by Harper Riley
Inside the ornate Chatelaine-ready room are two burly men who look like they don’t belong. One is short and one is tall and, at my entrance, grins slither onto their faces.
“Gavin Pierson... No fucking way!” the little one hisses.
With one hand, Carlos tosses him my phone.
“Yes way. When I give the order, send his men out there a text that the coast is clear.”
He taps my head with the gun.
“That is the plan, isn’t it? Fearless leader scouts it out first, then loyal troops rush in?”
I shrug, and he jams the gun into the back of my head again.
“You want me to shoot you right now?”
As he walks around me, he slides the gun around to the front of my head too.
So that we’re face to face, so I can see his red-brown eyes, his snarling mouth, see that he really means it.
The hand not holding the gun is bandaged, but that makes no difference when the hand that is holding the gun has it pointed at my head.
“Go ahead,” I say, “The shot they’ll hear will be enough of a signal.”
Carlos’ snarl grows until he almost looks comical, like a caricature of himself. His glare shifts to the wall, as if imagining my blood spatter amidst the gold paisley design, and shakes his head.
“No, you’ve caused me enough trouble already.”
He yanks me over to the clear sliding door, throws it open.
“This’ll just take a minute,” he yells to the others.
They’re smirking like I’m dead already.
Now outside, he pulls me along, talking as we move.
“When we capture your guys, don’t worry, we’ll make sure that they think you betrayed them to us. That you were planning with Torrie to turn them over for months.”
We’re walking toward an open field, away from the house, away from my men, and maybe Torrie too.
“Where’s Torrie?” I ask, and Carlos laughs.
“You should’ve taken her with you.”
I struggle and he laughs again, shoves me to my knees.
The gun at the back of my head, he says, “Don’t worry about Torrie. She’s going to get a first-hand experience of our trade.”
I twist to glare at him. “You bastard.”
His ugly smile doesn’t shift, only says, “Ironic, like mother like son.”
“What did you say?” I ask.
“You heard me. Your mom was crude and rebellious to the last, until I finally put that bullet in her cheating whore head.”
I grit my teeth. “You’re lying.”
“Huh, makes no difference now really. I put her down and now I’m going to do the same to you, put you down like the dog you are.”
I stare at the dirt in front of me. The dirt that’s soon going to be wet with my blood. The dirt I’ll die on, just how Carlos said: like a dog.
“Why did you do it?” I ask.
“Shut up,” he says, pressing the gun into the back of my head harder.
“I’m going to die anyway, you’ve got a gun to my head, just tell me.”
A kick to my back sends me sprawling to the ground.
Then, after a reflective second he says, “True. Besides, you really should know what a whore your mother was before you die. She’d been cheating with my father for years, you know. Was going to leave your dad for mine. Leave all of you. Really I did you a favor.”
Clenching my hands into the dirt, I hiss, “You’re lying.”
He kicks me again.
“Guess you’ll never know for sure.”
I stare at the dirt, the dirt I’m going to die on in minutes, or seconds.
This is it. And I never even made a go of it, fought for my life, anything.
I wrench myself around and lunge on him. The gun goes off, and I collapse back, my leg exploding with pain.
There’s a bullet lodged in my left lower leg, blood streaming out already.
When I look up, Carlos is crouching down, smiling in my face, pointing his gun at my forehead, asking me, “You really thought you could fight a man with a gun, eh?”
He presses the gun into my forehead again.
“Though I can’t blame you, you are the great Gavin Pierson after all, fearless leader of the Rebel Saints. To be honest, I’m a bit disappointed how easy this has all been. I expected, I don’t know, more.”
Through gritted teeth, I growl, “Just do it, you Piccolo scum. Just kill me.”
“Gladly,” Carlos says, and a gun goes off.
Chapter 32 - Torrie
Clarence watches me back away to the wall with amusement.
He’s wearing a dapper pinstriped suit and an unsettling smile. “Torrie, Torrie, Torrie,” he says, spreading his legs.
I don’t say anything.
His watery blue gaze is roving over me. “Missed you at the funeral.”
“Please,” I say, “Clarence, please. Let me go.”
He runs a single finger over his cheek, licks his lips. “It really is a tricky situation. I mean, Carlos told me what you’ve been up to.” He wags his finger at me. “You naughty girl.”
“Clarence please. You’ll be rid of me, I’ll leave here, I’ll do anything, anything... but this.”
Clarence runs his finger over his other cheek. “Anything, eh?”
I stare at him uncomprehendingly, not wanting to comprehend.
He unbuttons his black pants, then unzips them, and at once I understand.
“Clarence...” I say.
“Oh come onnn, Torrie. You know you’ve wanted this since the first time we met.”
I shake my head, say, “Clarence, please.”
When he rises, his pants stay on the ground. Through his sleek black underwear, I can see his giant penis. He steps out of his pants, spreads his arms. “So, Torrie, what do you say?”
I shake my head, rush to the other corner of the room. “No. No I won’t!”
Clarence purses his lips. “Ah well, guess we’ll have to do it the other way. He advances slowly, lifting his gun. “Don’t move.”
I shrink into the wall, press my face up into it, close my eyes.
The edge of the gun presses into my chest. “Open your eyes.”
I open them.
“Look at me.”
I look into his ice blue eyes, plead with my own.
“Oh Torrie, don’t you get it?” he’s saying, rubbing his gun up and down between my breasts, “I like it when you beg.” His gun slides down further, to my pants, inside them. “Take them off.”
“Clarence—”
The gun slides up to my lips.
“Do it.”
I unbutton and unzip them, slide them down.
Terence glances down, grins.
“Lace ruffles? Almost like you knew.” His gun slides back down, slips under them, between my legs. He cocks the rifle. “Your shirt now. Unbutton it.”
I do. My hand shaking, I undo my shirt, button by button, wishing there was an endless number of them.
My shirt now open, Clarence runs his gun over my bra.
“You know what to do now.”
My whole body is trembling now.
Maybe I should just let him shoot me. Anything would be better than this.
But the cold want in Clarence’s eyes make it clear: There will be no getting out of this; he’d just shoot me and rape me anyway.
So, I take off my button-up, then unclasp my bra and let it drop to the floor.
Clarence lets out a growl of pleasure, presses his erection into me.
“You feel that?”
I burrow my head into the wall, and he continues, “I’m going to fuck you and you’re going to like it.”
I twist to face him.
“Fuck you,” I hiss, and he smiles.
He grabs both my breasts and squeezes. Traitorous spasms of painful pleasure spread through my body, and, as he fondles me, he whispers in my ear, “Oh Torrie, I know you all too well. I know the more you resist, the more you want i
t.”
He pulls down my underwear so they drop to the ground, then pulls down his.
I shove myself away, but he grabs me by the waist.
“Careful,” he growls, yanking down his briefs.
I twist away as he shoves into me and a gunshot goes off.
His penis right against my outer lips, millimeters away from penetration, Clarence shudders. His face registers stupefaction as he looks down at the red patch growing on his shirt. Another blast and he collapses to the ground.
On his back, he convulses for a moment before falling still.
Through the flap door, Maria Fernanda’s kindly old face peers out.
“Did I do it? Is he dead?”
“Yes!” I bleat.
As I stumble off to the side so she can’t see my humiliating state, Maria Fernanda throws a squinty look around the room.
“You alright there Torrie?”
I throw my shirt back on, speak amidst my redressing fumbles, “Yes Maria Fernanda! Thank you – I’ll be right out!”
I scramble into my pants then hurry to the flap door, avoiding looking at Clarence’s motionless body.
I crawl out, stand up and turn to Maria Fernanda.
Flopped on the armchair, legs akimbo, she’s holding the gun in a napkin as if it’s a chocolate chip cookie.
She murmurs, half to herself, clearly in shock at what she just did, “Mad, mad business. Just stuck my head and hand in, pointed where I thought the thing should go and – boom! – it went.”
She shakes her head, glances at the gun, says, “As soon as I heard what he was trying to do, I knew what I had to.”
I gape at Maria Fernanda, but her white face betrays nothing, is oblivious, doesn’t even notice my gaze.
“Where did you get the gun?” I ask.
“Your father’s room. There’s one in almost every other drawer.”
With the napkin, she hands me the gun.
Then, standing up and smoothing her skirt, she says, “Careful Torrie. Upstairs, Carlos is up to no good. Just now he brought an albino man through the house with a gun pressed to the back of his head.”
I gape at her, blurt out, “What do you mean, just now? As in, five minutes ago?”
She nods, then shakes her head wistfully.
“This used to be a respectable house, a peaceful home. Your father never would have done such a thing.”
I hurry to the staircase, pause at the foot of it.
“Maria Fernanda, you need to get out of here. Maybe go to our cottage in Bayfield. Take your phone, and I’ll contact you when this is all over.”
But Maria Fernanda shakes her head again.
“No, if I left now I could never forgive myself. Besides who will look after Jane?”
My stomach twists with guilty fear.
“Maria Fernanda... where is Jane?”
“Why, the same place I was until I heard your brother come home: in the vacuum closet downstairs.”
I hurry over to the closet, throw it open and practically burst into tears at the sight of my wagging-tailed, lolling-tongued dog. My little darling.
Turning to Maria Fernanda, I gesture to the closet.
“Ok, wait there for me-” I drop the napkin to the ground, take the gun in my hand – “I’m going to put a stop to this.”
But Maria Fernanda doesn’t move.
“Please Maria Fernanda,” I say “I’ll be fine. Remember who won all the shooting competitions when we were young?”
A knowing smile spreading on her face, Maria Fernanda nods, mutters, “Your brother was never much good at anything,” as she returns to the closet with Jane.
Before I shut the door, she hands me a lion-handled knife.
“It may come in handy.”
I turn it over in my hand, the wooden head of the beast looking strangely familiar.
“It was your mother’s,” Maria Fernanda explains.
I nod, whisper, “Thank you.”
I tuck it in my pocket and shut the closet door.
There’s no time to think of that, of her. There’s only time for what I’m doing now – stopping Carlos.
I turn to the staircase.
Inhale, then exhale.
This is it. These next few minutes will decide everything.
I run up to the stairs, down the hallway to the corner, peer around into the living room.
Antonio and Roger have their guns on the table, are on their phones.
There’s two of them and one of me. I’m only going to get one shot at this.
I step out, shoot Antonio’s hand, then Roger’s.
As their hands go red and their faces contort, I aim at their other hands, shoot again.
They’re yelling, jiggling their arms uselessly to grab their guns at the table.
I hurry over, demand, “Where is he?”
They glare back at me, still jerking their arms, trying to get up.
I punch Roger, aim my gun at his head.
“Where is he?”
“Outside,” Antonio croaks.
“Thanks,” I say.
I smash his head into the table, then do the same to Roger.
That should take care of them for now.
Then I hurry to the glass door, where, in the distance, I can see two figures: one standing, and one on its knees.
I rush out, saying a silent prayer: Please God, don’t let me be too late.
Chapter 33 - Gavin
Carlos topples to the ground howling, his non-bandaged hand slack, streaming blood from a wound on his palm.
I grab the gun and point it at him.
“I came as fast as I could,” Torrie says, “He had me locked up down there in the room.”
“Thank you,” I say, “I was coming for you.”
Her eyes are shining, and she looks sloppily beautiful, with her red eyes and improperly buttoned shirt.
“You should look away,” I say.
She gapes at me uncomprehendingly.
“I’m ending this,” I explain.
Her face falls.
“I already incapacitated them all inside,” she says slowly, “You don’t need to do that.”
Now it’s my turn to gape at her.
“Torrie. Your brother was going to have you shipped out as a sex slave.”
As if he wants to help my cause, Carlos rolls onto his back and, eyes flashing, whimpers, “Fuck you both!”
But Torrie doesn’t even glance at him. Instead, her face set, her eyes sad, she says, “I know. But Gav, he’s my brother.”
I tear my gaze away from hers, direct it at the pathetic sack of shit sobbing at our feet, the waste of space I’m going to put down.
“He killed my mom, Torrie.”
“What?”
“He said that she was cheating with your dad, that he shot her.”
When I glance at Torrie’s face, she doesn’t look as shocked as she sounds. I lift the gun so it’s pointed at her, while the sick realization tumbles out of my mouth, “You knew. You knew.”
But at my words, Torrie’s eyes just fill with more tears. “Papa told me a few days ago that he was involved with your mother. He never knew who killed her.”
Carlos gargles out a laugh. “If he did, he woulda... he woulda... thanked me. You should all be... Your mom was a slut.”
I shoot Carlos’ foot and another ear-splitting howl erupts out of his lips.
Torrie steps forward, extends her hand.
“Gavin. You’ve hurt him enough. Please.”
I look at her, the woman I love, the girl who can’t understand.
This scum killed my mother. He kidnapped my sister. He tried to kill me. Letting him live would go against everything I’ve stood for, fought for. Killing him would end this.
I lift the gun. I have to do this.
“It won’t bring her back,” Torrie says, and this time, there’s understanding in those dark eyes of hers.
Her mother is dead, too. And now, her father is gone as well.
“Please, Gavin. There’s been enough death and pain these past few days.”
I don’t move. My hand is holding the gun that’s pointed at the sobbing waste of space I’m going to shoot.
“Please Gavin. If you love me, you’ll do this.”
I look up at her, my love, whose tears are finally streaming down now. Who loves me and who’s putting that love, putting everything on the line for this scum. This scum who just so happens to be her brother.
I lower the gun, then raise it again. Then, finally, lower it.
I can’t shoot Torrie’s brother in front of her.
“Look away,” I tell her.
She doesn’t move, and I point the gun at her.
“Look away Torrie, I mean it.”
Tears streaming down her face now, she can only shake her head.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
And now my hand is trembling of its accord, at the choice before me: my family or hers, my love or my revenge.
And my love is spreading her arms and my revenge is sobbing a repentance he doesn’t feel.
I switch the gun back and forth from my love to my revenge. The gun stops in front of my revenge. I cock it.
Point it at Torrie, and hand it over.
She takes it with a trembling hand. Takes my hand with her other one.
“Thank you, Gavin.”
Carlos lets out a guffaw of ugly victory. My kick to his ribs transforms it into a howl of pain.
Tucking the gun in her pant pocket, Torrie smiles, shrugs.
“He deserved that.”
I advance until I’m right in front of her, and, saying “One more thing,” press my lips to hers. Our lips meet, while we hold each other tight.
Finally, we have to draw apart, shooting glares at Carlos, who’s making a spluttering gurgling that could be laughing or crying.
“I... should probably get him to a doctor,” Torrie says, “Though it’ll be fun explaining how he got shot in the other arm and the foot.”
I smirk.
“Just tell ‘em Carlos inadvertently shot himself twice. If they know him, they’ll buy it.”
We laugh.
I help her pick Carlos up and carry him toward the house.
The whole journey back is surreal.
Last time I padded over this dirt I was sure I was going to die. Now however, I know that my life has just begun.
