in closet to the side.
“Syd, come here,” I say, barely audible. My lungs are still not sure what their function is again.
She gives a baleful glance at the window, then hurries toward me. “What's going on?”
“Either INS is deporting genies, or we've made some enemies. Guard the door.”
“Enemies?” She switches places with me, and I dart to the other side of the dresser. “Who are those guys?”
I start shoving the dresser, but it's like trying to push a car. Thankfully, it's on the same wall as the door.
“I'm guessing,” I say, straining against the dresser, “these are the same guys from house numero uno.”
She scowls.
I huff as the dresser moves along centimeter by centimeter. “How likely is it the first place was ransacked, and now this place is also under attack?”
“But why are they here?”
“Considering no one shouted opa, I'm guessing it's not a celebration. Someone is wanting to. . .talk. . .with me. Probably to do it—” I glance up.
Her eyes and cheeks are red. She's holding back tears. The situation hits me, and I stop shoving the dresser.
Someone is after me.
I'm not sure why. I'm useless now, but whoever it is, judging by the reinforcements, they're pretty damn serious. Someone that determined to collect me is not going to let a little thing like killing Syd get in their way.
“You have to go back to Italy,” I say, surprising both of us—but I mean it.
Syd shakes her head. “Just get that thing over here, alright?”
I start shoving the dresser again. As soon as we're back at the hotel, I'm booking her a one-way flight to her Grandmother. Where she belongs. I just have to get her out of here first.
She backs away as I slide the dresser in front of the door. My arms feel like they're squishy water balloons. I shake them out as I head to the window.
“Razor wire.” I frown, trying to understand why the window exterior would be covered in a mesh screen. That's a pretty ghetto burglar defense system.
Then the sounds lingering in the background come to the forefront. Scraping and shouting punctuated by loud pops.
Heart catching, I lean forward into the pane and try to make out what is happening around the house. I already know, but it's just too weird to believe until I glimpse it for myself: The intruders are using a nail gun to hang razor wire screens on the outside of the windows.
They're blocking us in.
Syd comes up next to me. “You mean, like barbed wire?”
“Similar, but sharper and thicker.” I tap the pane with my finger, staring at the mesh. “We need wire cutters.”
A door slams behind us.
I spin around. Three men toting guns storm into the room from the closet-which-isn't-a-closet. It's a bathroom. One of those that sits between two bedrooms.
Fuck.
The men swarm us. A fist rams into my stomach. My lungs seize as I hunch over. Syd yells from somewhere behind me. Something cracks across my back. I drop to my knees.
I try to come right back up, but someone shoves me down. Another solid whack, right between the shoulder blades.
I'm down for the count. The taste of salt and iron trickles through my mouth. My arms are pulled behind me. I try to flip onto my back, but I'm held down. My face is buried in the carpet. I would worry about suffocating, except I can't breathe anyway.
I give one more go at pushing upright, but I don't even budge. At least a dozen hands are holding me in place. Metal clamps onto my wrists.
The bearing down releases. I spring to my knees, half on my own and half being yanked up. My arms are handcuffed behind my back. The men are practically on top of me.
If Syd is in the room, she isn't yelling anymore. I can't see past the black uniforms. Hopefully, she made it to the car and is getting her ass back to Naples.
She shouldn't be here in this mess.
One of the men leans down in my face, like he's going to ask something. I slam my head into his nose. He rears back. My brain feels like it was tossed into an ocean, but I slam into him again.
&nbs
p; Then I jump to my feet and make a break for it. Running while handcuffed is surprisingly difficult. I dart into the bathroom and shove the door shut with my side. As the heavy footsteps on the other side barge toward me, I turn and grapple with the knob. My fingers are sweaty, but I flip the lock and dash out the next door.
The lock won't hold them for long, but I'll take this race one second at a time. I'm in another bedroom. The way the sunlight is dappled on the floor, I can tell these windows have mesh bolted over them as well.
My fan club is pretty hardcore.
I try not to think how orchestrated this takeover was and scurry across the room.
Syd pops into the doorway.
“Come on!” She grabs my arm and practically pulls me down the hallway.
I nearly fall into her. She shoves me into a room, slams the door behind us, and drops something to the floor. I try to look down, but my vision becomes splotchy as my brain lurches.
Syd is a flurry of activity, wedging chairs and small tables and anything else she can budge in front of the door.
I shift from foot to foot and pull at the cuffs, but I'm stuck. The front of my brain continues to sway from my brilliant getaway plan.
Syd swoops to the floor then holds up a pair of pliers. The thing she had dropped when we entered the room.
She opens and closes the pliers a few times. “From under the kitchen sink.”
“Ah,” I say, disoriented.
She brushes by me, and I turn to her. She crams back the curtains and lifts the window pane, then sets to work taking the pliers to the razor wire.
I cross the room to her side, brain still riding tidal waves. She's working the wire into the bottom of the mouth of the pliers and giving a quick twist. The mesh starts to snap apart, a little section at a time.
She's making our escape.
“Syd, there could be guys on the other side.” I struggle not to pass out. “No, I'm certain there will be guys on the other side.”
She halts to look at me, then uses one hand to reach inside my jacket and feel around. I blink a few times. She pulls out my gun, sets it on the windowsill, and gets back to work.
Blood trickles down her hands as the razor wire digs into her, but she doesn't flinch. She just keeps clipping the wires around the edge of a large rectangle.
I pull at the handcuffs again. I know it's pointless. I once used them on my own victims, and they certainly gave escaping the good ol' college try. Now it's my turn. I'm helpless otherwise.
The metal digs into my wrists, and I grit my teeth. If Syd can handle being sliced by razor wire, I can handle a little discomfort.
She shoves out a chunk of the mesh. No one could comfortably fit through that hole, but it's a start. She glances at her hands streaked with blood, then continues cutting.
Thumping.
We both look at the door.
They're ready to go again. I hope this is all of them, that they're all gathered to bust down the door and no one is standing guard outside.
Syd turns to me, pliers still in hand. “I don't have time to cut a bigger opening. Look, I'll go first and help you out.”
Before I can respond, she hefts herself up and—I cringe—through the gap in the mesh. I catch a few little whimpers and cringe further. She's hurt, but she won't give up yet.
That's Syd. One of the many reasons I would follow this woman to Hades.
Here's hoping we make it back.
She reaches through the window and grabs the gun, then gestures me over with one hand. Her arms are cut and bleeding now too.
“Hurry up,” she whispers, eyes darting to the door being jerked around on its hinges. It's not going to hold for long.
I have never been more thankful I didn't inherit my father's burly stature. Syd wasn't any too comfortable fitting through the mesh. I will barely fit.
Not to mention, I'm handcuffed.
Dear God.
With a glance at the door, I take a deep breath then swing one leg over the windowsill. Razor wire slices cleanly through my pant leg and straight into my thigh. I grit my teeth.
Syd grabs my arm and the side of my jacket to stabilize me. I scrunch my eyes shut and duck my head through. Razors run across my cheekbone. A tiny slip, and I will be blinded.
I steady my breathing, trying to balance between Syd's hold and the windowsill. Then I push off with my other leg. The wire slices my arms and the back of my neck.
I drop to the ground in a half-roll, landing on my back. I do the world's most awkward sit-up, and Syd helps me to my feet.
Then we're running across the lawn, toward our car. I can't believe the men haven't seen us yet. I'm afraid to look back.
Syd goes around the front of the car, opens the passenger side, and gestures with both hands for me to hurry. I pick up my pace, then drop into the seat.
She slams the door shut and darts to the driver side.
We're off, and I finally dare to look back. No one is trailing us.
I turn to Syd, but I don't have any words. She's amazing. I love her.
And she terrifies me for reasons I don't fully understand.
***
Syd pulls the car into the hotel parking lot, then tightens her hold on the steering wheel and stares forward, at nothing. After a minute, she shakes her head and opens her door.
“Hold up,” I say. “We need a blanket or something.”
She looks at me, halfway out of the car.
I shrug. “Unless you plan to put a collar on me and call me your bitch, we need to cover the cuffs so no one asks questions.”
“Right,” she says, her voice tired. Then she pulls off her shirt and adds, “I guarantee people will notice me first now.”
She has a point.
She comes around to the passenger side, helps me out, and drapes her shirt over the cuffs. Like that's not suspicious at all, either.
We hurry to our room, and I try not to be antsy while she unlocks the door. Last thing we need is someone to pass us in the hall. Inside our room, I plop down on the bed, shoulders aching and cuts burning. I can't complain, though. Syd is pretty torn up too.
She runs a blood-smeared hand through her hair. “We don't have the keys for the handcuffs.”
“The Internet,” I say. “You can find anything on the Internet.”
She stares at a me, then slumps her shoulders. “Fine.”
She sits on the other bed, facing me, and starts searching on her phone. After skipping through the beginning of a few videos, she settles in to watch one. Something about using paperclips and bobby pins.
I remain on the bed. Not much else I can do. The whole situation is kind of awkward.
Finally, Syd pulls to her feet and starts poking around the room.
“No paperclips,” she mutters, lifting up the notepad by the phone. “No paperclips! Why the hell aren't there any damn paperclips?”
She yanks out the nightstand drawer and dumps it onto the floor. With a growl, she tosses the drawer onto the other bed.
“I'm going to the store.” She pulls her shirt off my arms and slips it over her head. “I'm going to the store to buy paperclips so I can pick the lock on the handcuffs because someone is stalking my boyfriend.”
She storms toward the door, then glances over her shoulder at me. Her face softens.
“It's alright, Syd,” I say, entirely unconvincingly.
“Yeah.” She sighs. “It's all alright.”
With that, she's out the door—and I am alone. In a hotel room. Handcuffed.
What if those men find me here?
What if the hotel catches fire?
What if the room is haunted?
I groan and lay back on the pillows. Vulnerability is messing with my head. I shift from side to side, trying to get comfortable, but being shackled makes that a little problematic.
So I sit up and wait. And wait.
I have to piss. That isn't going to work out so well.
So I wait some more.
After
I'm certain my corpse is going to be found by room service, Syd returns, looking composed again.
“It didn't seem all that difficult on the video, so let's give this a try,” she says.
Paperclip box in hand, she crawls behind me on the bed. She sets the box on the mattress, removes a clip, and goes quiet. After a minute, she sets to work on the cuffs. I flinch as she tugs a little, sending sharp pulses down to the bone. My wrists are pretty raw from my failed attempts at being Houdini.
I try not to say anything as she continues to poke and prod at the lock. It takes nearly as long as the Second Coming.
Then she practically shouts: “Got it!”
She sounds like she just aced a test. I guess, in a way, she did.
My right hand is free.
I bring my arms to the front and stretch out the aches in my muscles and joints.
“Here, pass me the paperclip,” I say.
She obliges, and I free my other hand in record time. I drop the cuffs onto the floor, right next to the contents of the drawer, then head toward the bathroom.
When I return, she is still sitting on the bed. She looks defeated.
“Hey, come on,” I say, trying to sound reassuring.
I offer her my hand, and she takes it and stands up next to me. She has a cut above one eyebrow, and several more across her chin. The injuries only get worse down her arms and hands.
Maybe she gets it now. Maybe she understands why I hate doing this.
I brush a strand of hair off her face. “Let's just go back to Italy.”
“We can't.” She stares up at me, all color gone from her face. “We can't take this mess back to Zoe and Grandma.”
She pushes past me. I turn as she locks herself into the bathroom. Her sobs filter through the door, unabashed. I consider knocking, but I don't know what to say. This situation has evolved into something neither of us anticipated. Now we're stuck here until we figure out what's going on.
I wake in the morning to Syd sitting at the table, frowning at her phone in hand. She taps the screen a few times, oblivious that I'm watching her. Considering the darkness under her eyes and the continual yawning, I doubt she slept at all last night.
I say her name.
She sits upright with a start. Then she gives a tired smile. “Hey, come check this out.”
