Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)

by Allie Juliette Mousseau

  “I apologize. I didn’t mean to cause a problem for the other waitress.” I peer through the kitchen window.

  “It’s okay. Her shift was ending anyway,” she says brightly. “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll take your big breakfast special.”

  She giggles lightly as she scribbles on her notepad how I’d like my eggs, bacon, pancakes and home fries cooked. “It’s eight o’clock at night.”

  “No better time for breakfast.” I smile and pass her the menu.

  By the time I get to the hotel and shower, my mind and body are spent. As I dry off, I get a message out to Briggs, asking for any sensational or downplayed news reports from Bridge City to the Port Arthur area in the past three years.

  Hanging up, I lay naked on top of the bed—my Glock on the nightstand beside me.

  Chapter Three

  Rachel

  I’m blindfolded and can’t see any light, but based on the food they’ve fed me and how many times I’ve slept out of sheer exhaustion, I can deduce that I’ve been here three or four days.

  The man who brings me meals has shown unexpected kindness. He holds my hand gently right before he places the bowl into my palm. He’s been scolded several times by whoever’s in charge for speaking to me. They call him Pedro. And sometimes—I think when no one else is around—he tells me Mexican folk stories, the sort that children would enjoy. The way his tongue shapes the words he speaks, I can tell he has some sort of speech or mental deficiency, and I believe he’s mentally disabled.

  I try speaking to him in English, and although he doesn’t understand my words, he definitely understands my meaning when I snap my chained wrists crying, “Please!”

  “Please, girl, I can't. My cousin will beat me,” he whispers in Spanish with the inflections and fear of a child.

  I don’t see Pedro again after that. Maybe they’ve killed him.

  I’m left here for hours, and my mind tortures me, thinking about what happened to Drew in the back of that alley.

  The way they show gunshots to the head in the movies isn’t the way it really looks. They show fake blood splats. Point blank range, in truth, is nothing short of horrific. His death plays over and over like a film on repeat.

  Once that has sufficiently shoved me to the brink of insanity, I’m forced to face my own mortality.

  I wonder if they’ll kill me just as grotesquely. Will it be so bad my family won’t be able to recognize me? Drew was missing almost half his face.

  Then I think his death was bizarrely merciful—at least it was quick. Quick pain frightens me, but I think I could get through it. What choice do you have if someone pulls that trigger?

  What terrifies me is long-lasting, seemingly never ending pain. Agony that evil men will inflict on others to gain information or to coerce. My mind settles on that line of thought. Tools that inflict misery and make you scream, with no relief. That render the victim bloody and broken and unable to run.

  Unable to run.

  They don’t want me to run. They can’t allow me to run.

  My mind is beginning to play tricks on me. I’m sure I hear a helicopter outside. If I try, I can almost feel the vibration conducting through the floor and walls.

  I listen with fists clenched in violent anticipation.

  They’ve found me!

  I wait for the storm of SWAT team members to pour into wherever the hell I am and mop the floor with these guys, but after a long time my hope crashes hard. No one comes. There are no noises above my head that I can detect.

  Every hope I’ve been clinging to deflates.

  I wish I had called my sister or my mom the day I was taken. To tell them I love them one last time.

  One last time.

  Will they ever even know what happened to me? The true but dreadful answer is, probably not.

  I thought I’d defied death that night in the alley.

  When my mind settles on the actual idea of it—death—not feeling anything, wondering if there really is an afterlife and the what-if-there-isn’t-one question, my belly fills with this sick sensation. We have no control over it. We can’t wipe death from our existence. We can delay it, we can defy it for a time, but it will have its way.

  The great equalizer. We are all mortal.

  My skin crawls as my soul or brain or whatever pleads for a better answer. There isn’t one.

  It’s the one thing we who are living are guaranteed—to die.

  I play games in my mind to stop fixating on my demise—I put together word associations, I focus on a mental chess game, softly sing my favorite songs, and quiz myself on class materials.

  I think about friends—Tobi and Veronica, who I was supposed to go dancing with Friday night, and then about my little sister and Mom, who I love so much the mere conjuring of their faces hurts like hell. I thought playing my memories like a movie would be soothing and comforting, but it isn’t. It doesn’t hold the insanity at bay—realizing these days will be my last memories of this life causes my lungs to constrict and my stomach to lurch with anxiety.

  I’m ripped out of my thoughts by a couple of men’s voices. They’re coming closer. Adrenaline sets my nerves afire, and my body begins to shake.

  “It won’t be long now.” The man with the thick accent speaks in English, and it’s close to my ear, as if he’s knelt on the floor in front of me.

  “Until what?” Until I’m dead! I hate how my voice shakes! It isn’t right for my body to betray me like this. I want to be stronger.

  I want to spit in his face!

  “You’re brought home,” he replies.

  Home? “What?”

  “You must eat your food.” It’s then that I smell what could only be a fast food burger and fries.

  He’s unhappy because I haven’t been eating? It’s almost ludicrous!

  “No,” I manage, softly yet defiantly.

  “No?” His voice drops to an almost whisper.

  Swallowing the terror, I tell him, “I will not eat your food. I was tricked because of whatever drug you put in my drink. I won’t do it again.”

  I can’t eat their food. I did at first, but as the time goes by, it feels akin to suicide. Or maybe I don’t want to accept it. Or depend on them for my survival—I’d rather starve first. At least that’s something I can control.

  “You will keep your strength up.” His tone turns commanding.

  “Take off the cuffs. I’ll find my strength.”

  He slaps me hard. His hand is so large it covers half my face. The sting is electric.

  Fuck you, I think, tasting the copper tinge of blood as it covers my tongue. I spit the blood at him. So, let it begin.

  Angry footfalls run into the space we occupy. I listen to the physical scuffle and curses in Spanish.

  “We’re supposed to be calming her!” a new voice growls out in Spanish. “The boss will cut off your hand for striking her if you caused damage!”

  Damage? I don’t understand what they mean. Is there really some deal going on between my captors and my mom or law enforcement?

  “Our boss is a powerful man and has negotiated both your ransom and his freedom. But we must release you unharmed and well,” the new guy tries persuading me softly, now in English.

  I hear the crinkle of the fast food bag as he presses it into my hands.

  “I’m sick,” I lie.

  “You fear poison or drugs?”

  “I don’t trust you,” I say truthfully.

  He barks at his partner in Spanish, “Now you fucked up! You idiot! Get out, get out and never come back in here.”

  They leave me to myself.

  Would they really send me home? But why? I saw the murder. I’m the only witness. How does it work in their favor to send me home? But if they really intend on killing me, why the blindfold? I’ve read enough novels and seen enough television dramas to know that a blindfold means I might live long enough to report what I’ve seen.

  I curl up in a ball on the musty mattress
and scrape my nails against my thumb cuticles.

  Even if my mom gave Miguel a million dollars—which I know we don’t have—how would it help his case?

  Getaway money?

  Could make sense. If someone gave him a million, he could take off to a foreign country where he couldn’t be extradited. Maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  Maybe they sent a photograph to my mom and she knows I’m alive. That gives me a sense of relief.

  But why didn’t he just go straight to Mexico and not bother with me?

  It doesn’t make sense. None of this does.

  I’m not eating their shit.

  I roll and face the wall and fall into a deep sleep.

  Gentle Spanish lullabies wake me.

  Pedro.

  “Toma.” He puts a cold can into my hands. “Toma,” Pedro repeats.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, though I know he’s telling me to drink. It’s one small piece of control I hold—the fact that they think I don’t understand Spanish. I’d like to keep it that way. Except, I’ll admit, the idea has crossed my mind that if I can play on Pedro’s childlike nature he may help me escape. But I haven’t figured out how to pull that off without it backfiring on both of us.

  Pedro moves my fingertips to the top surface of the can, where my fingers meet with the can’s tab.

  “It’s sealed.” I nod. My captors have found a different way to try and get something into me. “I’ll drink.”

  Pedro pops the top and brings it immediately to my mouth. It tastes like chocolate and chalk. The liquid is tell-tale thick too. I’m pretty sure it’s a meal replacement drink—like Carnation or Ensure.

  “Sing to me again, Pedro.”

  He answers sadly, “No hablo inglés.”

  I hum a melody, and he says, “Ahh . . .” I imagine I detect a smile in his tone.

  And his singing begins, but this time his cousin doesn’t stop him.

  Ryder

  I wake to my cell going off—it’s Briggs.

  “You know you’re sitting in the most heated and battled for drug distribution corridor in the US,” he begins as I make my way to the mini fridge for a Red Bull.

  He goes on about all the organized crime in the area and shady activity while I put the lousy hotel tap water into the coffee machine and run it over the crappy complimentary coffee grounds.

  Briggs goes quiet for a second then accuses, “I can hear the coffee brewing.”

  When I don’t deny it he asks, “Drinking or smelling?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Oh, just drink it, for Christ’s sake!” he says with annoyed but humorous frustration.

  “How many times do I have to explain? If I smell fresh brewed coffee it’s soothing and makes me feel like everything is right in the world. If I taste it, it makes me crave a cigarette, and I’m not smoking again. Can’t have one without the other, Briggs.”

  “Alright, whatever, but about your location—I’m not exaggerating. Every gang and cartel nationality you can imagine is angling for power and control there—Asians, African-Americans, Mexicans, fucking Aryans, for Christ’s sake—you name it.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “Sounds like you should get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “Local authorities?”

  “Either have their hands full or in the till. I’m still trying to sort the good guys from the bad guys.” I can hear the frustration in his voice and his fingers beating furiously at his computer keyboard. “The FBI, DEA, NSA, DOJ and now the YSA are all in on the action.”

  “What is the YSA?”

  “Your Sorry Ass.”

  “Ah.”

  “And it appears there have been multiple accidents involving Mason Enterprises employees. After each, some business or individual in the city gets a greased palm to quiet the case of the squeaks.”

  “Coercion.” I pull on my pants. “The waitress from last night flipped after one question. Could be a fresh wound. Said Mason owned the city.”

  “I don’t doubt it—his name is growing and is on almost everything coming in and going out of that place, from food distribution trucks and railway boxcars to cargo freight.”

  “I’m going in today. Time is a real factor; this has to be done quickly before he bounces.”

  “We’re not as young or pretty as we used to be, and this shit is way above our pay grades. I know you, Ryder. Don’t play cop, just get your skip and get the fuck out.”

  “Get me intel on the accidents.”

  “No, Ryder. That is exactly the fucking opposite of what I told you to do.”

  “Let’s find out what we can. Maybe we could throw the FBI a bone.”

  “Or maybe I’ll be throwing your dead body into a shallow grave.”

  I laugh. Briggs hangs up on me.

  I breathe in the hot black coffee vapors while watching the sun come up out the window as I tempt myself with the less than delicious brew. Force of habit. I stop myself right as the liquid hits my lips, with minimal damage done. I let my tongue glide over the warm, flavored moisture.

  I’ve got to stop doing this. It’s fucking pathetic.

  Setting the cup on the nightstand, I turn my attention back to considering how I’m going to get into Miguel’s palace.

  “What would Chief do?” I wonder aloud, remembering a time when my mentor and adoptive father sat in the driver’s seat looking over at me as I sat in the passenger seat of his ‘89 Dodge Charger.

  He was patient. He always wanted me to think more than he wanted to get paid. And he always forced me to look at all the angles—the wrong ones and the right ones—until I hit the idea that clicked like a grenade ignition—how it quietly ignites its spark and then, the big bang.

  Chief would say, “It’s not about right or wrong, it’s about what works and gets the job done while keeping you alive.”

  Quietly, I meditate. Positioning my elbows on the floor and lifting my legs over my head, I begin a series of asana poses. Using awareness, box and tactical breathing, I clear my mind with an assurance that the answer will manifest into existence.

  Parking my newly acquired white pick-up truck with the EPA logo embossed on the side across the street so they can see it, I stride with an urgent gait up to the guard booth outside of the steel fenced gate. Dressed in black cargo pants and a casual button up with a clipboard in hand and a backpack of equipment, I appear official.

  “How can I help you?” The guard steps out to block my path.

  “I’m from the Environmental Protection Agency and it’s of the utmost urgency that I speak with the owner of this home.” I throw in a deep homeboy Texas drawl to accentuate the persona.

  He looks from me, to the truck, then back again.

  “Did I stutter?” I wax impatient. “Make the call.”

  He makes the call.

  Two minutes later a couple of rough looking characters come to greet me, showing off their muscular fighting physiques in a-size-too-small short sleeved polos with pistols holstered over the top.

  “You don’t have an appointment,” the larger of the two demands in a tone that’s only purpose is to piss me off.

  I point to his feet with my clipboard and roughly declare, “Do you know that where you’re standing right now has a ninety-eight percent probability of being a toxic environmental waste site?” I lift the clipboard and direct it towards the house. “Do you know the basement and lower levels in this home are leaking noxious, cancer causing, poisonous chemicals and gasses right now that you’d never detect and will cause your flesh and organs to grow black with tumors?”

  His tough guy act morphs into serious distress, and his buddy rubs his stomach for a

  moment before saying, “You know, I haven’t been feeling so good lately.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t—but I have twenty other houses up this stretch of bayou to stop at after this one and don’t have time to explain every detail to middlemen. I must see the owne
r, now!”

  The larger guard nods to the smaller one, who turns and jogs back to the house.

  “Check him,” the big one orders the gatekeeper with a growl to reestablish his own authority over his peers.

  The younger gatekeeper does. I’m searched and scanned for unauthorized weapons, wires, taps or anything else they’d find suspicious.

  When the feel-up is over the larger guy instructs, “Open the gate.”

  He walks me to the house and into a front foyer. “Wait here.”

  Standing in an at-ease position, I take account of my surroundings. The décor is lavish—no-holds-barred, dripping with money. The ceilings are high, the rooms massive, and the windows are large double-paned glass. I wonder if they’re bulletproof.

  Some stiff comes at me with a relaxed saunter and three hundred dollar suit. “Mr. . . .?”

  “Cooper. Mr. Cooper.”

  “Mr. Cooper, you’ve made a mistake. This home has already been tested for radon and other noxious gasses.”

  “That’s what you think this is? This is not a routine checkup, Mr. . . .?”

  “Greer. I am Mr. Mason’s liaison.”

  “Mr. Greer. Companies, including Mason Enterprises, are fracking throughout our beautiful state and so close to your backyard it’s pushing up gases at an unrelenting toxicity level. A home not two miles from this one had a recent level of over 20 pCi/L. That’s more than four times the EPA action level. The family had to be evacuated while teams came in to install equipment to make the home and land safe again.”

  “I can assure you—” he interrupts, undaunted.

  “I can assure you,” I insist, taking control of the conversation, “Mr. Mason’s property is adjacent to eight thousand acres of protected wetland habitat that is managed and controlled by the United States Department of the Interior Fish and Wildlife Department, and I have been sent here by the United States Environmental Protection Agency to get readings from within this home and the acreage around it leading up to the bayou. Now, you either produce Mr. Mason or you yourself give me a tour of his fine residence. Otherwise, I produce a US Marshall and a warrant.”