Into the Blood (Broken Outlaw Series Book 2)

by BT Urruela

  My thoughts trail in what feels like a dream to Shane. He was out of the Army for about two years by the time I was getting ready to transition out myself. He flew me out to Seattle for a week and spent the whole time doing everything in his power to help me forget what I was going through for just a little bit. And when the time came for me to go back to Fort Drum to out process, he asked me to come back when I finished, to live with him in Seattle, to let him love me the way I deserved—or so he said. I smiled, took his hands in mine and kissed him. I don’t kiss him often, not wanting to give the wrong idea, but then I kissed him harder than I ever have. I knew in that moment that I truly did love Shane too, but also, that I just didn’t have it in me to make it work. I went back to Drum and finished out processing, and back to Trinity I went.

  Now look at me. It’s funny how clearly things are seen through hindsight. And as the cold floor numbs my body, I wish for Shane’s thick arms around me, embracing me, making me feel protected… and safe.

  The door abruptly opens, the creak of the hinges startling me. I open my eyes, but the flood of light forces them closed again. There are footsteps. Two people. Maybe three. I squint my eyes open and see their outline, but the light is just too much. It feels like my eyeballs have been doused in gasoline and lit ablaze.

  “Wake the fuck up, bitch,” a voice growls, and a hard slap throws my head into the concrete. I feel hands around my hips and then my limp body is lifted, my arms still cuffed around the pipe, and the rush of blood from my head to my feet thrashes my stomach. I groan, opening my eyes just enough to see Javi standing before me, leaning his head against the pipe and smiling. His hot breath on me. I glance down and see massive tatted arms propping me up.

  “Gabi,” Javi says, placing a hand to my stomach that makes my abs constrict, trying to pull away. I’m just too weak. “You know I like you,” he continues, so close I can smell the combination of weed and whiskey on his breath. “I don’t want to have to fucking gut you. But I will.” He smiles, a wicked smile, and digs his fingers into my stomach. “And I will have some fun with you first. You made a mistake bringing your friends here, Gabi. That tells me one thing, that you want a fight. Well, my dear, the fight’s been brought to them.”

  I close my eyes again, hoping it will take me to a place far from here. Another slap, harder than the last, and my ears are ringing.

  “I said wake up!” Javi scolds, digging his fingers in deeper.

  My eyes creep open and I have barely enough strength to keep my head steady.

  “I just hope they have my money, Gabi. I hope they do… for your sake,” he hisses, finally letting go and snapping his fingers at another of his crew behind him. The man steps forward, a dog bowl in his hands and a can of SpaghettiOs. He tosses the bowl on the ground and pulls the tab on the can, and as he pours the contents into the bowl, my stomach growls in desperate anticipation. I can’t help but salivate. I look at Javi who nods at the man holding me. His massive arms release me and I drop to the floor with a thud.

  With all my strength, I lift myself up and drag myself closer to the bowl. I begin piling the delectable Os into my mouth by the handful as a water bottle is tossed my way. It rolls toward me, hitting the dog bowl as I’m closed in the darkness again.

  Reluctantly, I tape the note for Javi behind the dead end sign off Gladney. Over the silence as I walk back with Shane, I think about my sister, and how no one deserves this treatment, let alone someone who served. She didn’t deserve the swan song she got from the Army. She doesn’t deserve the mess she finds herself in now. Any combat veteran’s struggle should be met with immediate and effective resolve. Her downfall is indicative of exactly what’s wrong with the system.

  “You okay?” Shane asks, swatting a hand across my arm.

  I look over and smile. “As okay as I can be,” I say, my thoughts owned by Gabi’s status as I’m sure his are too.

  “We’re going to get her back, man. Seriously.” He waits until my eyes meet his and then he continues. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Why are you two not together, man?” I ask and he laughs.

  “I’m not sure if you noticed or not, but she’s got quite the tough exterior. She’s hardened.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed,” I respond with a chuckle.

  “But for that same reason she’s not with me, she’ll make it through this shit. She’s a tough SOB. Toughest person I know. When her mind is made up, it’s made up.”

  “I wish I could get to know the side of her you do,” I say.

  “It takes time,” he says as we reach the porch steps. Just before taking them, he stops and turns toward me. “But when you do get to know her. I mean really get to know the kind of person she is… you wonder why she was ever dealt the hand she was.”

  “Have you tried for more with her?” I ask and he laughs.

  “Time and time again, my friend. It’s just not there for her. What she’s been through, she’ll likely never fully recover from. I’m here because regardless of that, I love that woman more than anything in this God forsaken life and I would do anything for her,” he says, his eyes red and glistening.

  “We’re going to get her back, Shane. I just—” I pause a moment, collecting my thoughts as I head to the door, opening it and holding it for him. He enters and glances back, waiting for me to continue. “I can’t have it any other way,” I say, shaking my head and forcing away the morbid thoughts trying to ravage my brain.

  When we walk in, there’s an uncomfortable silence between everyone in the living room. Irish sits with Brandi on the loveseat, Paige and Rock are on the couch, and they’re all intently watching the news.

  “What’s up?” Shane asks, directing his attention to the screen as I do the same. They don’t even have to answer. The smoldering cash truck on the screen says more than enough.

  Rock points, eyes still locked on the screen. “Shit just got real.” He lets out a deep breath and then catches my glance.

  “Any word about witnesses? Possible suspects? Anything like that?” I ask and Rock shakes his head.

  “Nothing yet, other than vehicle type. But we planned for that,” he says, smirking.

  The rentals were, in fact, rentals, but rented under identities of people who have long since been dead. To be a fly on the wall when the detectives figure that one out.

  “Anyone make out the Harleys?” I ask, taking a seat on the couch beside Paige who greets me with a kiss to the cheek.

  “No, we were too far ahead of the road closed sign for anyone to make us,” Irish responds, his hand resting on Brandi’s knee. She has a worried look on her face and I don’t blame her. “No doubt about that, but you sure we scrubbed the rentals good enough?”

  “One hundred percent,” Shane says, standing still and rubbing his chin as he analyzes the screen. “They’ll never find them anyways. They’re way out in the middle of fucking nowhere.” He takes in the TV a moment longer as silence sits among us. He then turns, a hand to his chin, and a smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ve been planning this for weeks. We’re solid.”

  “What about the money?” Brandi asks, looking up at Shane and his demeanor instantly changes.

  “I don’t know,” he responds, shaking his head. “I can only hope they take it. I think in the meantime, we need to find one of Javi’s guys.”

  “I agree,” Irish says, putting a finger up.

  “Then what?” I ask, Shane’s eyes meeting mine.

  “Then we make him talk,” he says. “We find out where she is… and we weigh our options.”

  “Is there a way to get the police involved? To have them help find her?” Paige asks and Shane laughs.

  “Been there, done that. The police don’t give a fuck. A drug pusher was taken by her former boss. That’s not at the top of their to-do list,” Shane says, scoffing at the idea.

  “It’s a worthy suggestion,” I say, his eyes meeting mine. “I agree, it’s not likely, but this isn’t a game many of us have played.” />
  He nods, his facial expression softening a bit. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just Gabi went to the police when she was initially threatened and they literally laughed her out of the place. It’s a small department they got here with a whole lot of bad shit going down.” Shane takes a moment, pacing the foyer with his hands in his pockets. “They don’t give a fuck about Gabi. We’re in this alone.”

  “So, they don’t take the money and threaten to kill her. Then what?” I ask, and Shane finally stops pacing. He looks me dead in the eye, the news playing behind him, still running through the mess we made yesterday, and he smirks.

  “We figure out where they are and we storm the motherfucker.”

  My will is on life support. My ability to tell the difference between night and day, dream and reality, pain and hunger, a nonexistent thing. I used to think war would be the worst I ever experienced in this life. I was wrong. I’ve begun talking to myself… to Shane… to Xander. I see them bursting through the door so clear in my head, Shane cradling me in his arms and carrying me far, far away from this place.

  I see the wide-open road, cruising on two wheels and experiencing the best this country has to offer, the sun a beacon of hope… and happiness.

  I see food… anything and everything. I pile it in without concern for anything else. Pancakes stacked ceiling high, doused in syrup and melted butter; cheesecake with graham cracker crust, whipped cream straight from the bottle. I drink from a bottomless cup of water. It’s as cool as this concrete floor and it tastes like it’s lifted right out of a spring.

  I don’t cry when the opening door steals me away from my dreams, though I want to. I haven’t cried here yet. Not even last night… when Javi finally took what he’s always wanted.

  Why should I? These are the games that we play. These are consequences we’re thusly served.

  I expect a repeat of last night when I smell Javi approach, a nauseating combination of cheap aftershave and BO. My eyes remain tightly closed as I lie on my side, my arms stretched out and aching from the cuffs that keep me restrained. He stops just before my head. I can feel his boots mere inches from my face. I beg he puts an end to it all… right here. Right now.

  I’m ready to go. I’m done fighting. Take me away, Lord. Take me far away from here. I’m lifted, as usual, by steroid arms. He clutches me like a rag doll as he does, holding me at eye level with Javi, though he’s hard to see in the dimly lit basement. He stands in silence for a moment, an odd smile on his face as a dripping sound that started a while ago steals my attention. It’s all I can hear. I instinctively lick my lips, imagining the leak belongs to a faulty pipe just moments from bursting and filling the room with water I’ll then chug with reckless abandon.

  “Gabi…” he says, letting my name hang in the air and then he tsks. “Gabi, Gabi, Gabi… your friends let me down.” He lets out a wry chuckle glancing back at one of his crew standing behind him before his dark eyes drift back to mine. “They let you down.”

  I smile, thankful that my time has come, that the Lord has heard my prayers and is ready to take me home.

  As if I could be so lucky.

  “You shouldn’t be smiling, Gabi. You’re not gonna like this one bit.” He pulls a small switchblade from his pocket as the big man returns me to the ground, pinning my left arm flat against the concrete floor. As my foggy mind puts two and two together, I feel the sharp blade break skin, hot-like flames peeling back the layers in my knuckle. I scream out but don’t make a sound. The weight of the steroid freak is too much to move. I fight to breathe under the pressure.

  The knife meets bone and I can feel the separation of my finger from its socket. The agony is too much. My eyes roll in the back of my head as I lurch and writhe on the concrete floor. And I wish for death. I plead for it. In my head, at least. Who knows what’s real anymore. Except this awful pain, of course. As steroid freak lights up a Zippo and sets it to my bloody nub, peeling the skin around it back, a relentless shooting pain surges throughout my hand and up my arm.

  This pain is the realest thing I’ve ever felt.

  There’s a loud knock at the door and Shane looks curiously at Irish and me, seated on the couch across from him.

  “Ladies with the food, maybe? You gave them a key though, didn’t you?” Shane asks, setting the stack of money he’s holding into a half empty briefcase. Piles of twenty-dollar bills line the coffee table waiting to be put into cases as well. I’ve never hated the sight of money so much in my life. Never thought I could.

  “Yeah, I did,” I say when another loud knock sounds.

  Just as Shane is about to get up, Rock comes back from the bathroom. There’s a screeching of car tires against pavement.

  “I got ya, Shane,” Rock says, a wrinkle in his brow, and he puts a hand up to still him. He proceeds to the door and opens it wide, stretching his head out and looking from side to side. He then looks back in with wary eyes. His focus drops to the porch, he pauses for a moment and then squats. A moment later, he stands back up with a small package in his hand, an all-white rectangular box with a red bow. He turns slowly, his eyes analyzing the box still. Irish sets a stack of bills to the side and stands up. Maneuvering around mounds of twenties on the floor, he runs out the door.

  Rock sets the package down on the coffee table, balanced on a few stacks as Shane and I scoot closer, eyeing the box ourselves. A gripping fear takes hold. A desperate understanding that this isn’t good. Not one fucking bit. There’s a small envelope taped to the lid of the box and Shane snags it, holding it in his hands for a moment before pulling out a folded note. He opens it and glances up at me, concerned.

  His eyes trail back to the note and he clears his throat before reading it aloud, “You knew the price. You knew the terms. Your hands are stained. Not mine. You’ll leave the amount you do have at 4356 Hickory rd. It’s an abandoned house. Leave the money in the kitchen pantry. You’ll then have four days to get the remaining fifty thousand. You play any games and she fucking dies. For each day it takes, she loses a finger. Ball’s in your court.”

  Shane looks up, his eyebrows darting and gaze fixed on nothing in particular. He tosses the note to the floor and drops his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair.

  “Fuck!” he yells, his hands gripping at his hair, arm veins looking like they may burst from his skin. I snag the note from the floor and read it myself, for no other reason than to absorb the reality of it all. To understand exactly what the implications are here.

  Shane lifts his head, his fingers running from his forehead down his cheeks and then they drop to his side as he eyes the box, dread overtaking his face.

  “You want me to, brother?” I ask him, setting a hand to his shoulder. He looks at me, appreciation in his eyes and shakes his head.

  “No, man,” he says, his voice quivering. “I got it.”

  Shane lifts the box slowly as Irish comes back through the door in an all-out sweat. He staggers over, standing next to Rock and joining the rest of us in dreaded anticipation of what’s to come. Setting the box on his lap, Shane slowly lifts the lid and tosses it to the floor, exposing a few sheets of white tissue paper, dotted throughout with crimson droplets. Tears creep down Shane’s face as he picks the paper out one wad at a time, dropping them to the ground until he sees it… until we all see it. A finger. Gabi’s finger, severed at the joint, on a bed of blood-soaked tissue paper.

  “Jimmy, we need the toys. And I’m not kidding around here,” Shane whispers to Jimmy, who’s leaned over onto the bar. Rock, Chase and I take seats at stools around Shane.

  “What the fuck happened?” Jimmy asks, bewildered.

  Shane begins to speak, but gets choked up. He takes a deep breath and says, “They cut off her fucking finger, Jimmy. Left it in a gift box on her front fuckin’ porch for us.”

  Jimmy is wide-eyed, anger setting in. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

  “Not shitting you, Jimmy. And they’re gonna take another one for each
day we don’t have the rest of the money,” Shane says, shaking his head and rubbing a palm into his temple.

  “Can you get the money?” Jimmy asks.

  “We’re beyond that,” Shane says, blank-faced.

  “Shane, it may be—”

  “Jimmy,” Shane says, cutting him off. “I’m done playing their game. For all I know, we give them the rest and they kill her anyway. Fuck that. It’s on my terms now.”

  “And what’re your terms?” Jimmy asks, his eyes roaming each of us.

  “We kill them, Jimmy…” Shane says, his voice trailing for a moment before he continues. “We kill every last fucking one of them.”

  “You’re gonna need quite the armory. And you’re gonna need to know where this fucker has her,” Jimmy says, rubbing his chin.

  “Hey, y’all!” he yells to the three other patrons playing cards near the front doors. “Bar’s fuckin’ closin’. Tab’s on me. Get the fuck on out.” The three grumble, but do as he asks, shuffling out of the place slowly. Jimmy walks around the bar and to the front door, latching it behind them. He meanders back over to the bar, and nonchalantly pulls a Jack Daniels bottle down as if he’s going to knock it off the shelf, but when he backs his hand away, the bottle stays put, sitting at an angle. There’s a loud groan and then the liquor shelf begins to creak open like lateral blinds being drawn. Behind it lays more weapons than any human should ever own, each set into its own custom green felted slot. There’s an M4 assault rifle, a fifty-caliber sniper rifle, three different styles of AK-47s, several grenades, and more hand guns than a platoon would even need.

  He grins at our awestruck faces. “This is just the beginning, gents.” He smiles, motioning to the utility closet door beside the bar. “Ya oughta take a look down in the treasure trove and I may have a few surprises for ya.”