DIRTY DADDY

by Evelyn Glass

  The Gent hops over my prostrate form and crunches my hand with his polished gentleman’s shoe. Something else cracks, in my hand now, and I roll onto my back and stare up at the two men.

  The Butcher guffaws. “This is the great Samson Black,” he mutters, as though confused. “This is really the great Samson Black? The man I’ve heard so much about? The legend of New York? Black Knight’s nephew?” He lifts his leg, aiming his boot at my face. I see the underside of his boot, bits of mud and leaf clinging to it.

  I know that, in less than a second, the dirt of his boot will be imprinted on my face. His boot seems to take an eternity to descend. I hear his grunting as though it is the only sound in the arena, and not screaming above hundreds of other men and women. I hear The Gent’s giggle like a backing tune to Butcher’s grunt. Butcher’s face is twisted in pleasure, the face of a man who is about to do something he knows, for an absolute certainty, will bring him pleasure. Down, down, the boot comes toward my face. It takes me a moment—or the breath of a moment, a tenth of a second—to realize that the boot is coming at me quickly enough to do serious damage. If it hits me, I will die, or I will at least be so injured that I might as well be dead. I imagine my skull caving into my brain, wondering what kind of damage it will do. And Anna will die. A jolt runs through me as the thought punctuates the frantic violence. Anna will die and there’ll be nothing you can do about it.

  What the hell am I doing!

  Time resumes its normal pace—and I spin over and over. The boot smashes into the court beside me, and the men laugh. When they look down at me, I know they must see me as pathetic. They must see me as a man already defeated, no longer a threat. There are four of them, The Butcher and The Gent, and their two friends lurking somewhere else in the crowd. Why would they worry? I’m done for. I’ve never felt so out of control in my life. I’m Samson Black, expert hitman, a killer who never loses control. I’m Samson Black, nephew of Black Knight.

  I don’t know where the burst of energy comes from. Somewhere deep down, a reservoir I’ve never had to tap before. Like a jack-in-the-box, I spring to my feet, fists raised. The pain in my hand is extraordinary, but somehow I still manage to clench it into a fist. The Butcher makes a coughing sound in the back of his throat, taken off-guard by my sudden lurching. He steps back, but I swing around with my good fist and smack him in the side of the head. I smack him so hard that shudders move up my arm and reverberate in my shoulder. I smack him so hard that he stumbles back, and I smack him again, again, my fists moving so fast no individual strike is visible, just a mad fray, a blur of strikes. The Butcher stumbles and trips on his own feet, falling onto his ass. I turn, and The Gent thumps me in the nose. Blood coats my upper lip and explodes in my mouth, but I ignore the pain, the wooziness in my eyes, and step back out of range of his second strike.

  “You’re a goddam fool, Samson, you know that?”

  He jumps at me again, and again I dive out of the way. My body aches all over, needles of pain moving under my skin, but I keep my footing and rebound with a massive right-hook. My knuckles bite into the side of his head, and I’m sure The Gent has never been hit so hard in his life. His eyes go wide and his knees tremble. For a moment he stands like that, a cartoon character hovering over a precipice, and abruptly he drops.

  The crowd is beginning to thin now, people finally making their way to the exits.

  I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and wade through toward the exit down which River and Anna went, down which I may well find the corpse of the only woman I’ve ever truly felt something for, down which I may be greeted with the sight of a slack-jawed Anna, her beautiful blonde hair coated in blood.

  Anger washes through me at the thought. I throw people out of the way without care, only determined to get to her, her, her. My woman, mine, the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my damn life with if she’ll have me.

  Soon, I can see the tunnel, the opening only a few yards in front of me, beckoning me. I push a couple more people out of the way and jog toward it, ignoring the innumerable points of pain which lance through me.

  I’m at the mouth of the tunnel when The Pistol and The Bear step out from behind the rafters, hop down on the court, and pace toward me.

  I look down at their hands. Both of them are carrying blades.

  ###

  The two men charge at me, and with a sigh I crouch low and make myself ready to catch them.

  The only advantage I have—the only advantage any man has when facing off more than one opponent—is the overconfidence of the blade-wielding men. I learnt a long time ago that two or three men tasked with taking down one man will get overconfident and overeager. In their minds, they can already see me cut and bloodied, on my back and bleeding from a hundred gashes. They already see themselves in a bar, bragging to other killers about how they took out Samson Black. They imagine themselves lying on their backs and smiling up at some woman, probably a hooker, and regaling her with tales about the Night They Killed Samson Black.

  For the thousandth time, I wish I’d brought a weapon other than the one meant for River. And even now, I won’t waste it. Won’t even think about wasting it.

  ‘What sort of plan was this, eh?’ Black Knight’s voice isn’t judgmental, just bemused. A man like him would never understand why I didn’t just kill River when I had her at my mercy. I could’ve avoided all of this; Anna never would’ve been at risk.

  What sort of fucking plan is this?

  I let my arms hang at my sides, relax my body, and hope to hell that I’m quick and strong enough to beat these men before they beat me. Or, worse, before River kills Anna.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Anna

  She grins down at me ghoulishly and though I hate the way her lips peel back over her teeth, I can’t look away. Not from bravery or courage or any of that, but because I know that this may well be the last thing I see. The last thing in this life I see will be the smile of the woman who kills me. She twists the gun and the barrel tugs at the skin of my head, pulling at it, twisting it, wrenching at it. I feel like I am in someone else’s nightmare. Surely, I reason, this can’t be happening to me. I am a cheerleader and a veterinary student. Things like this don’t happen to women like me. But it’s now, in the last moments of my life, that I realize that nobody is immune to the chaos of life. This could’ve happened to any woman. It merely takes the right circumstances—the wrong circumstances.

  “Do you hear the madness out there?” She smiles.

  I hate the way she smiles. It’s carefree and sickening at the same time. It’s like a mixture between the woman she once was and the sadist’s face she adopted when experiencing the years of torture. She’s not a person anymore, not really, not like the rest of us. She’s a twisted caricature of a person.

  “Answer me!” she cries. “You won’t steal these last moments from me, bitch!”

  “I hear it,” I mumble, shrinking away from her as much as I can, which isn’t much at all when her gun is planted against my skull.

  “Do you think there’s any chance that your little lover man will get to you? First, he was taken away by security. Three big strong men. What, do you think, are the chances he got free of them? Oh, fine, let’s assume that he used his Black magic and somehow made it happen . . .” She pauses. I see it in her face. She’s wondering whether to go on with her soliloquy or just end it all.

  “Well, what else?” I urge, my voice hoarse, all the phony nonchalance and confidence gone from it now. I’m just a woman on her back, speaking for her life.

  She sighs. “Well, even if he did somehow get back into the arena, there’s the crowd, isn’t there? You hear them. Chaos out there, absolute chaos. And then even if he could get through the crowd—which I very much doubt, you know—there are my men, four of them, just as tough and deadly as Samson is. Do you really think he loves you enough to try and get through all that, let alone succeed?”

  I don’t have to ponder the question. I know the answ
er. Yes, and I love him just as much.

  She shakes her head. “Enough talk,” she snaps.

  I close my eyes now and wait for it to come. I can’t fight. My body is exhausted, drained, and there’s nothing I can do but wait for the inevitable to happen.

  In my last moments, I go to the turnstile. I walk through the turnstile and onto the field. Roses and daisies and flowers of every color of the rainbow burst around me, their fragrance filling the air and their petals ushering me onto the lush vibrant grass. I walk deep into the field, a smile on my face, more content and at ease than anybody is capable in life. I think, if I am going to die it will not be with her twisted smile in my mind, but my peaceful place, my happy place. I wish I could’ve lived longer, done more, but it seems that isn’t in the cards for me and I have to accept that, have to understand that there’s nothing I can do but be happy, be truly happy for one last time in my life.

  I walk deeper and deeper into the field until the turnstile is a pinprick behind me. And then the dogs lope toward me, hundreds of them, their tongues dangling happily between their teeth and their barks and yelps high-pitched and beautiful on the air. They envelop me and when I think it can’t get more perfect, the image couldn’t possibly be more complete, the dogs part and Samson walks down the aisle they make, smiling, arms outstretched.

  “I love you so much,” he says. “I loved you from the first moment I saw you. I don’t care if I’m meant to be a killer. I don’t care if I’m meant to be a bad man. I love you and I’ll never stop loving you.”

  I fall into his arms and a dozen little dogs wrap around out ankles and lap at our skin, rough, wet tongues sending prickles dancing all over our bodies. Love blooms in my chest and I try with all my effort to imagine that this is real, this is the real world and the world in which there is a gun to my head, in which my brains are about to become crimson patterns on the floor, is fake. That is fake and this is real. I am content, I am safe, I am secure, I am happy.

  But then I open my eyes, and River’s grin spreads wider.

  “This is it,” she sighs. “I’m almost sad to do it. I’ve enjoyed our little time together. I feel like it’s really helped me come to terms with some things. But, you know, it can’t last forever. I wish it could, but . . .”

  She pulls the trigger. I see black.

  ###

  What surprises me most is the lack of pain. I thought there’d be massive pain, pain like I’ve never experienced before. I’d assumed that, for one hellish second, I’d feel the bullet enter my head, feel everything empty out of me. I’d assumed that the pain would grip me and I would scream out, if only for a fraction of a second. But there is no pain, and stranger still, I can feel my eyes, my hands, my legs; I feel the pressure of the floor beneath me and the rising and falling of my chest. And then sound enters this strange world, and I hear River grunting, and, and . . .

  Yes! Yes! Samson! Yes!

  I open my eyes. I am not dead.

  I rise to my feet and watch as Samson wrenches River away from me. My ears are ringing and when I look down, I see the space where the bullet hit, a fine dent in the concrete floor, a fine dent where it ricocheted directly next to my head. The gun went off, but it missed me, missed me by less than an inch. I can hear, but everything is muffled.

  Samson tears River away from me, snaps her wrist, and she drops the gun. I dive on it, scoop it up, hold it to my chest. I hold it close and then back away, watching the scene, knowing that there’s little I can do.

  Samson is bleeding from his head and his face, blood gushing from his nose, but from the way he moves, you wouldn’t think anything was wrong with him. He’s like a machine, I think. He came for me and he’s like a machine. My machine, my man. He saved me! Samson!

  River yelps when he snaps her wrist, and then turns and tries to struggle in his grip. Samson wraps his arm around her, squeezing her chest, holding her still as he reaches into his pocket with his free hand and takes out the dart gun. He presses it against her neck, there’s a small pump, and then River’s eyes go slack and she falls from Samson’s grip and to the floor as though she is boneless.

  Samson steps away from her, looking down at the dart which protrudes from her neck, chest heaving.

  Then, slowly, his gaze turns to me. His eyes are soft, softer than I’ve ever seen them, and I wonder if he’s going to cry. I wouldn’t blame him, would never blame him for showing me the softer side of himself.

  He steps over River and opens his arms. “Anna,” he says, voice heavy. “Anna, I . . .”

  “Hush,” I say, ignoring the thrumming in my ears, just glad that he’s here, I’m not dead, I’m with my man. “Just . . . hush.”

  I meet him in the middle of the room, the room I was sure moments ago would be my tomb. Then I fall into his chest and he embraces me fiercely, holding me to him like he’s scared I’ll float away.

  “I love you, Anna,” he says. “I should’ve said it sooner. I should’ve said it the first moment I saw you. I love you so damn much.”

  “I love you, too,” I whisper into the tightness of his chest. “I love you, Samson.”

  Then the air is alive with the sounds of sirens.

  “We have to get out of here,” he says. “But first . . .”

  He backs away from me and takes his cellphone from his pocket.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I have to let the police know where to find her. The dart will knock her out for at least a few hours, but if the police don’t know where to look . . .”

  He dials a number, lifts the cell to his ear, and then begins talking frantically to somebody named Officer Gomez.

  When the call is over, he drops the cell back into his pocket and takes my hand. It’s warm, and strong, and the feel of it embracing mine is almost too much to handle.

  “Come on,” he says, leading me away from the room, away from River. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” I say. I try to laugh. It’s a small laugh, still half-terrified, but the sound of it in my ringing ears is welcome, blissful.

  ###

  We watch from Samson’s car across the street as River and her four cronies are hauled out in cuffs and placed in the back of police cars. River is carried like a baby, but she’s still cuffed, and as we watch the officer who carries her turns to one of his colleagues with a sideway glance. I don’t hear what he says, but I imagine it’s something like, ‘We finally got her.’ As far as I know, the police have wanted her for a while, wanted to catch the psychopathic woman who thrives on murder and pain. She’s placed into the back of the car and the door is shut and locked behind her. When she wakes, she’ll be in a police cell, and then prosecuted for a dozen charges, backdated all the way to the start of her career. She’ll be put away, but she won’t die, and that’s what Samson wanted.

  “But I won’t leave it to chance,” he tells me, as the police form a line around the arena. “I’ll give them evidence, enough evidence that she’ll go away for life. There’s no way in hell I’ll leave it to chance and witnesses.”

  “What about you?” I ask. “Won’t the police want you, too?”

  Samson shrugs and starts the car. “Maybe,” he admits. “But that’s not a worry for right now. We need to get you somewhere safe.”

  The engine thrums to life and he turns to smile, a half-smile on his lips.

  “Do you regret meeting me, Anna?” he says.

  I reach across the car and touch his face, careful to be gentle lest I make the wounds worse. “Never,” I say.

  We drive away into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Samson

  I take Anna to one of my apartment safe houses in the city. It’s nowhere near as luxurious as my penthouse, but I know for a fact that nobody knows where it is, not the police, my mafia contacts, my fellow killers, nobody. Black Knight was a careful man, in his way. I park the car down the street and we walk hurriedly under the yellow streetl
amps and through the misty autumn air. When I open the door, I’m mildly embarrassed by the state of it. Foolish, perhaps, under the circumstances, but I can’t help it. It’s a small one-bedroom apartment with an adjoined living room and kitchen. The couch is old and musty and it’s the only piece of furniture. The wallpaper is yellowed and turning at the corners. The kitchen is devoid of anything but canned goods and a few old pieces of cooking equipment. The bed has a thin mattress and thin sheets. There’s only one picture on the wall, an old life-bitten man holding a small boy on his shoulders, grinning to the camera.

  “Who’s this?” Anna says, walking over to the picture as I lock the door behind us.

  I stand at her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her, stunned that she’s alive. I’m happy, of course, but the happiness is numbed and I realize that part of me assumed she would be dead. Part of me assumed that I wouldn’t be able to get to her quick enough. Now that she’s here, alive, breathing and mostly unharmed, I feel like I am in a dream. I think of the scene over River’s body, when I told her that I loved her. And I feel silly for not saying it sooner. I don’t hold any of the bullshit pride I had before, the pride which stopped me revealing my inner self. If there’s one woman I can do that with, it’s Anna, this gorgeous, amazing, smart, perfect woman standing before me.