Kill For You

by Michele Mills

  “Trevor told me the plan last night,” she whispered to Krissy.

  “What plan?”

  “The escape plan. Christian is planting explosives and Adam is setting up his sniper location and they’re going to get us out of here.”

  Krissy’s eye widened and she sucked in a breath. “No. Way. Don’t tease me. Because, um, did you notice that Smith has a submissive chained at his feet?”

  Rebel’s head whipped around and she finally saw the very young, beautiful girl with the sad brown eyes who had a metal collar locked around her neck.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Welcome,” Smith’s voice boomed.

  Rebel looked up. She and the three other women were now standing in the center of the hall and it looked like every man in the place was filing in and lining up along the walls. She took a head count. Forty-two men. Dammit. Forty-two men was a lot. More than she’d thought.

  “Yesterday we were all given a gift,” Smith announced. “The gift of more women. And today, I will share these women out with you, keeping my promise to you. If you stay with Smith, you’ll always have what you need. You’ll have protection, shelter, good food, water, medicine, alcohol and you’ll have women, even though there aren’t that many left on the planet. I’ll make sure you have what you need.”

  A cheer echoed around the hall. “Smith! Smith!” they chanted.

  Kati whimpered. A muscle ticked in Tiana’s jaw.

  “What is this, a cult?” Krissy whispered.

  “Three weeks ago, our first female, the original woman you all shared since you first joined this gang, ran away. Last week the other one died in an unfortunate accident. This left all of you without a woman. But, now, there are four new women to share. And one of them is the famous movie star, Rebel Case.”

  The men cheered so loudly, Rebel winced. An idea formed in her head. A plan of her own. When the men quieted Rebel took her chance and shouted out a question at Smith. “How about I make you a proposition?”

  Krissy looked at her, surprised. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  Smith crooked an eyebrow. Then he smiled an oily, lizard-like smile, creepy with its chilly intensity. He sat enthroned, like a handsome Jabba the Hut, his submissive held by a chain linked to a collar at her throat. The girl lay at his feet, dressed in a tiny, gray bikini.

  “What proposition?” he asked.

  “You let me go. You promise to let all of us go, and in repayment I’ll sing for you.”

  The entire hall quieted. Whispered conversations stopped. The submissive had her hand around Smith’s calf, her fingers digging into his leg.

  Rebel knew she had a chance with this. A chance to negotiate something. He’d throw out her first proposition, but would probably recommend an alternative and she’d get something in return. Smith seemed utterly enthralled with the idea that she was a celebrity. She’d been downplaying the fact that she was Rebel Case this entire time, telling people to forget about it, to let it go. She never spoke of her movies or told stories of her life in Hollywood or on Broadway. She hadn’t sung a single note out loud, hadn’t even hummed a song, not even to herself.

  Well, it was time to let herself out of that self-imposed cage, play this card and use it to her advantage.

  Smith leaned forward. This man held all the cards. But she knew if she could just distract him and his men, Trevor could do his job and get them the hell outta there. If she could keep everyone in one place, she could buy time for Trevor and the others to get into position. They could all escape. She’d do that for them, in a heartbeat.

  Smith nodded. “If you sing for me, I give you my word I’ll give the others to my best men and make sure they aren’t harmed. But you stay, with me. You’re mine.”

  She lifted her chin. She didn’t even have to think about that one. It was the best she would get. She knew he couldn’t give more considering he had to cater to the men in the hall. “Deal.”

  “How about you sing for us now?” He grinned.

  Asshole.

  Rebel knew he thought having her perform on the spot would shake her up. But she’d gone to Juilliard and come up on Broadway. It took more than a hall filled with ex-cons to shake her equilibrium. She’d had professors, directors and peers, whose daily criticism could draw blood. She’d survived reviews that could break bones. Heckling. Stalking. She’d withstood it all. To her, this was a favorable crowd. Hell, if Johnny Cash had performed at Folsom Prison, she could do this.

  Plus, she knew exactly what she’d play.

  Smith gestured to the piano.

  Rebel clenched her jaw and forced herself to calmly walk over to the dusty grand piano in the corner of the room. Men moved out of her way and left her plenty of space. She sat on the bench, suddenly nervous in the quiet hall. All eyes were on her. She’d had no time to warm her voice up, no time to practice. Was this piano in tune? What if she’d forgotten the song, it’d been so long… She sat quiet for a moment, her fingers curled and poised over the keys. No, she could do this. This was her signature song. Hers. She’d sung it at the Academy Awards last year where it earned best song.

  She’d even sung it acapella for the President and First Lady at the White House.

  Her hands brushed the keys like a lover. A thrill of knowing coursed through her skin. A feeling of absolute certainty. And there’d been so much uncertainty these last few months, so much angst in her mind over the loss of her old world and her place in the new. But here, right here in this moment, under her fingertips, was again the reason she’d been born. That gift she’d been given, that thing she did very well. She’d often thought of it as her superpower.

  Rebel used to live for the thrill of creating or performing in order to make people happy, and when there were no more people, she wasn’t happy. And right then she realized the truth. It didn’t matter if everyone was gone. Her talent remained. She could sing for herself. Sing for one. Sing for a group of ten. It didn’t matter. The talent was immovable, God-given. And she could still make people happy, even if it was one person.

  Maybe God had kept her to bring light back to the dark. Maybe her gift of entertainment was more necessary than ever. Just because her audience had dwindled to ten didn’t make their need for happiness less, it made it greater. Her applause wouldn’t come from stadiums of people or from enormous back-end profit deals.

  It would be small, it would be quiet, and it would be powerful.

  Rebel looked up and locked eyes with Smith’s submissive. The girl had tears in her eyes and a tremulous smile at her lips. Rebel’s face softened. This girl was a fan.

  Rebel decided to play for her, to focus on that. She smiled and winked at the girl and turned her gaze back to the keys. She took a deep breath and let the music enter her mind, course through her body. She played the first notes on the piano, her memory easily resurfacing. The music seemed to swell around her, gather around her like a cloak.

  She sang the first notes, and the familiar high she’d felt so many times before returned. Her voice wasn’t as rough and untrained as she’d thought. Yes, the keys were out of tune, but not by much, and her voice was scratchy, rusty to her own ears, but she knew these were minor things, only noticeable to her. Not perfect, but it would do, she could still hit the notes. Not as smooth, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  The first line came out, thrilling to her own ears. It felt so good to hear it again, to perform it again. It was a beautiful, haunting song, meant to be heard and not locked away. It brought back good memories. Memories of how she’d been the one to suggest they do a cover of this song for the score of the movie and let her perform it. The director, the producer, the suits up high, they’d all thought she was crazy, they’d thought it was the stupidest idea they’d ever heard, too risky. But she’d been certain that her instincts were right, so she’d had to offer to put her own money up, putting her money where her mouth was to get it done. And it was a smash hit. Having made that call she
fought so hard for, and it turned out her judgment was correct. That had been the highlight of her career.

  Well, that and the Academy Award.

  She hadn’t told anyone, not even Trevor or Justin, but…she still carried that Oscar for best supporting actress around with her in her duffle bag. It was still in that minivan that they’d been driving in. And fuck if she wasn’t going to get out of this hell-hole situation and get the damn thing back.

  She went deep into the emotions, and it wasn’t as if she was playing, so much as channeling the music, not a performer but a conduit of the message swelling inside of her, flowing through her. She put every ounce of her being into the performance, tears in her eyes as she hit the highest note and held it, then came to the soft conclusion and brought the song to its end.

  She bowed her head, her fingers resting on the keys as she settled. She heard the clapping and whistling around her. Rebel lifted her head and met the gaze of Smith’s submissive. Tears coursed down the girl’s cheeks. Thank you, she mouthed to Rebel.

  Rebel smiled back.

  The loudest clapping came from one source—Smith. “Damn good. Damn good. Gonna love listening to you play for me each and every day, girl. You’re going to be one valuable asset.”

  Oh goodie, she thought.

  And then she heard a commotion at the entrance to the hall. She turned her head.

  “Trevor,” she whispered.

  He walked in like he owned the place; strangely calm. Two men had guns trained on him. He lifted his chin and met her gaze, and then looked past her and continued on as if he didn’t know her. Her insides quivered like jelly. What was going to happen? How were they going to get out of this?

  “Is this the new guy? I know this motherfucker,” Smith snarled. “I’d recognize him anywhere.”

  Holy crap.

  And what the hell…how did Smith know Trevor?

  Fear gripped Rebel with a tight fist. Her heart slammed against her chest. Just a moment before she’d been on top of the world, pouring out her talent and her emotions to a captive audience and now, disaster.

  Smith stood up from this “throne” and stepped closer to Trevor. The chain Smith held tightened and his submissive was forced to scramble to her feet and follow him. “I know you,” he repeated with deadly intent. “You’re the asshole who turned informant in the shoe at Avenal.”

  “What?” Rebel whispered.

  A buzz of talk swarmed around her in the hall. Their words grew louder, murmurs turned into exclamations and shouts. “I remember him, too,” a man shouted. “Kill the informant!” another yelled.

  Trevor stood proud, his chin held high against the vitriol. God, she loved him. Had he really been an informant? If so, it confirmed the trust everyone had put into this new version of Trevor. Trevor had changed from the man he used to be, the man who’d sold drugs to bright young men like her brother, or to any other people. People he’d helped to become dependent on the drugs that would ruin their lives, and the lives of the people they loved. He must have changed while in prison and decided to turn informant against the other inmates.

  “Trevor Mason,” Smith said. “Bruce Mason’s son. That’s who you are.”

  Trevor nodded. “Smith,” he replied.

  “I was sent to the most isolated hole in the shoe because of you. You’re probably surprised that I even fucking know, aren’t you? You ratted us the fuck out to the guards, to that new warden. Then you got transferred to Avenal and placed in isolation for your own protection, right? Two years you’d be up for parole instead of never the old way.”

  Rebel watched Trevor intently, gauging his reaction to Smith’s harsh words. She noted a slight lifting of his eyebrows. He must have been surprised anyone knew.

  “Pelican Bay wasn’t good enough for you. You had to get out to Avenal. Thought you were safe, didn’t you? Well, I had someone on the inside there, working his way to you. In another six months I would’ve had you knifed, motherfucker. Knifed. Bleeding out in the dirt.”

  Trevor growled and took a step forward. An enforcer yanked him back.

  “You’re a wannabe who is lower than shit,” Trevor gritted out. “If my father had been alive, he would’ve ordered your execution.”

  The hall got quiet. This must have been some low insult, but considering Rebel knew almost nothing about Trevor’s dad and the network of gangs and drugs all these criminals had belonged to, it went right over her head.

  Smith’s eyes became impossibly darker and his jaw as hard as granite. “Well, good thing you killed him, isn’t it? I was in charge at Pelican Bay,” Smith said. “And unfortunately for you, I’m in charge of this new world, too.” He stopped, looked up and raised his voice for the benefit of everyone near. “Tonight, we’re going to have a good old-fashioned hanging!”

  There were whoops and hollers, men cheering all around the room.

  Trevor had to kill his own father? Rebel exhaled, her heart breaking for this man who’d been through so much. This man who was trying to claw his way out of his past, but it kept pulling him back down.

  Her eyes spanned the hall, taking in the men who were either cheering or staring at her and the other women with hungry eyes, not a single one of them looking like men who gave a damn about right or wrong or other people’s needs, wants or feelings.

  Why had these men lived when so many millions of kind people had died? Why wasn’t this hall filled with an order of nuns instead of a hotbed of criminals? It was ridiculous, just goddamn ridiculous. These atrocities were the puzzles her brain constantly worked on these last few months.

  It was so easy to let hope drain away. But without hope, there was no reason to carry on.

  And then she looked again at Trevor. Really looked at this man who had captured her heart. Her lips pursed. He stood so proud, so fierce. To be truthful, he didn’t seem very afraid. Did he know something she didn’t?

  This man gave her hope.

  There was confusion in the hall. Men grouped together, talking about the logistics of the hanging. Where to hang him. Should they build gallows? Should they lynch him and use a tree? What tree? What time?

  Jeez, again, if only these men could learn to use their powers for good instead of putting their energies toward death and destruction. It was sad. They had completely forgotten about her and the other women for a moment.

  She locked eyes with Krissy. Krissy shrugged.

  “Rebel?” a voice boomed.

  Dammit. Her shoulders slumped.

  “Rebel.” Smith snapped his fingers. “Come over here. I have someone I want you to meet.”

  Oh shit. Smith was going to introduce her to Trevor, wasn’t he? Probably to show her off, to point out how he was such a top dog now, he even had Rebel Case under his control. This sucked so bad. Her hands trembled and her knees felt weak as she stepped away from the piano and took a few steps in their direction, determined to see this through but not having one damn idea how to make it work so that all of them could get out of there alive.

  And then there was a resounding boom outside the hall, and Rebel ducked and covered her head as chunks of debris washed over her.

  Arms of steel wrapped around her waist and she was pulled across the room. Screams pierced the air. Gunshots. The voices of men yelling and the sound of running feet pounding on wooden floors. It was complete chaos, but through it all Trevor had her. He had her until a shot was fired that grazed her shoulder. She cried out in pain, the warmth of the blood trailing down her arm.

  “Stop right there, motherfucker, or I’ll put another one in her head!” Smith shouted.

  “I love you,” Trevor whispered in her ear as he placed her on the ground. She was propped against the wall, dazed by the action and the pain. He tore off his T-shirt and placed the bundle of fabric against her shoulder. He picked up her other hand and held it against the makeshift bandage. “Hold it,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Then he stood up, shirtless, in all his tattooed glory, and stalked
off with murder in his eyes to take care of Smith.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The fucker tried to kill Rebel.

  The woman Trevor loved. The woman who was pregnant with the child he’d committed to raising with love and attention, as if it where his own. The woman who was going to be his wife.

  Trevor heard the distant boom of another bomb detonating in the compound at another location. He grinned, knowing it was Christian blowing up the Brotherhood’s ammunition stash.

  Trevor was prepared to kill for her. Whatever it took to keep his woman—and the child she carried—safe.

  The hall was empty now except for a few dead bodies bleeding out on the ground, a symptom of Adam’s prowess as a sniper. The women had all escaped in the chaos, he’d yelled at them to run outside and meet up with Adam. He told them he’d stay inside and take care of Rebel. And now everyone was gone except for him, the fucker who was trying to kill Rebel, the girl who was chained to the floor, and Trevor’s fiancé and unborn child.

  He set his jaw, tightened his fists and strode toward the man who’d been the bane of his existence since he was ten years old. The man who’d joined his father’s drug running operation and took it in the worst possible direction, whispering in his father’s ear, constantly battling Trevor for a place at his father’s side. Smith was the man who spoke the devil’s language. The man who had helped elevate their gang from local drug dealers to vicious Brotherhood rivals.

  And this was one of the men who had gang raped his sister.

  Trevor took a deep, steadying breath. His eyes focused unerringly on Smith as he strode across the hall.

  Vengeance was his.

  Smith stood with his gun aimed at Trevor’s chest. A sheen of sweat shone on his forehead. “I was her first, your sister…I popped that cherry as she cried for me to stop.”

  Trevor’s lip curled. “You’re a dead man.”

  A shot reverberated in the hall. Smith cried out as a bullet sliced into his arm. He dropped his gun.

  Trevor pulled out his knife. He coldly stabbed the fucker in the gut, hoping his sister could see this from heaven. Smith