Four Seconds to Lose ttb-3

by K. A. Tucker

  After she left, Sam patted me on the back and whispered, “That’s my little mouse. Quiet as can be.”

  I beamed. Making Sam proud always made me feel warm inside back then.

  A hiker found Dominic’s body at a national park in Maine, months later. His gun lay next to him. The news report cited a suicide. All Sam said was, “It’s a shame.” No shock in his eyes, no tears down his cheeks. Not until the funeral, that is. That’s where he let loose. Apparently, Sam has his own acting abilities.

  Me? I said absolutely nothing.

  And now I’m here.

  The elevator dings as it reaches the seventeenth floor, and I need to clench my muscles to stop from peeing as I roll the suitcase out. You can do this. The last time was fine.

  Yet something about this delivery feels different. The guys I delivered to before were different. That hotel wasn’t as classy. And this bag is just too damn big. If it’s completely full, then . . .

  I try not to think about it, zoning in on the door numbers and the exit signs and camera at the end of the hall. By the time I reach 1754, my pep talk has lost all it’s worth and I’m back to clenching my muscles.

  Two quick knocks followed by a long pause and a third knock, per Sam’s directions. My stomach leaps into my throat as I see something pass behind the peephole. I’d had to take my sunglasses off in the lobby because walking through a hotel with them on is just plain suspicious. Thankfully, with heavy makeup and the hair, most people wouldn’t recognize me if they passed me on the street.

  The door opens to a tall, balding man in a tan golf shirt who matches the picture I found in the draft email. He goes by Bob. A very basic, very fake name. He doesn’t even bother to conceal the Beretta strapped to his hip.

  This is where I leverage the acting skills that got me into Tisch in the first place.

  With a friendly smile, I offer, “It’s so good to see you again!” That’s the scripted line, and I’d made sure I memorized it to a tee. Big Sam relies on various forms of safeguards. That’s why, even with burner phones, we never talk openly. That’s why even his draft emails, never transmitted, are worded carefully. That’s why there are several very specific stages to these exchanges.

  That’s why he continues doing what he does, smoothly defying the law.

  Based on their appearances, these guys are the type to take precautions as well. I hold my head up as the man leads me through the spacious suite, past two little boys distracted with a boxing game on their Wii, and into a bedroom where a blond man in his mid-thirties lays on his king-sized bed, one arm resting behind his head while he surfs the channels.

  Unremarkable green eyes finally peel themselves from the screen to take my face in and roll over my body. I want to shudder, but I smile instead and say, “Hello, Eddie.” That’s the name that went with the other picture. Not his real name either, of course.

  “Hello, Jane. You a cop?” he asks.

  “Isn’t that a made-for-television line?” I shoot back smoothly. It’s kind of disturbing, how easily I can fall into this role when I’m finally in it. I think it’s my strength with improvisation-style acting, coupled with an instinctive need for self-preservation. Whatever it is, I come off as confident and experienced. The two things Sam said I must exude. The two things I am most definitely not. “But if it makes you feel any better . . . no, I’m not a cop. You know who my boss is, Eddie.” Well, he knows who my boss is, but he doesn’t know that my boss is also my stepdad. Under no circumstances does that kind of information ever get revealed, a rule Sam drilled into my head long ago.

  Without preamble, Bob seizes my purse and begins his search, flipping through my wallet, past the cheap, dummy driver’s license with the name, “Jane,” that I use for these occasions. A third identity. Another safeguard à la Sam. He doesn’t bother reading the information because he knows as well as I do that it’s a fake. Once done with my wallet, he empties the few other contents within my bag—a pack of gum, a pen, the Glock that Uncle Jimmy armed me with. Just for show. It’s expected, he told me. All the same, Eddie’s brow arches as Bob lays that on a side table. “You know how to use that?”

  “What do you think?” Yes, I know how to use a gun. I’ve known since I was sixteen, when Sam casually suggested bringing me with him to the shooting range. As an avid hunter, he likes to keep up with his target practice and he goes every Saturday. I jumped at the chance to spend more time with him, likening it to a father-daughter bonding moment.

  I’m an okay shot.

  Sam is a killer shot.

  Eddie doesn’t answer me. Instead, he offers with a lazy smile, “If it makes you feel any better, we aren’t cops either.”

  “Good. I’m glad we’ve settled that,” I mutter dryly. “I hope you’re enjoying your family vacation. It’s quite lovely here. Hot though, this time of year.”

  A family vacation. I guess that’s part of the big ruse. Take your family on a vacation. Send the innocent young woman in to deliver the goods. No one pays any attention.

  That’s Sam for you. Clever.

  I’m wondering how many hotel rooms these poor kids see.

  A crooked smirk curls Eddie’s lip. “Yes, the wife is out spending my hard-earned money.”

  Satisfied that my purse isn’t bugged, Bob now steps toward me and demands, “Arms up,” in a firm voice. I comply swiftly, my stomach tightening in knots. I focus on a painting that hangs over the bed’s headboard, on the woman dancing in the rain with a red umbrella lying on the sidewalk next to her. Thinking about how much nicer my life would be if I could be dancing in the rain right now.

  That thought reminds me that only seven hours from now, I’ll be using my pole-dancing lessons for the greater good of Miami horn dogs.

  And for that strange club owner.

  I wonder if that will churn my stomach worse than this.

  I welcome the distraction that comes with those thoughts as Bob’s hands take their time, working their way up and down my legs, making me take my shoes off. When his fingers start prodding my crotch area, I clench my teeth together tightly, wishing I were allowed to wear jeans. If I had, though, they’d make me take them right off.

  I breathe.

  Deep, long breaths.

  I breathe through the rising discomfort, the panic, the nausea.

  The harsh memory.

  Sam promised me that that these buyers aren’t lowlifes. They’re smart businessmen—just like him. Interested in nothing more than making money.

  That nothing like that would ever happen again.

  “Come on, hurry it up,” Eddie barks. Bob’s rough hands squeeze my ass on their way up to my shirt, then under my shirt, where they linger.

  Deep breaths.

  I am not really here.

  This will be over soon.

  Though I don’t enjoy this any more than the attention to my lower region, it doesn’t jog the same horrific memories. Still, when a fingertip digs under my bra and starts sliding back and forth over my nipple—the lascivious flicker of a smile touching Bob’s lips—I decide I’ve had enough.

  “Sal Pal liked doing that too,” I say in a low, calm voice, fighting the shiver that name still elicits as I level Bob with a meaningful stare.

  I see the spark of recognition that comes with it and he pulls his hands away with haste and a sneer. Not surprising. Most people in this business have heard that name. How could they not? The gruesome discovery of Sal’s body made the national news. Reports say that he was still alive when his hands and other vital extremities were cut off.

  When Sal did what he did to me that day months ago, he had no idea who I was to Sam. I mean, how could he? He probably figured I was a hooker, looking to make some extra cash. No one in Sam’s position would send his own stepdaughter—a girl he raised and supposedly loved to no end—into a drug transaction.

  No one but a crazy man.

  Sal certainly had no idea what kind of man Sam really is.

  Neither did I. But we both foun
d out rather quickly. That night was the second time I’ve ever run home crying to my stepdad. He remained calm while I, between ragged sobs that I couldn’t control, explained in great detail how Sal felt the need to explore any and all possible—and highly improbable—places for a hidden wire.

  Sam gritted his teeth and smoothed his hand over my hair, telling me that I did well, that I’d held up, that completing the drop and then coming to him was the right thing to do. He handed me sleeping pills and waited by my side until I passed out.

  A week later, while forcing down a cold piece of pizza in the kitchen in a semi-catatonic state, I watched vacantly as Sal’s ugly face streaked the news station with the taglines “drug-related” and “sending a clear message” making the headlines. The killers didn’t even attempt to hide his remains. They left them strewn along the side of a major highway, with the word respect painted over his chest in his own blood.

  Sam wrapped his arms around me and whispered into my ear, as if afraid of being overheard, “I caught him for you, little mouse. He tried to run. But you can’t run from me.” He kissed my forehead then, adding, “No one disrespects me like that. And no one will ever touch you again.”

  I remember sitting there, shaking within his arms, inhaling the scent of his Brut cologne—once comforting to me—and noting a few things: his reference to respect for himself, when I was the one who had been violated, and the word again. What “again”? I didn’t want an again. I wanted no more! Like Dominic, his best friend and business partner.

  Dominic, who turned up dead.

  A few things clicked that day: that I was involved in something way over my head, and that it would be impossible to disentangle myself from it until Sam allowed it. If Sam ever allowed it.

  But most importantly, that was the day I realized that I should be terrified of my stepdad.

  * * *

  The rental car is waiting for me as I walk out of the hotel with my camera bag—the one that’s so heavy with the payoff that the strap is cutting into my shoulder—and that amazing fake smile plastered to my face.

  I was right. This drop was something altogether different. Eddie must have an established network down here if he’s going to move that much heroin. Maybe that means I won’t be called again for a while. That hope makes me sag in my driver’s seat with relief.

  As much as I want to race to the exchange point and get rid of all evidence, I can’t risk being pulled over by the cops with a bag full of hundred-dollar bills. So I stick to the speed limit, making the distance to the exchange point—a semi-quiet residential street—unbearably long. My phone reveals a text from Jimmy, telling me it was great seeing me today. That’s code for “the coast is clear.”

  I park the car, locking the keys and the money in the trunk. There’s a public park across the road and in that park, I know I will find a Santa Claus–looking man in Birkenstocks, lounging on a bench, reading the paper. Waiting.

  But I don’t search for him because that is, under no circumstances, permitted. Following strict protocol, I walk a hundred feet ahead to where my navy-blue Sorento awaits. With my extra set of keys out to unlock it, I climb in and pull away, just as my phone begins ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “All good?”

  I open my mouth but hesitate. Should I tell Sam what happened in there? No . . . Bob is a douchebag, but that was nothing compared to Sal. Plus, I don’t want to be the reason for another brutal dismemberment and murder. I think I have Bob under control now and if he’s the worst that I have to deal with, I can manage.

  “All good. Everything went as planned.”

  “Good. You’ll be dealing with them a lot more going forward. Eddie has big connections. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  The phone goes dead.

  A lot more going forward. “How could you do this to me, Sam!” I whisper into the silence. How could he? Even I know that you don’t knowingly put people you love in danger.

  It’s in the parking lot outside my apartment that I finally start to shake, my nerves reacting to the mountain of tension that my willpower managed to suppress for far too long. I stopped counting the number of drops a year ago. They were all so small, so easy. But then they started getting bigger, and the thing with Sal happened . . . and now I’m dealing with major deliveries. I know in my gut that they’ll only get harder, more risky.

  There was a break from deliveries after the “incident,” during which Sam showered me with Louboutins and pretty dresses and diamond earrings. I thought that was his way of saying he was sorry, that he acknowledged that involving me in his “business” was a bad idea.

  I let myself believe that it was over.

  Then a man cornered me coming out of the gym one night in May, just after finishing the last of my high school exams, asking all kinds of questions about Sal and Sam. I kept my cool, playing the clueless, normal eighteen-year-old girl to award-winning perfection.

  I told Sam the second I got home and the next day, he handed me a manila envelope full of new documents and identification—birth certificate, driver’s license, passport, credit cards. Everything needed to be twenty-two-year-old Charlie Rourke from Indianapolis. The package came with a one-way ticket to Miami leaving that night and a bank account with ten thousand dollars in it. With a heavy hand on my shoulder and a slow, even voice, Sam said that his little mouse needed to disappear for a little while. “This will keep you safe and hidden from guys like that. Just relax, lay low, and wait until all this blows over. We don’t want anything pinned to us for Sal.”

  To us.

  “But what about Tisch?” I had asked.

  I got a regretful smile in return. “You’re going to have to delay for a year. Too risky, otherwise. I’ll take care of it.” I remember the disappointment that flooded through me at that news.

  Instructing me to hand over all of my real identification, right down to my bank card, Sam murmured, “You’re not you anymore. You’re Charlie Rourke and only Charlie Rourke. Be who you want to be but stay in character, my little actor. As long as you do that, no one will find you. No one will hurt you. Everything in this envelope is legit. It’s a genuine ID.” Muttering more to himself, “For a hundred G’s, you should have no issues at all.”

  I remember my jaw dropping—a rare but unplanned reaction.

  This wasn’t a half-assed get-you-past-the-bouncer type of ID that you pick out from a bag of stolen driver’s licenses. Sam would have had to start making these arrangements for me long before yesterday, before anyone ever approached me.

  That was my first clue that Sam wasn’t telling me the truth.

  And when the first drop request came a month after moving to Miami, I knew with certainty that this move had less to do with my safety and more to do with business.

  Sam was looking to expand his enterprise into Miami.

  And he’d decided to use me to do it.

  That’s when I started wondering if that guy who approached me outside the gym that day was ever a real threat. It was all too well timed to be a fluke. Perhaps he was a friend. Perhaps Sam hired him to give him an excuse to send me to Miami.

  To scare me.

  I’ve thought about just running. Packing my bags and disappearing into the night. But Sam’s earlier words hang over me like an ominous cloud. You can’t run from me. As long as Sam has a name, I’m afraid that he’ll find me.

  And when he does . . .

  What’s left? The plan. It’s a good plan.

  I’ve created an entirely new person, complete with big, bold curls and brown eyes and layers of makeup, with equal parts perfection and flaw. A real person in the eyes of the unsuspecting.

  Just not really me.

  I’ll stay until I make enough money and arrange for a new identity. One that Sam doesn’t know about. And then I’ll run. I’ll fly to the farthest corner of the world.

  I’ll disappear.

  For real.

  chapter five

  * * *

  CAI
N

  “We’re fully stocked again, thanks to moi!” Ginger’s husky voice hollers as I stroll past, on my way toward my office. The sound of clattering beer bottles stops and I drag my feet back to the walk-in fridge, where I find Ginger ass-up in her shorts, leaning over a keg, trying in vain to move it. The girl may be well toned, but she has no hope in hell of moving a 160-pound keg.

  Without hesitation, I dive in and grab the other side. “You know Nate or one of the other guys will move all of these around, right?”

  With a phssst sound, she smirks and mutters, “You know I don’t need a man for anything.”

  I chuckle, shaking my head. “Yes, Ginger. You’ve made that very clear.” Taking visual inventory of all the beer as I run a hand through the back of my hair, I mutter, “How did this happen?”

  Ginger’s grin is nothing short of triumphant as she folds her arms over her ample chest and leans against the cooler wall. Streaks of blue that weren’t there yesterday run through her hair. “We really need to work on your charm with customer service, Cain.”

  I wait for her to elaborate, knowing full well that it would take more than charm to get our fridges and shelves restocked that quickly, given the supposed shortage. Finally, Ginger confesses. “A small truck came by last night with sweet fuck-all. So . . .” The way she draws that word out, her pretty eyes averting to the ground, I know I’m not going to like what I hear. “Hannah and I gave the delivery guy a short demonstration of the private show he’d get if our supply room was somehow miraculously filled by tonight.”

  “Jesus Christ, Ginger,” I groan as my forehead hits the door frame. I have a good idea of the kind of “show” those two could provide, given that they’ve been linked as an item in the past and are, at the very least, close friends. “You know I won’t let anyone prostit—”

  “Hey!” She snaps her manicured fingers inches from my nose. She’s one of the few people who has the nerve to do that. “Don’t you dare use that word with me. We offered no such thing. But, if letting the fucktard get off in his pants while Hannah and I round second base means we don’t have to deal with angry customers all weekend, then I don’t give a rat’s ass who watches. I’ll do her full-on, right up on the stage!”