Rebel

by Callie Hart

  “You do realize,” he says, “that the whore Hector’s accused of killing was a junkie, right? She was a drain on your country’s precious resources. You’ll die for some cracked out bitch you don’t even know?”

  Resolve flashes in Conahue’s eyes. “I will.”

  “So be it.” Spider acts slowly, extending his arm with deliberate purpose so Conahue can see what he’s doing. From my vantage point, still a foot off the floor and unable to turn away, I witness the point of the weapon press down into Conahue’s chest and travel slowly, slowly, slowly, into the man’s body. Conahue’s eyes widen, a look of mild disbelief coming over him as he starts to convulse.

  A pool of thick, dark red blood begins to rise up out of the wound, around the blade of the knife, and then around the hilt when Spider has driven the weapon all the way into the other man’s body.

  I scream, but there’s no sound—only a high-pitched out-rushing of air from my lungs. The vice-like grip around my chest tightens, and a sharp pain lances through me—my shoulder, burning, suddenly on fire. Spider draws the knife out of Conahue’s body; the old man is still alive, but the muscles in his face fall slack. He’s not got long left. He reaches up a shaking hand and clutches at the wound in his torso, his feet twitching. Spider watches him, back still turned to me, with such stillness that I get the feeling he’s mentally recording this—the life slowly slipping out of his victim, absorbing every fine detail of the moment so he can replay it again later.

  A violent crash of sound roars down the alleyway, and I’m suddenly hit with the sensation of it—a wall of noise slamming into me, rattling my bones. I don’t know how I didn’t hear it before. It can’t have registered through the fear, the horror of watching that knife disappear into a man’s body. The guy holding onto me turns along with everyone else to see what’s going on; a motorcycle has pulled into the alleyway behind us.

  The high wrought iron railing is all that stands between me, trapped with this group of killers, and the single biker on the other side. The bike’s headlight spears through the darkness, lighting us all up and eliciting a chorus of Spanish curse words from Spider and his friends. “What the fuck is he doing?” one of them hisses.

  Spider snarls, pacing to the railings, knife still in hand, though it’s now dripping with blood. “You’re too late, ese!” he hollers. “It’s done. Run back to your cabron and tell him he’s fucked. And so are you!”

  The growl of the engine cuts off abruptly, so that Spider’s last words sound outrageously loud against the following silence. The guy holding onto me clucks his tongue derisively when the figure on the bike climbs off and lowers the hood on his sweatshirt—a handsome guy, late twenties, with dark hair and dark eyes. From the way he walks toward us, I can tell he’s built like a tank. He’s wearing gloves. He reaches to the back of his waistband and produces a gun.

  “Are you fucking kidding me, ese?” Spider laughs. “There are eight of us and one of you. You gonna shoot us all through the railings before one of us gets you?”

  The biker on the other side of the gate doesn’t say anything. He has quick eyes. He takes in the scene before him—the old man on the floor behind us; me clasped tightly in someone’s arms, my mouth covered; blood splattered on the top of my Converse shoes; the other men behind me. He sees all of this, and his face remains completely blank.

  “You realize what you’ve done,” he says. He doesn’t look at anyone in particular, though it’s clear he’s talking to Spider. He looks down at his gun, snaps back the action and then frees the clip containing the ammunition.

  Spider takes hold of one of the railings, the steel of the knife in his fist clanking against the steel of the gate. “I did what had to be done, pendejo. You’re a man who gets things done, I’ve heard. You should know all about that.”

  The biker on the other side of the gate casts his eyes upward from under drawn brows, apparently not even remotely fazed by the situation. He presses the first bullet out of his clip into the palm of his hand, and then fits the clip back into the gun. The gun goes away, back where it came from. “Borrow your knife?” the biker asks.

  Spider shrugs. An evil smile spreads across his face. “Sure, hijo. Why the hell not?” He reaches his hand through the gap and drops the weapon into the snow. The biker comes closer, bends and collects the knife. He’s only three feet from me now. I can see the club patch stitched onto his hoody over the right hand side of his chest—Widow Makers—along with the small separate patch underneath that, which says V.P. The club’s emblem—a fleshless skull flanked by two guns and surrounded by stitched roses—is so close I could reach out and touch it, if only my arms weren’t being pinned to my sides.

  The biker glances at me quickly—an assessing, curious look—and then he bends over the contents of his hand and begins scratching the tip of the knife against the bullet. A rustling whisper runs around the group behind me.

  Is he really doing it?

  He’s marking that round?

  No way.

  The biker finishes whatever he’s doing and then holds the bullet between his index finger and thumb for Spider to see. “You want this?” he asks. From the eager look in his eyes, Spider definitely does want the round. I just don’t have a clue why. In fact, I have absolutely no clue what’s going on. Everyone else seems to know what the biker’s actions mean, and all I can do is wonder.

  “I do believe it’s customary to hand it over,” Spider says, amusement thick in his voice. He reaches through the railings and holds out his hand. The biker slowly shakes his head. He looks at me.

  “I’ll give it to her,” he says.

  Spider’s face twists into a scowl. “As you can see, my friend is a little tied up at the moment.”

  The Widow Maker tips his head to one side, casting dark eyes over me and lifting both eyebrows. “Something tells me this woman isn’t your friend, Raphael.” And then, to me, “Are you his friend?”

  I don’t know what the hell to do. My mouth is still covered, but I could probably shake my head. And then the guy holding onto me would probably snap my neck for pissing them off. My eyes widen, my tears blinding me. How the hell can this guy be so calm when it’s clear I’m being held against my will? It’s fucking obvious Spider, this Raphael person, whoever he is, isn’t my friend.

  “Huh. I don’t think she’s feeling very talkative,” Raphael muses.

  “Still. I’ll give it to her, if it’s all the same to you. This is worth it, right?” He curls his fingers around the bullet, making a fist. “You’ve been waiting for it for a long time. Pushing buttons, involving yourselves in shit you have no business involving yourself in. And now you’ve gone and done something entirely irreparable—” His eyes travel over my shoulder, back toward the man on the ground, whom I presume must be dead by now— “and you’re finally getting what you want. A blood bath. All you have to do is let her take this from me.”

  Raphael seems to consider this for a minute. He then sucks in a sharp breath, gesturing an impatient flick of his wrist at the man holding me still. “Put her down, Martin.”

  The grip around me is instantly gone, and my feet are on solid ground. My legs don’t feel like they’re going to hold me, though. I feel like Bambi taking his first steps. Raphael produces a gun of his own and thrusts it into my face. “Go on. Go and take it,” he snaps. A hard shove from behind pushes me forward, and Raphael moves to stand behind me. I then feel something I never imagined I would ever experience in my lifetime: the muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of my head. My limbs lock up; I can’t fucking breathe.

  “Walk, bitch, or I’ll put a hole in your skull.”

  I lock eyes on the biker through the railings; he gives me an almost imperceptible nod, like he’s willing me to come forward. I do as I’m told. My heart’s kicking wildly against my ribs as I put my right arm between the railings and hold out my open hand. The biker steps forward, closing in on me and taking hold of my wrist. He places the shining, tarnished gold piece
of metal into my palm and curls my fingers around it tight.

  “Tell them you’re a virgin,” he murmurs. “Whatever happens, make sure Hector knows that.”

  “The fuck you saying to her, ese?” Raphael snaps. Before I can register what the guy has said to me I’m yanked backward, away from the stranger and away from the gate. I almost lose my footing. I hear the soft clicking of a gun being cocked behind me. “Open your hand. Tell me what you’ve got there,” Raphael snarls in my ear.

  My fingers barely work; it takes serious effort to stop shaking and open my hand. Inside, I can see the slightly scuffed bullet, see the scratched marks on its surface.

  “What is it?” Raphael demands, jabbing the gun in my back.

  “It’s…it’s a bullet.”

  “And what does it say on it?”

  “It says…” I turn the metal over in my hands, trying to focus through my tears. “It says WAR.”

  Howls of raucous laughter explode behind me; Raphael reaches forward and snatches the bullet from me, holding it up for his friends to see. “War!” he shouts. “Fucking war!”

  The bullet is clearly a declaration, and Raphael and his men are overjoyed by it. The biker gives me a firm, meaningful look; he holds my gaze for a long moment, and then he turns around and pulls up his hood. Somehow, through all the laughter and rough housing going on around me, I hear the creaking of the snow under his boots with every step this stranger takes away from me. The Widow Makers club emblem is emblazoned in white across his back; it’s the last I see of him as he climbs back onto his bike, starts the engine and rides away.

  Hands take hold of me again. Raphael’s still grinning from ear to ear as he squeezes my arm. “We’re done here,” he says.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Strangely, I almost feel like laughing. People ask that question in movies, when they’re kidnapped and taken from their homes and their lives, stolen away from everything they know and hold dear. I never thought that it would one day be me asking that question.

  Raphael smiles a cold, dead kind of smile. “Oh, Chiquita, we’re not going to kill if you if that’s what you’re worried about. No, you’re much too pretty for that.” He strokes the back of his hand down my cheek again, the same hand he hit me with before, and a wicked light sparks in his eyes. “You’re going to come with us. My name is Raphael...but from now on, you will call me master.”

  ALEXIS

  Three of Raphael’s men disappear and return shortly after in a beaten-up panel van. The windows are so dirty I’m surprised the driver can even see the road. I may be powerless against so many of them, but that doesn’t stop me from fighting like a hellcat when they try and make me get in the back. I’m reminded of a poem, a famous one by Dylan Thomas, ‘Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night.’ The title in itself is comment enough for the situation I find myself in. The poem demands the reader kick and scream against death, and that’s exactly what I do. I kick and I scream, because getting in the back of that van is the same as dying, and I don’t want to die. I want to go home and listen to my mom gossip about her church friends. I want to do the dishes, and I want to watch TV. I want my sister, always so strong and distanced from everything, to come and find me and save me. I thrash so hard that another of the men has to take hold of my legs in order to restrain me.

  “Let me go! Let. Me. G—” I choke on the last word. My head spins as something hard and blunt impacts against the back of my skull.

  “Get her in the fucking van,” Raphael snaps, and then another heavy thud connects with my head. No spinning now. No fighting or screaming or clawing furiously for my life. Only a sinking sensation and blackness.

  Only blackness.

  The void envelops me, whisks me away from the events of the last half hour. I sleep, or lose consciousness, I don’t know. It feels like I’m still awake; I can feel the side-to-side rocking motion of the van as it takes corners. My ears still hear talking, distant and muddled, but I can’t make out the words.

  We travel for a long time. I have no idea how long. It could be hours; it could be mere minutes. Everything is a blur. I’m in pain and I’m wet, chilled to the bone.

  When I fully regain consciousness, there’s no pretending I’m still out cold. I throw up onto the bare metal flooring of the van, my stomach fiercely rejecting everything inside it. My head is killing me. I want to cry, but I can’t. I simply don’t have the energy.

  “Fucking stinks back here,” a male voices complains. “Open the window, asshole.”

  There are more comments about the smell I’ve created by puking. I feel like informing them that they shouldn’t hit people so hard over the back of the head if they don’t want to deal with the side effects of concussion, but my tongue feels fat and swollen and I can’t breathe properly.

  Fuck.

  What the fuck am I going to do?

  This is the part where I think about who’s going to be looking for me. Mom will have called Dad to see where we are, and he won’t have answered because he’s in the OR. She’ll maybe have called Sloane, but my sister will be out with her friends, celebrating another day’s survival as an intern. Mom can’t have called Matt, my boyfriend, because she doesn’t even know he exists. None of my family do. Too many questions. Does he go to church? What is he studying? Where is he from? What are his prospects? Is he being respectful?

  The answers—doesn’t go to church; not studying anything; from Mount Rainier; no real prospects; and hell no, most definitely not being respectful—would not go down well. So, long story short, my family will have no clue where I am, and neither will Matt.

  I throw up again, and this time it’s not from the concussion. It’s from the overwhelming sense of dread cycling through me, feeding on itself, growing by the second. There’s one question playing on repeat inside my head, and I’m too much of a coward to face it yet. It’s there if I stop thinking even for a second, though:

  Are they going to rape you?

  Are they going to rape you?

  Are they going to rape you?

  I’m more afraid of this than I am of dying. I’m more afraid of something I have only thus far shared with two people in the whole world being forcefully taken from me than I am of losing my life. If I die, I’ll just be dead. If they do unspeakable, horrific things to me, I will relive that experience every time I open my eyes each morning. Every time I close my eyes at night.

  “Left up here, brother. Not far now,” a gruff voice says.

  The van’s suspension is shot to hell. My head bangs painfully against the floor as the vehicle swerves and leaves the road, turning onto what must be a dirt track. Someone snickers, and I get the impression it’s at my expense. I’m sure to evil bastards like these, a skinny girl, hands bound behind her back and lying in a pool of her own vomit, is a highly entertaining sight.

  I try not to think about how vulnerable I am. I try not to think about what’s going to happen when the van’s engine stops spluttering and we reach wherever we’re going. All I can concentrate on is my breathing, trying to keep it even. I’m dangerously close to hyperventilating, and I don’t want to pass out again, which is what will happen if I let my panic take hold of me.

  I breathe in. I breathe out. I breathe in. I breathe out.

  “She’s got some great tits,” a different male voice says. I haven’t heard this guy speak before, and I’m shocked—he has no accent. He sounds like he’s from Seattle, though I know whoever he is, he must have some Mexican heritage. Each and every one of my captors appeared to be Hispanic. I barely register that they’re talking about my chest until a hand suddenly grabs hold of one of my breasts. I try to open my eyes at this stage—being manhandled wins out over my splitting headache—but I can’t see anything. They’ve blindfolded me. I kick out with my legs and manage to shove myself away, out of the reach of wandering hands. It still feels like the hand’s there, though, squeezing and kneading my breast; my skin is crawling, prickling with the intensity of my disgust. Matt�
�s never touched me like that before. Whenever he’s touched me, it’s been to bring me pleasure. Whoever just grabbed hold of me did so for their own pleasure, a fact painfully clear by the way they pinched and rolled my skin.

  “What the fuck you two doing back there?” Raphael demands. I know his voice. He sounds suspicious, but then I’ve yet to hear Raphael sound anything but. “Don’t touch that girl, motherfuckers. You heard me lay claim, right? I’ll cut out your fucking tongues if you so much as look at her.”

  Two disappointed grunts follow after that.

  Someone in the front cranks up the radio to obnoxious levels, and the sound of Taylor Swift’s, We Are Never Getting Back Together blasts from the rear speakers. My head must be right next to one of those speakers, because it feels like it’s on the brink of explosion. I used to like the song, but now? Not so much. The situation descends into outright weirdness when someone in the van, I can’t tell who, begins to sing along. Enthusiastically.

  My body is singing in pain. My shoulders are throbbing from the discomfort of having my wrists bound tightly behind my back. Thankfully my hands themselves have gone numb from lack of blood supply, so at least I’m now being spared that particular agony.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, the van pulls to a jerky stop. Raphael is the first out; I can tell from the way his voice fades and then cuts off altogether when his door slams shut. The music is still blaring, though it’s not pop music anymore. It’s Mexican rap music. Angry. Hostile. Violent.

  The rear doors open, and suddenly someone has hold of my ankles. I’m pulled from my cowering position in the back of the van, and I hit the ground hard. The drop from the vehicle to the ground must only be two feet, but my shoulder impacts first, sending a white hot flash of pain charging through my back and neck.