Wicked Things (Chaos & Ruin #3)

by Callie Hart

  I want to laugh. He thinks I’m opting to do this, just to make a nuisance of myself. How fucking ridiculous. I screw my eyes shut, shaking violently as I retch again and again. The sickness is never ending, undoubtedly made worse by whatever sedative they shot me up with earlier. The human body reacts badly to that stuff all the time. The human body, when it’s with child is an even more sensitive, unpredictable, finicky thing. The stench of vomit fills the engineering room. My stomach clenches one last time, and I gag, heaving, but nothing else comes up. Lying back on the bed, I gasp, panting, trying to blink back the tears of exertion from my eyes.

  “If you think that form of protest is going to get you anywhere, you’re sadly mistaken,” Ben says levelly.

  Laughter rocks me. I close my eyes and I laugh hard, hysteria creeping in at the edges of my mind. “Trust me,” I say in between fits of mirth. “I could have come up with…far more enjoyable…ways of making your lives miserable.”

  “If you’re even thinking about shitting yourself next, think again,” Clay spits. “No one’s going to clean you up if you make a mess of yourself. You’ll just have to sit in it and—”

  I sit bolt upright—as far upright as I can with the way that I’ve been restrained. “I’m pregnant. I have morning sickness. I can’t help it. I’m not going to shit my pants just to inconvenience you two fucking morons.”

  They just stand there, staring at me. My hair is damp from my sweat. My eyes have been watering like crazy, so there’s bound to be a river of mascara running down my face. Add in the wild, unhinged look I’m sure is residing in my eyes and I’m sure I’m quite the picture of insanity. “I think you should go get her,” Clay hisses to Ben.

  “Fuck that. You go get her.”

  Clay watches me for a second, grimaces, then nods. “All right. I will. It fucking stinks in here anyway.”

  TWELVE

  ZETH

  Theo and Sal Barbieri are potentially two of the most violent, reckless, moronic people I’ve ever met. My introduction to them last night at the restaurant was an experience to say the least. Now that we’re all sitting together on a plane, heading back to Seattle, I’m getting rapidly tired of the sound of their voices.

  “No, he’s dead already. You’re thinking of the iron born king dude that was pushed off that balcony in the storm. I’m talking about the guy who went north to the wall with that guy who has no fingers.”

  “Little Finger?”

  “No, he has all of his fingers.”

  “Then who?”

  “You know, the one with the weird accent. The one who fucked that red woman and the shadow assassin guy came out of her cu—”

  “Will you both please shut the fuck up? This is a six-hour flight. If I have to sit through another fucking minute of you idiots rambling on about a TV show, I’m going to fucking land this fucking plane myself and shoot you both in the back of your fucking heads.”

  On the other side of the aisle an elderly woman with reading glasses perched on the end of her nose sends me a near fatal death stare. I bare my teeth at her, and she quickly turns away, burying her head in her book.

  Yeah, that’s right, lady. Keep fucking walking.

  I’m not a multi-millionaire, but I do have plenty of money; I could have easily chartered a private jet back to Seattle. In the very least, it would have been easy enough to fly first class, but I figured the more people around, the better. That way, the Barbieri boys couldn’t try and kill me, and I couldn’t try and kill them.

  My plan works. Just. Time seems to slow down until it feels like it’s moving fucking backwards. The moment we’re on the ground, my phone starts blowing up. Eighteen missed calls from Michael. The screen on my cell phone goes crazy, displaying text after text from my friend. Dread sinks deep into my bones as I read.

  Michael: Call me as soon as you get this.

  Michael: What time do you land?

  Michael: Call me back.

  Michael: Zeth, please call back ASAP!!

  Michael: 911

  And then, finally…

  Michael: Sloane is missing.

  “Whoa,” Sal Barbieri hisses. “What the fuck is going on? You look like you’re about to go nuclear.”

  For a moment, I can’t speak. My jaw is clenched too tight, my teeth grinding together so hard. People are getting up out of their seats all around us, reaching up into the overhead lockers, pulling down their bags, chattering into their phones. I am glued to my seat, my heart thumping frantically in my chest. She’s missing? What the fuck does that mean, missing? She’s not answering her phone? He just can’t find her at the hospital? She’s dodged him and traveled home on her own?

  I hit the call back button on the screen, holding the phone to my ear, holding my breath. The line rings just once before Michael answers.

  “Thank god,” he says. “I’ve been going out of my mind.”

  “Tell me,” I grit out.

  “She went to go give a consult. When she didn’t come back, I searched the hospital. She’d just vanished. I bribed one of the security guards to let me watch the security cameras. She was taken into a stairwell by the nurse who came to get her, and then the feed from the underground parking lot shows her being taken away in a van. I’m sorry, man. Fuck, I am so sorry. I ran the plates on the van. It’s registered to some cleaning company. I called and they said the vehicle was stolen forty-eight hours ago. I have people working on tracing its journey from the hospital as we speak. We should know where they took her soon.”

  I can’t move. I can’t fucking blink. My heart has quit it’s urgent thumping behind my ribcage and has ceased beating altogether.

  “Zeth? God, just stay calm, okay? We’re going to find her. We’re going to get her back.”

  “I know,” I whisper. “ Text me an address. Text me somewhere to meet you. Right now.” I hang up. Theo and Sal are watching with matching frowns on their faces, their eyes hard, flashing with curiosity.

  “Something’s happened,” Theo says, excitement coloring his voice.

  “I feel like we’re about to fuck some people up,” Sal adds.

  Oh. Oh, he has no idea. Whoever has done this has just signed their own fucking death warrant. I’m not just going to kill some people. I’m going to tear them limb from limb. I’m going to peel the skin from their bodies. I’m going to torture them within an inch of their lives, and then I’m going to patch them back together, purely so I can cause them more pain. They’re going to suffer. They’re going to experience pain the likes of which they’ve never known before. I’m not just going to end the lives of the people responsible for this affront. I will destroy their families, their brothers, their sisters, their children, and their parents. Anyone they fucking love will pay the price for their actions. There will be no compassion. There will be no mercy. I get to my feet, my vision flashing red. I’m tumbling, falling down a rabbit hole of violence and death. People snap at me as I shove them out of the way, pushing them back into their seats so that they fall into one another as I force my way past them. My ears are deaf to their complaints. When I reach the front of the plane, the air hostess waiting by the still-closed exit gives me a cool, unimpressed look.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait your turn, sir. You can’t just barge past people and expect—” I take a step toward her, and she stops talking, registering the look on my face. Out of nowhere, Sandra, Michael’s airline contact appears, sliding herself in between my body and her colleagues.

  “That’s okay, Michelle. This gentleman has severe claustrophobia, don’t you, sir. I’m his liaison. I’m going to escort him from the plane right now…okay, sir?” Her expression is grim, filled with warning, but I can’t heed her. Not right now. Not when the woman I love has been fucking kidnapped. She needs me. She needs me to find her, and I can’t do that if I’m trapped on this godforsaken tin can.

  “Get. These. Fucking. Doors. Open. Right. Now.” I snarl.

  Michelle still doesn’t look very hap
py with my attitude. Her imperious pout fades a little when she looks over my shoulder, though. Sal and Theo are right behind me, looking just as menacing as I do. A solitary furious passenger is one thing, but three… She arranges a forced, polite smile on her face.

  “Don’t worry, gentleman. We’ll have you off here in a jiffy.”

  ******

  I have an address, but it’s not the one Sloane has been taken to. She’s still nowhere to be found. Apparently the van driver who took her made sure to follow a route free from security cameras. Smart motherfuckers. They won’t have been that smart, though. They will have fucked up. They will have slipped up somewhere, made a fatal error along the way, and Michael will track them down. His guilt at losing Sloane means he won’t stop until he finds her.

  He’s ashen when he opens the door to the house he asked me to meet him at. His suit jacket is gone, and his shirt is rumpled, his tie missing altogether. The haunted, desperate look in his eyes flickers when he sees the two men standing behind me.

  “Theo and Sal Barbieri,” I tell him, as I slide past him into the house.

  “What…why?

  “We’re your bosses new protégés,” Sal offers helpfully, slapping Michael on the shoulder. “We heard you dropped the ball.” He tuts, shaking his head. “For shame.”

  I wheel on him, charging back across the darkened living room I find myself in, and I shove him hard, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “Shut your fucking mouth. This isn’t his fault.”

  Sal grins maniacally. “Isn’t it?” I raise a fist, flaring my nostrils, ready to smash my hand through his fucking head. Sal holds his hands up, laughing. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just observing the facts. You asked your boy here to watch your girl, and she was snatched right out from under his nose.”

  Theo places a hand on my arm—the one I’m using to pin his brother to the wall. “Let’s all take a moment to breathe. Sal, do as the man says and stop talking. You’re not endearing yourself to anyone right now.”

  Sal bares his teeth, like he could give two shits about making himself endearing, but he gives a curt, resentful nod, inclining his head. I let him go.

  “You two should go to the Blood and Roses gym over on Rosemont and Sacks. We’ll come and find you there once this has all been ironed out,” I say.

  Theo’s mouth twitches. “And miss the perfect opportunity to observe how the infamous Zeth Mayfair metes out justice? I don’t think so.”

  “I wasn’t asking.” The words are barely comprehensible. I’m so angry, wound so tight, that my speech comes out in a gravel-filled snarl. “You’re just going to get in the way. I won’t be held responsible for what happens to you if you cause trouble right now. Go to the gym.”

  A silent confrontation follows. I don’t back down. Theo’s dark eyes are calculating and clear, annoyance clear as day shining from them. Still, he shrugs his shoulders, motioning to Sal. “C’mon. Let’s go. We can entertain ourselves, I’m sure.” Something in the way he says, “entertain ourselves,” makes me second-guess my decision to send them away, but it’s done now. I’ve dismissed them. And really, how would they be of any fucking help?

  I pace the room from one side to the other as the two Barbieris leave. Once the front door slams closed, Michael starts talking. “He’s right, you know. Sal. This is my fault. They did take her right out from underneath me. I should have been—”

  I wave him off, rubbing at my temples with my fingertips. “Stop. Enough. You can’t watch her every second of every waking day, no matter how hard I might have you try.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. This would have happened either way. These motherfuckers would have found a way to take her if they were really serious about it, no matter what.” It would be very easy for me to blame Michael for this. I’m blinded by my fury at the moment, and taking it out on him would feel justified. I know my friend, though. I know him. He’s diligent. He loves Sloane almost as much as I do, for fuck’s sake. The fact that she’s been taken is eating him alive. If I were to lie this at his feet, it would physically crush him.

  “Where do we start looking?” I ask, my voice flat.

  Michael makes a frustrated sound at the back of his throat. “Fuck. Without knowing what direction they headed in, I—I don’t know.” I can hear the pain in his voice, how hard it is for him to admit that. I can’t handle hearing the words, though. They make me feel fucking helpless. I pick up the closest object and hurl it at the wall, shouting out my rage. A vase smashes into a thousand pieces, sending tiny shards of glass scattering through the air. A polished silver bookend is next. A photo frame. A heavy wooden clock. The wall is dented and cracked by the time I run out of things to throw, but it’s not enough. I curl my fingers into a fist, and I throw all my weight behind the punch. My knuckles connect with the plasterwork. I lash out again, again, again, roaring at the top of my lungs.

  Michael’s hands are on me, clamped on my shoulders, pulling me back. I fight him off, picking up a glass coffee table and hurling that, too. The crash of broken glass is deafening. The sound must bring me back to my senses. I stand there, chest heaving, surveying the destruction before me, my mind reeling.

  She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s been taken.

  “Who’s house is this?” I pant.

  “It’s mine,” a voice behind me says. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen: a woman I didn’t think I’d ever lay eyes on again. Pippa Newan. Her right hand is heavily bandaged around what looks like a metal framework, and her whole arm is bound to her torso. She’s as white as a sheet, dark circles under her eyes, her lips tinged with blue, her hair tangled in random snarls all over head. In short, she looks like shit.

  “You live in that apartment over—”

  “I moved,” she informs me, cutting me off. “Just had the place decorated.”

  I look again at the mess I’ve made, and I just don’t have it in me to fucking apologize. I sink down onto my knees. I’ve found myself in some pretty fucking dire situations before. I’ve been held at gunpoint; I’ve been attacked by groups of vicious bastards in prison; I’ve been half-drowned, and shot and stabbed. I’ve been hit by moving cars, and I’ve been trapped inside burning buildings. But never, never have I felt this close to death before. Because if Sloane is gone…there is nothing left for me.

  A hand lands on my shoulder. I expect it to belong to Michael, but when I look up it’s Pippa who’s standing next to me. She looks like she’s been crying, her cheeks mottled with patches of red, her eyes bloodshot. “Don’t worry,” she says. “You know what she’s like. She’s strong. You know she’s going to be okay. I’ll help you any way I can.” Her features are set with determination. How did she even come to find out about this? How the fuck did Michael end up here, at her place? A million unanswered questions fire around the inside of my head, but I don’t have the time or the energy to ask them now. I need all of my mental focus trained on finding Sloane.

  I take a deep breath. I’m about to get up. I’m about to drag myself to my feet, to pull myself together and start formulating a plan of action, when my phone chimes in the back pocket of my jeans. A cold, stony fist squeezes around my heart. Somehow, I fucking know the message I’ve just received is about her, and for a second I’m too worried to look. Michael holds out his hand.

  “Give it to me. Let me see,” he says softly.

  I’m numb as I hand over the device. Michael reads quickly, his mouth flattening into a grim, straight line.

  “Well? What is it?”

  He looks down at me, where I’m still kneeling in amongst a debris field of shattered furniture and broken glass, and he looks like he’s struggling to find his voice. Eventually, he speaks, and my blood run cold.

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  THIRTEEN

  MASON

  The gym’s deserted. Cold. The place isn’t exactly sealed against the elements, so every time a gust of wind blasts the place, the
breeze finds its way through the many cracks and gaps, setting a chill to the air. I prefer it this way. At least now, while I’m training, I won’t overheat. I haven’t worked out properly in what feels like months. My body is tired, strained, exhausted from all the toxic shit I’ve been pouring into it, followed by the street fights I’ve been seeking out night after night. No more, though. This morning with Kaya… I wasn’t expecting her to set my head straight. I thought her presence in my apartment was going to make things even worse for me, but I feel…I don’t really know how I feel. All I know is that I’m not consumed by the urgent need for a drink as I hammer my fists rhythmically into the speed bag hanging over my head. And I know, later on, when darkness falls, I’m not going to be roaming the streets of Seattle looking for someone who’ll beat my ass unconscious.

  My shoulders buzz with pain as I pivot from side to side, landing my hits with precision. My back thrums. My arms are on fire. It’s good, though. This is good. The air feels fresh and crisp in my lungs. My head feels like it’s in a good place. I was irritated when Zeth told me he wanted me to come in and clean this place every morning, but halfway through my list of tasks, I suddenly realized why the bastard gave me the job. Cleaning is a rote, mechanical thing. It requires very little mental focus. So when I was running a cloth over the mirrors in the changing rooms, when I was scrubbing the sinks, when I was pushing a broom around the vast gym floor, all I had was time to think. I wouldn’t have bothered fucking showing up if I’d been wise to his plan from the get-go, but right now… I needed that time to have a chat with myself. Figure things out. Get to know myself a little better after all of this hurt and pain.