by Lake, Keri
A dark object dangles from a branch up ahead, and my world comes to a screeching halt.
I fall to my knees. My heart beats so hard, I feel like it’ll beat right out of my chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. Can’t make a single sound. Can only stare at what feels like a dream.
Hanging from the oak tree in the backyard is my best friend. His stomach has been cut open, his paws drawn behind him, just like a hunted animal.
I’ve never cried for anything in my life. Not when my father died. Not when we moved away from Maria, the only mother I’ve ever really known. And not even when Robert nearly busted my kneecaps with a baseball bat.
But I break into tears now.
As I cradle my face and mourn my only friend, a dark thought pops in my head.
I still have Robert’s gun.
Jeering broke the memory, bringing me back to the living hell playing out in front of me, as Stafford dragged a reluctant and seriously injured dog away from the crowd.
“'The fuck’s he doing?” a voice called out beside me, giving me a brief second of faith in humanity, until he added, “Kill the piece of shit loser in the ring! It’s part of the show, man!”
I took a step toward Stafford, but paused for a moment, before I turned and clocked the fucker in the jaw. His beer splashed as he hit the dirt. Rubbing his jaw, he glared up at me all indignant and pissed off, eyelids heavy with drunkenness. Two onlookers merely glanced down at the asshole and turned back toward the ring.
I took off after Stafford, weaving through the crowd as the next two dogs took their places in the ring. Savage bastards. I should’ve brought a grenade with me. Blowing them all to shit would’ve been doing the world a favor.
Except that the dogs would die, too, and that would be tragic.
Beyond the crowd, I slipped past two bikers, whose patches told me they belonged to the same club as the two guarding the front entrance. Neither of them spared me a glance, as I trailed after Stafford, through the gate, and into the woods.
The sounds of his disapproving anger guided me toward where he was. I didn’t like that he’d gone so far away from the crowd. It told me he planned to do something worse than what I’d already seen.
At a high-pitched yelp, I ran through the woods, and found Stafford knelt down beside a tree, stabbing away in erratic thrusts at the dog’s shoulder, thigh and flank.
“Losing motherfucker! You know how much money I lost, cunt?”
Fury ignited in my veins, and I lurched after him, instinct guiding me to where he sat, more than sight. The dog’s yelping drowned any possibility that he’d hear the forest bed crackling beneath my boots, and drawing Black Betty from her holster, I stalked toward him. As he raised his hand for another stab, I slammed the blade straight through his bones and into the bark of the tree in front of him, and his blade tumbled to the ground beside him.
Stafford’s scream accompanied the trembling splay of his fingers, as he stared toward the knife stuck in the back of his palm.
With a snarl, I twisted the knife deeper into the bark, reveling in the sounds of Stafford’s outcry echoing through the forest. I slapped a gloved hand over his mouth, gripping tight while he squirmed in my grasp, and tugged my gun, holding it to his head. “Shut the fuck up, or I’ll paint the tree with your brains.”
He stilled in my arm, breathing hard through his nose.
Despite being tethered to the tree by its throat, the dog kicked at him from below, gouging his belly as it fought to get away from him. Still gripping tight to Stafford, I picked up the fallen knife, cut the dog loose, and waited a moment for it to clamber to its mutilated feet. I cringed at the yelp and whines, as it hobbled out of the way. It looked as if Stafford had tried to remove each of the dog’s limbs by stabbing away at them. Blood soaked its short fur, leaving a trail behind it, until the dog finally slumped into a heap a few feet away.
I patted down Stafford’s other hand and his pockets, removed the gun lodged into his pants, and tucked it into my holster, slipping mine inside my waistband. Popping the knife from where I’d stabbed through his carpals, I freed his hand, but spun him around and slammed his back into the tree, wrapping the severed twine he’d used for the dog around his throat until he was immobile against the trunk.
For the first time, I got a look at his blue eyes, and the memory of that hellish night rumbled through my mind like a dark storm cloud.
“This bitch your gramma?”
The man’s skin is black as coal, but his blue-green eyes, peering through the ski mask, sear into my memory. He holds my grandmother against him, with a gun to her head, as she sits tied to her kitchen chair. Her eyes are wide, her lip trembles, and wet streaks down her cheeks confess her tears. Decades living in the shit part of Detroit, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen the woman look scared.
“At the farm, you know what we do with bitches?” he whispers into her ear, but loud enough I can hear every word. “We tie them up and let the males fuck the shit right out of their asses.” He grips her jaw and drags his tongue along her cheek. “What do you say, grandma? Ever try doggie style?”
Fury explodes inside my veins. Hands tied behind my back, I push to my feet and barrel toward him.
Before I can get to her, he slides the knife across her throat. Blood coats the layers of necklaces and catholic saints she always wears. Her eyes remain trapped behind a door where I can no longer reach her—drawn into the place between life and death. With a gasp, she falls to the floor.
“I remember you.” Stafford tipped his head, breaking me from my thoughts, as he studied my face. “I fucking remember you! Should’ve killed you. We should’ve fucking killed you!”
“Shoulda, coulda, woulda. But, hey, at least now I get a stab at it.” One more yank of the twine tightened the bindings around his body, and I rested my elbows on my knees. “Who paid you to break into my house?”
His mouth opened like he meant to shout out, and I drilled a fist into his face, knocking out a tooth.
Face bloodied, he sniveled and choked with his head drooping, damn near begging for another punch.
“Who. Paid. You?”
Lips set into a hard line, he tilted his head just enough to cast a glare. “Conall. Fucking Conall paid me.”
“Who’s Conall to you?”
His jaw shifted with a quiet pause, before he spat blood and rested his head against the trunk. “Works for some dude named Pasák. The one that bought the kill.”
“And you don’t know who Pasák is?”
“No one knows who he is.”
I stared at him for a moment. “Peepshow sends his regards, by the way.” I smiled, as his face crinkled with panic, and lifted my blade. “The other two men that were there that night? Who and where are they?”
“Seven Mile Crew, man. Jamal was my cousin. Was shot a few months back.”
“And the blond?”
“Got killed. Car accident, just a few days ago. A semi hit him.”
No shit. The blond must’ve been one of the assholes chasing me, after I snuffed Peepshow.
Tapping the blade against my opened palm drew his attention there, and back to me. “What do you know about the auction?”
Brows creased, he shook his head. “Auction? Man, I don’t know nothin’ about no auction.”
“The women? You’ve no idea where they are?” I wiped my blade across his jeans, smirking at the flinch of his leg.
“I swear. I don’t know about any auction. Swear to God.”
“Good enough.” I slapped a square of tape over his mouth and smoothed my hand over my gloves.
With some fervor, I jabbed the knife into his thigh, and when he screamed behind the tape, I paused at the rush of adrenaline then continued on with the slice, until I’d created a nice long gash in his thigh. Not too deep, but enough to draw blood. From the edge of his wound I sliced away a thin layer of meat while holding him still with my knee, pressing into his leg as it shook.
Another muffled s
cream from Stafford died off into a choking fit, and with his meat dangling from my fingertips, I pulled an empty syringe from my pack, drawing up the blood from his lacerations, while his thighs quaked beneath me.
I set both the meat and the syringe on the ground and glanced over at the dog, where he bled out of his wounds a few feet away. “Know what’s sickening?” With a kerchief, I wiped the blood off my blade while still crouched in front of Stafford. “If he wasn’t so badly wounded, he’d probably come after me for hurting you.” I huffed in mocking, lifting Black Betty to make sure I’d cleaned off the blood, before slipping the knife back into the holster. “Loyalty’s a bitch.”
Snot and tears trickled down Stafford's face as he sobbed behind the tape. A wheeze of something that sounded like a plea failed to break through the barrier at his mouth, only bubbling the tape instead.
“Aristophanes once said, hunger knows no friend but its feeder. Let’s see how much hate you’ve fed, Stafford.” I rose up from my crouch and walked over to the dog, lying still on the floor of the forest. His wound continued to seep blood, but I lifted him into my arms, allowing the drops to saturate my shirt.
Stafford’s muffled screams could hardly be heard, as I weaved back through the maze of dogs, carrying the damaged creature to my car, where I slid him into the backseat. He whimpered but stilled.
As I crossed back toward the woods, the sound of the fight raged on, but no one seemed aware of the man tied to the tree and bleeding out of his thighs. From beside where Stafford sat, I lifted the chunk of meat and syringe, nabbed my pack, then walked a path back toward the chained dog, pushing the blood from the syringe behind me and creating a trail across the smashed leaves and brush.
The emaciated-looking mastiff barked as I approached, but I dropped my gaze and held out my hand, offering the small bit of Stafford’s flesh. The dog sniffed it at first, but hunger had a nasty way of drawing out the primitive nature in even the weak and loyal. As he ate the proffered meat, I snipped his chain with the bolt cutters, and as soon as he was loose, his nose hit the dirt, crossing a zig-zag path along the trail of blood.
In seconds, Stafford’s screams hit the air.
20
Lucy
A little over two weeks had passed since the party.
I’d reached the point in my captivity when I couldn’t help wonder about ridiculous things that a kidnapped woman should probably just let go like, had the apartment manager evicted me yet? Had someone stolen the six hundred in tips I’d stashed? Were Craig and Jolana losing their minds wondering where I’d gone? Had they begun to search for me?
Could a person develop schizophrenia from complete and utter boredom?
Like clockwork, Warkhawk brought me meals three times a day, allowed me to shower and clean my clothes in the sink. I'd developed a method of using the wall-mounted hairdryer to dry out my panties and wearing them slightly damp. He’d even given me two of his T-shirts and a pair of his sweatpants to wear, though I swam in the exceptionally large threads.
Aside from those interactions, he seemed to be keeping his distance from me. We went through the same routine each day—he’d leave me tied to the bed, except during meals and bathroom breaks. He’d stay out late and come back stumbling drunk, crashing in the other room, but never once so much as touched me. Part of me wondered if he sated himself with another woman, coming in at two, sometimes three, in the morning.
A ripple of jealousy snaked through my veins at the thought of him banging some random chick. Why, Lucy?
For Christ’s sake, the man had kidnapped me. Tied me to a bed. Why in ever-loving hell would I feel jealous? So what, if he fucked some bimbo attracted to bossy men with big muscles and an air of mystery that’d make Batman look like a socialite?
What. Did. I. Care?
Except, the more I imagined his sculpted body wrapped around another woman, the angrier and more turned on I seemed to get. A rush of heat spread through my body, and I squirmed against the sheets, wishing away the fantasy.
Ugh. Stockholm syndrome? I hardly knew what the word meant. Did women with Stockholm’s fantasize about their captor forcing them to watch him fuck another woman?
Sick, Lucy. So sick.
He couldn’t be trusted. He was a member of Seventh Circle. A torturer. A murderer.
I squinted my eyes at the thoughts brewing up from my gut, battling those accusations.
Is he, Lucy? Has he hurt you?
He hadn’t. In fact, we’d danced around each other for over two weeks, like roomies, going about our business—well, except that my business happened to be getting tied to the bed each time. Despite that, I’d begun to let my guard down a little around him. I'd even left the bathroom door unlocked when I’d taken a shower earlier, just to see if he’d try to sneak a peek.
He didn’t.
He’d had a number of opportunities to use my body, and he hadn’t.
Helping him with the video image only added to the confusion, because the man was obviously investigating something. Something that involved one of the men I despised—Conall, and anyone against that bastard had to be good. Maybe Warhawk was working undercover. Maybe he was as curious about the club as I was.
A loud crashing startled me upright against the painful bite of the binds. At a thunk and the sound of breaking glass, I frowned, wondering what the hell was going on.
My captor burst through the bedroom door, rushing toward the bathroom before I could get a look at him, from where more rustling and the thud of something hitting the floor clanged through the doorway.
What the hell is going on?
He burst out, carrying a handful of towels, and my gaze slid down to the red staining his hands, his jeans, and the front of his white shirt.
“What’s going on?”
He ignored me and kept on to the other room. Only the thumping of his boots across the floor told me he hadn’t left the apartment.
Was someone coming?
“Hey!” I tugged at the ties, needing to break free, needing to figure out what the hell was happening. “Bathroom break!”
A whimper, like a dog’s, ruptured into a full-blown yelp.
Again, he passed through to the bathroom, and on his way back, he tugged his knife and snipped my ties, without a word.
Rubbing the deep grooves in my skin, I slid from the bed and tiptoed toward the kitchen.
He stood beside the table, blocking my view of whatever lay there, blood leaking over the wood's edge and pooling at his boots.
“What … what’s wrong? Is everything okay?”
His shoulders rolled back, and he stepped aside, allowing me to see a dog lying on the table, blood oozing out of deep gashes along his body.
I slapped a hand to my mouth at the sight of the poor dog, obviously mutilated, and an ache stabbed at my heart, as my gaze fell to the blade tucked in Warhawk’s holster.
Did he do this?
“I don’t think I can save him.” The thwack of his fist against the table steeled my muscles, but didn’t so much as cause the dog to flinch.
“I know a guy,” I said. “A vet. He runs a twenty-four hour emergency clinic.”
“No.” He ran his hand over the dog’s blood-soaked fur. “I can’t risk taking him somewhere and being seen. With you.”
“It’s his own practice. I’ve been going to him since I was a little girl. I’ll … tell him you’re my … boyfriend, or something.” The wrongness of that thought got quickly stamped out by the urgency beating through me. “We have to go now, though.”
“And how, exactly, do you plan to explain this?”
“Did you … do it?”
His lip curled, as if I’d slapped him across the face, and he went back to putting pressure against the dog’s wounds.
“I’m sorry.” I came to a stand beside him, stroking the dog behind its ears. “Listen, he won’t say anything. He won’t think anything of it, believe me. I’ve been bringing him wounded animals since I was about seven. I’m kind
of known for it there.”
After what seemed like a minute of contemplation, he finally nodded. “Let’s go.”
Sliding around to the other side of the table, I lifted the dog’s head, and he didn’t protest, didn’t so much as look at me as the two of us carried him across the room and out the front door.
A rush of cool October air hit my legs, and it was then I realized, I looked like I’d been held captive for two weeks, with my pajama clothes, bare feet and ratted hair. Hopefully, the fact that it was late in the evening would thwart any suspicion.
Then again, why was I hopeful of that?
Careful not to disturb its wounds, we slid the dog across the backseat, and I climbed after it, crouching behind the passenger seat and petting the dog’s blood-slicked coat. “Hey, buddy. Stay with me, okay? You’re going to be okay.”
I looked up to see Warhawk staring at me, a strange look on his face, one I’d not seen before. The intensity of his eyes and lift of his brows reminded me of a little boy watching another child play with his toy, until he twisted back around and fired up the car.
Between comforting the dog and sapping blood into the towels covering him, I directed my captor to the clinic where I’d spent ten years of my life, convinced I’d become a vet. It’d been three years since I’d last seen Dr. Cross for my Bullmastiff, Daisy, when I’d had to put her down for tumors that’d spread in her body. After ten minutes, we arrived at the familiar brown building with its blue and white sign that showed the silhouette of a dog, cat and bird as one animal.
I lifted the dog’s head, as Warhawk slid him from the backseat and carried him into the clinic. Once inside, I took the lead, waving at Mary, the secretary who sat at the front desk, as her gaze followed the man behind me.
“Mary, is Richard in? I got a bad case. Dogfighting, I think.”
“Sure thing, sweetheart. He’s in the back.” She tipped her head, looking beyond me and huffed. “Poor baby. These people should be locked up in prison.”
