by T Gephart
By the time I’d tossed my bag into the back—the cooler left behind in the deserted Camaro—Michael had pried off the plastic on the steering column and was working the ignition with a wire contraption and a handheld black device. The purr of the engine punched through the silence less than a minute later.
Doors closed on both sides, the slam shaking the body of the car as he eased off the brake and pressed the accelerator. The vacant lot and the gas station it backed into left in the rearview mirror as we pulled away from the curb. Grand Theft Auto added to tonight’s rap sheet.
“We need to make sure we aren’t being followed before I take you back to the warehouse.” Michael’s eyes flicked between the windshield and rear window. “Pretty sure the cops didn’t get an ID on us other than the car, but whoever sent the Audi is probably going to be looking.”
“They’ll keep coming.” The words fell from my lips before I had a chance to stop it. “I’m not going to go quietly, so they’ll keep coming.”
I’d been threatened before, but never like this and it scared the hell out of me that I was so powerless. I needed to remind myself it was okay to be emotional.
Michael clearly didn’t share my view, rolling his eyes either irritated or bored, I couldn’t decipher which.
“We’re going to get where we need to be and stay there for the night. It will give me a chance to wipe this car and dump it.” He continued without breaking eye contact with the road. “Cops will no doubt find my ride and pull prints and DNA it. Nothing we can do about that. Torching it wasn’t an option so your situation will probably get a little more intense when the powers that be get wind that you’re alive.”
I wasn’t sure who he meant exactly—the powers that be, it could have been anyone—but the police were also going to be a major complication.
I never thought I’d say that—I’d always been on the right side of the law—but I knew that soon, there was going to be all kinds of attention drawn to me.
After all, my house had exploded, my body not recovered. Which would lead them to believe I had either torched the place myself or fallen victim to foul play. They were bound to find hair or fibers that would place me in that car. Then it was just a matter of connecting the dots. The only thing they wouldn’t know is whether or not I was dead or alive. Either way, Michael was going to be a suspect in either a homicide or wrongful imprisonment.
“You know they’ll assume you kidnaped me.” Which, while initially, wasn’t too far from the truth, I had waded into this mess neck deep all on my own. “You’re going to be a wanted man.”
“You really think like a cop don’t you?” He smirked, eyeing me sideways as he kept his hands on the wheel.
“I am a cop.” I wondered how else I should be exploring this situation. “So they’ll find your car.” I continued extrapolating out loud, unable to help myself. “Know we were together. Considering we have no connection, it won’t be a stretch to guess I hadn’t come willingly. Then assuming whoever owns this,” my finger waved around the interior, “will discover it’s missing and flag it as stolen. We have maybe six hours before we’re in even deeper shit.”
“They’ll place you in the car but not me. I’m not worried about the cops.”
“Um how do you figure?” I choked back a laugh, finding it difficult to believe he could be so fucking arrogant. “Your plates stolen? Surely the car is registered to someone. And I find it hard to believe someone like you doesn’t have a record.” The last part I hadn’t intended to say out loud, but it had slipped out nonetheless. My mouth had a mind of its own at the best of times, and when I was nervous or agitated—well, all bets were off.
“I would have assumed by now you would have clued up.” He shook his head, spearing me with a look. “Whatever shit you have in your head, you need to put it aside. Those rules don’t apply to me.”
“Those rules don’t apply to you?” I had been wrong; he wasn’t arrogant he was delusional. “Who do you think you are? Jesus Christ?”
“Jesus Christ was a fucking pussy who believed that by allowing himself to die, he’d somehow be saved.” Each word dripped in venom. Back at the house he’d laughed at my need to pray but this more than that. It was deep-seated hate he was harvesting. “What kind of fucked-up logic is that? Son of God? He was just a fucktard in a pair of sandals with an identity crisis, and I will never understand how or why people believe that shit. Drink the fucking Kool-Aid if it makes you feel better about yourself, but don’t put that shit on me.”
His words didn’t shock me. I’d heard a lot worse. It was the echo of emptiness inside of them that sent a chill right down to my marrow.
“It must be terrifying to be so alone.”
I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to accomplish, comforting him hadn’t been it. But I couldn’t even fathom what it was like to be so devoid of hope, to be so insulated from anything warm.
“You trying to piss me off?” There was almost a hint of amusement in his voice. He hadn’t known what I’d been trying to accomplish either.
“Probably,” I answered honestly. It seemed to be a habit for me, a coping mechanism, and I was still wondering how he was so sure he wasn’t going to be implicated in the mess we’d left behind.
“Well don’t,” was his only reply.
We drove the rest of the way in silence. Navigating the streets until we entered an industrial area. The large monochrome-colored buildings flanked both sides of the large street, their dark empty front lots giving me a serious case of the creeps.
The car slowed, pulling into the concrete driveway that fed directly into the mouth of a huge metal roller door. The heavy door lifted on command, a slight whine as it rose being its only protest as Michael held the remote he had activated in his hand.
As we drove through the opened space into the dark, the door behind us rolled closed. He didn’t turn on the headlights, seeming to know the direction on instinct, or maybe he’d driven through those doors so many times he could literally do it with his eyes closed.
“What is this place?” I looked into the dark. And when I say dark, I mean it was completely devoid of any illumination. Like we’d been caught in a vacuum.
“The warehouse,” he said, like those two words should mean more than they did. Michael brought the car to a stop, cutting the engine before opening his door.
The warehouse—as he called it—was in a mainly deserted industrial part of town, not far from O’Hare. The wide streets were lined with huge structures, some baring the logos of the companies they represented, some had been just as nondescript as the one we’d driven into.
He didn’t bother to wait for me, his door slamming as he walked away. I scrambled out of my seat, partly because I was done sitting in the dark and partly because I hoped I might get more information as to what the plan was from here.
There had to be a plan.
Or at least, I hoped there would be.
The large overhead halogen popped before I had a chance to decide which direction to go. The glow of the blubs blinded me, my eyes needing a minute to adjust even though the lights had yet to heat to full strength. One by one they flickered, brightening in intensity as they lit the complete interior.
The inside was stark, cavernous—large enough to house a 747 comfortably—and yet so immaculately maintained, I wondered if it hadn’t been recently repainted. The absence of paint fumes told me no, so I assumed he was either a neat freak or had one hell of a cleaner. I suppose you could find anything on Craigslist.
“There’s a living space toward the back.” He pointed roughly to the far left corner where drywall had been erected. “You should probably sleep.”
“What about you?” I had yet to see him do anything remotely human other than shower. Surely he needed to sleep and eat too.
“I need to find out who was in the Audi first.” He turned around, his eyes and voice completely void of emotion. It was something I had grown used to when it came to him but still managed to surprise
me. The coldness and detachment so clinical and robotic. Like he’d been born without a heart.
“They will have either collected a corpse or received a report from one pissed off motherfucker.” He continued, ignoring my stare. “For your sake, I hope their info is coming in the form of a body bag.”
His words chilled me, my skin pimpling as I fought the urge not to shiver.
“You’ve never killed anyone, have you?” He tilted his head to the side, the corner of his mouth lifting in amusement. He was enjoying it.
“You’re wrong. I have.” I straightened, not feeling any better that this hadn’t been my first time. It was one of the things that most separated me from my father—empathy, and my respect for human life. He hated that about me, saw it as weakness but I refused to see it that way. “I just don’t enjoy it.”
I had wanted to sound strong, confident, not let him see how rattled I was, but I didn’t. The words had wobbled out of my mouth with barely a whisper, and as brave as I was trying to be, taking someone’s life would never be something I celebrated. I couldn’t. It would make me no better than my father. I had spent a lifetime trying to prove to myself that, even though his blood coursed through my veins, I wasn’t him.
“It’s life or death, Sofia.” Michael’s voice surprised me. I’d expected him to exploit my weakness, ridicule it. But he wasn’t, his eyes softening from the hard glare I was used to. “Your life means their death, it’s that simple and you shouldn’t feel bad about wanting to survive. It’s instinct, one that is stronger than the need for decency.”
“That’s surprisingly profound.” I shook my head not expecting his kindness as I resisted the urge to thank him.
“Yeah, I also quote Nietzsche on occasion.” He smirked, surprising me in what I could only assume was an attempt at humor. “Go get some sleep; I have work to do.”
Twenty-four hours ago I would have been unnerved by that smile, convinced there was something more sinister lurking beneath. But as much as I wanted to hate Michael, he hadn’t pretended to be sincere when he wasn’t. His coldness was mechanical, not manufactured, and I didn’t believe he had it in him to be kind unnecessarily.
“Okay.” I nodded, knowing I’d been standing there like an idiot trying to analyze the situation long enough. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
It had been a long day, and as much as I hated not being in control, I was tired of arguing. Every part of my mind and body was demanding I shut down, unable to fully process everything we’d been through. Desperation to hit the reset button was what made my feet move one in front of the other as I made my way to the back of the warehouse, leaving Michael to do whatever he was going to do.
I expected a fold out cot in a corner but what I was confronted with was so surprisingly well thought out. Large planes of drywall had been internally erected to section off an area what I guessed was the living space he’d spoken of. It wasn’t fancy, the plaster bare but solid, squaring off about eight feet in the air and framed with wood to create a faux ceiling. A box within a box, the roof of the warehouse looming well above it, the lights swinging from the exposed metal beams.
The atmosphere felt different than the house, and not just because there were no windows. He didn’t need to tell me that the space was private, my breath quickening as I twisted the knob and opened the wooden door.
In the house I felt like a visitor, but here I felt like a complete interloper.
Cozy wasn’t a word I would usually throw around with my present company but what I was confronted with was remarkably just that.
My eyes roamed over the room as I closed the door behind me, hitting a light switch along the wall so I wasn’t in the dark. It was neat and tidy—something I had come to expect—with a large king-size bed in the middle of the room. The bed—like the one back at his house—was a simple box spring and mattress, right on the floor, but it was complete with tightly fitting sheets and a crisp dark blue comforter folded at the foot of the bed. And after everything I had been through I wanted nothing more than to slip between those linens and just forget for a few hours.
There was a door to my left that was closed that might have led to a bathroom, but I was too tired to care, kicking off my shoes and slowly peeling off my clothes until I had stripped down to my T-shirt.
My stomach grumbled, and with the cooler not surviving the journey, I wasn’t sure if eating was a possibility. I was too tired to care, refusing to give it much more thought as I pulled up the sheets and slid inside, the cotton soft against my skin.
It didn’t take long, my eyes closing involuntarily the minute my head hit the pillow. As much as I wanted to stay awake a little while longer, I couldn’t, and all those uncertain thoughts would be shelved. I had to trust I would be safe here and there was nothing more I could do.
Maybe it was the rush of adrenaline leaving my body, or maybe I was just emotionally and physically exhausted, but as I let go, sleep finally came.
The warehouse was more of a home than my house had ever been. I’d purchased it for cash off an old Italian guy who spoke little English and cared even less about my purpose for it. I had a feeling we had more in common than not, but both of us knew better than to ask questions. I used one of my bogus identities to register the sale, and as far as anyone knew it was an empty storage location where Peter Salas liked to restore boats. I even had parked an old wooden sailboat out front a few times just to keep up the pretense in case anyone was watching.
Though in this part of town most people were doing their own thing, too busy being concerned about their bottom line and keeping their businesses afloat to worry about little old me. Which is why I preferred being here to my actual house. Less eyes on me and I could keep shit locked up tight. With barely any windows and only two doors to man, it was the perfect place to get off the grid. Not to mention store my own personal arsenal.
The computer system was also state-of-the-art, my collection of man-toys almost identical to what I had back at the Brownstone. Truth be told, the house I lived in was purely for appearances; it was here that I felt the most relaxed.
The warehouse was isolated, away from neighborhoods. I liked when I walked outside there wasn’t the need to pretend. No one wanted small talk or looking to see if my lawn was trimmed. And apart from the lack of attention, this place felt closer to what I was used to—what I’d had for years before I’d been able to afford more. The additional comforts that the house provided just made it more of a charade. I couldn’t let my guard down there, but here, it was a different story.
And while I preferred to spend my time pounding someone’s face for having to ditch my ride and being shot at, it seemed like the keyboard was going to be the better option. At least for tonight, or morning, as the case was.
Unfortunately, there was no who’s-trying-to-kill-me Google search, so I had to once again enlist the help of my Ivy League quarterbacks. They were getting more of my green than I’d like to part with, but I also preferred to have the upper hand, and information always came at a price. Be it in money or blood.
Sofia had either done us both a favor and listened without arguing or was too tired to give me the attitude I’d come to expect. Whatever her reason, she had disappeared into the bedroom space I had tucked away in the back. Good thing too; I could tell that while she’d kept her shit together, she wasn’t all cool with the way things had gone down.
People rarely impressed me; I kept my expectations low and even still, in most instances, I still shook my head at the level of stupidity I dealt with. It had been a while since there’d been anyone worth raising an eyebrow over. Sofia was the exception.
It hadn’t been just tonight; the whole ordeal had me silently giving her a nod of respect. If she was going to make it out of this somehow intact, she was going to have to dial into whatever shit kept her from falling apart. She wasn’t working the beat anymore, and looking into lowlifes behind a computer screen and having one at the end of your nine were two different things.
Speaking of people behind computer screens, it was going to take a while before the Abercrombie and Fitch posse came back with anything useful, so I decided to take some of my own advice and get some sleep.
Of course, at the house I’d crashed in one of the other two rooms, no sweat and no drama. But the warehouse wasn’t geared for entertaining, i.e. there were no additional rooms. And while the idea of sleeping next to anyone made me want to peel my skin layer by layer, I sure as shit wasn’t sleeping on the floor.
Leaving the computers to do their thing, I pushed away from my desk that was conveniently located behind the living space. Then it was just a few steps back around the drywall box I’d constructed and I was at the door.
Before heading in, my hand pulled open the front panel of the black box along the wall and my fingers got busy. I armed the security system on the outer perimeter and made sure all the sensors along the building were on. While I was happy to catch a few Z’s, I wasn’t leaving any of this shit to chance. And the way I had this place wired, even if a bird took a shit on the roof, I was going to know.
Then without thinking too much more about it, I yanked open the door and stepped inside. If Sofia had been sleeping, she was wide awake now.
“What are you doing?” Her head lifted off the pillow, her eyes peeled back in a sort of panic.
“What’s it look like I’m doing?” I pulled my shirt over my head as I toed off my boots. “It’s been a long night and I need a few hours.” My fingers hit the button and fly of my jeans as I let them hit the floor too.
“Whoa, you’re gonna sleep here?” Her voice wavered a little as she hitched up the blankets closer to her chest, like the fucking bedding was made out of some fucking force field. “With me?”
“You see a guest room?” And I wasn’t asking for permission, my hand lifting the comforter on the side of the bed closest to me. “Relax, I’m here to sleep. I thought we already established I wasn’t interested in fucking you.” My ass hit the mattress, sliding in and laying down before she’d had a chance to respond.
