by Vi Carter
“Stay still.” His large fingers circle my arm as they move down, leaving a burning path behind them until the tip of his fingers touches the bandage that’s leaking blood. It must have started when I pressed down on it. He releases me, and I’m ready to pull my arm back, but he unravels the bandage at a speed that’s almost panicked. The stained bandage floats to the floor, and he touches my arm with a gentleness that runs as deep as the cut. His touch takes over my senses, and it’s all I feel.
“Who hurt you?” I ask.
His hand tightens briefly before his touch loosens, but he doesn’t let my arm go. He won’t look at me. His gaze is on my arm. I don’t care about my wrist, I care about getting out of this box, and he is the only way I’m getting out. “I’m sorry if someone hurt you.”
Dark eyes finally focus on me, and I hold still, even against my body’s instincts to sink away.
“You think someone hurt me?” His tone is mocking.
“Yes,” I answer honestly because no sane person would do this. He had spoken of time stolen. He had said he spent three years in a box like this. I have to use the small snippets of information I receive. I just hope I am going in the right direction with this.
He returns to my arm. “I need to re-bandage your wrist.” He releases my arm and gets up. I think he’s leaving, and I should feel relieved, but I don’t. A coldness seeps into my bones.
Running water has me looking at him as he dips a cloth under the stream. He returns to the bed, and I hold myself still and try not to flinch when he sits down and takes my arm with the same care he had moments ago.
“Please, let me go.”
“Stay still.” He dabs the cut, and I feel the burn along my wrist for the first time. My adrenaline is slowly receding, leaving a coldness in its wake. I face away from him as he continues to clean my wound and re-bandage my wrist. The bed dips as he gets up. “I can’t let you go.”
Regret.
I hear regret in his voice. “Can’t or won’t?”
I don’t know who senses the bald man first, my captor or me, but we both look toward the door at the same time.
No words are exchanged. My captor tightens his fists and storms off. I don’t look away as he meets up with the bald man. The door closes, and I’m alone again.
His words should drive fear into my heart. “I can’t let you go.” They don’t. They pump hope into my system, and I get out of the bed. I grip the edge of the mattress and wait for the dizziness to pass before picking up my discarded black colored pencil. I move to the center of the room and sit down and start to draw.
No matter how afraid I am, I had to try to win him over. He had said he couldn’t let me out. I had to give him a reason to free me. With that thought, I draw his face on the floor of my glass cage.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
RICHARD
Davy doesn’t speak until we leave the basement.
“Shay is at the front gates.”
“That’s what you dragged me up here for?” I ask. My feet are itching to turn around and return to Claire.
Davy shakes his head. “You need to see this for yourself.”
I follow Davy into the security room. Marcus gets up from his seat to let me lean in on the desk, so I can get a clear view of what exactly the problem is. Five screens show different perimeters of the house. I focus on the screen positioned to my left, which displays the front gates. Shay is standing outside my gates; a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, the wrath of a King twists his face as he holds up…
“Is that a head?” I look closer. It’s a fucking head. “Jesus Christ. Let him in before someone sees the stupid fucker.”
I march out of the room and to the front door. I’m halfway down the driveway when Shay’s car tears up towards me. Our gazes meet, and like a deranged man, he roars past and jams on the brakes at the front door. I jog back to the house. My gun is tucked in the band of the back of my trousers; I yank my shirt out to cover it.
“You want to tell me what is going on?” I demand.
Shay jumps out of the car, and blood flecks his face and clothes. He’s made the kill recently. He doesn’t speak but reaches back into the car and extracts the head. He grips it by the hair, and all I see is the back of the head. It spins, and I internally curse.
This isn’t good.
“Is this like a welcome home gift? Someone who pissed me off that I forgot about?”
Blood drips all over my driveway. Davy appears at the front door with Marcus on his heels. I hold up my hand, and they don’t advance any further.
Shay lifts the head until I’m staring Carlos in the eyes. “This piece of shit had my brother killed.”
The teardrop on Carlos’s face, along with the distinctive ones on his neck, which Jack had asked me about days ago, is what would have gotten Carlos caught.
“Your point?”
Shay takes a step toward me, and once again, I have to hold up a finger to Davy not to intercede. Shay might be one hell of a fighter, but I am a good shot.
“Carlos here talked a lot before I killed him.”
“Once again, Shay, what is your point?” I take a step towards him until our chests almost brush.
“Your father …” Shay stops talking, his brows drawing together. “Your father did this.” He blinks like a man who can’t accept the betrayal he’s speaking of. “Your father is the owner of the uncharted territory up in the North. That’s why I couldn’t buy it.”
I know all this. I’ve always known who was behind Frankie’s death. My father. Lucian Sheahan wasn’t a fan of Shay after he betrayed the IRA over a bombing that killed women and children. Shay had disagreed with them over the bombing, and that went against the IRA’s beliefs, placing Shay on their shit list. So when my father asked to buy the uncharted territory, Lucian agreed, with one condition that my father arranged for either Shay or Frankie to die. Connor was their best fighter and took too much of the profits. If he fought, he won, and Shay walked in his footsteps.
No matter how tall you are in this world, there is always someone taller ready to knock you on your ass.
Shay’s gaze fills with pent-up anger, and he’s on the verge of crying. “He cost me my brother.” He roars the words in my face.
I lunge forward. My hand tightens around his neck. “I’m not him.”
“You’re a bigger cunt than he is,” Shay says. His lips are a little too loose for my liking. Loose lips are a very dangerous thing. Shay grips my neck when I don’t release him.
“Take your hands off him now.” Davy comes forward and cocks the gun that’s pointed at Shay’s temple, but Shay squeezes tighter like his life isn’t on the line.
“You’re all a bunch of cunts,” Shay sneers.
“We are,” I admit. Releasing Shay first. “Davy, put the gun away.”
Davy reluctantly removes the gun from Shay’s temple, and Shay releases me.
“Why?” Anger forces his question out.
“Money, Shay. It’s always about money and power. You know that. You killed Amanda, I believe, but she would have told you that your dad was eating into their profits.”
“You mean your fucking father’s profits.”
“Give us a minute,” I say to Davy, who hesitates. I flash him a warning look, and he goes back inside with Marcus.
“My father bought the territory. But he didn’t run the cage fights. They just paid him a cut for allowing the fighting to continue.”
Shay moves to the steps of my front door and sits down, plonking the dismembered head beside him. He pats his chest pockets before taking out his cigarettes and lighter, leaving more blood on his shirt. He lights one up, and I give him a moment to compose himself.
“I’m going to kill your father,” he says while calmly blowing smoke into the air.
I laugh at his boldness. I admire it, but I won’t tell him that.
“He’ll kill you first,” I say the truth. “He will know Carlos is dead. He won’t leave a loose end dangling.”
Shay’s gaze swings to me, and he inhales a sharp pull of his cigarette before blowing smoke out in my direction. His smirk is vicious as he rises. “Let him fucking try.”
“Does Jack know?” Shay asks.
Everyone loved fucking, Jack. No one wanted him to be the bad one. I’m tempted to say yes, but the truth is he didn’t.
“No.”
Shay nods and reaches down, and picks up the head.
“Why did you come here, Shay?” I ask. If he is so hell-bent on killing my father, he came to the wrong place.
“I needed to make sure Carlos wasn’t lying. You confirmed it for me.”
“I might be lying.” I grin.
“You hate your old man as much as I do. I saw the hostility at the meeting. You don’t want to protect him. Just like he won’t protect you.” Shay tilts his head and steps closer, his pain raw on his face. “He took my brother. Frankie…” He turns away and gains his composure before turning back to me. “Frankie never hurt anyone.” Shay shakes his head. “He’s a fucking monster, Richard.”
“Isn’t that what I am too?” I ask. Everyone sees me as his shadow.
Shay steps back up to me. “No. He wants us to see that. He wants us to fear you. We did.”
“What changed?”
“The woman who died. They said you tortured her in front of her kids, and that’s why you were sent away to the Czech Republic. That’s the story that your father fed us. Like a bunch of cunts we ate his lies right up.”
I don’t confirm or deny what he’s saying.
“You didn’t do it. You tried to stop it.”
“And how do you know that?”
Shay seems to know a whole lot about me.
“I have my sources.”
I shake my head. “That won’t work with me, Shay. You want mutual respect? Tell me how you know that.”
“A man my father drinks with was there. We haven’t seen him in years. He popped back up and had one too many and told us the story.”
It takes me a moment to let that all sink in. I didn’t think he was lying. There were several Northern men there that night.
The gates open down the road, reminding me of my actual appointment I had this evening. The Range Rover drives slowly up the drive, the windows are tinted, and it passes us, driving out back.
Shay walks back to his car and throws the head in.
“I’d maybe put that in the trunk. You don’t want to have to try and explain why you have a head in your car if you get stopped.”
Shay glances at me over his shoulder. “No one is going to stop me.”
His anger will get him killed. He climbs into the car, and I walk over to the window that he rolls down. I lean in, placing my hands on the door frame.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
His grin is back, but it’s like someone carved it out with a knife. “What, like kill your father?”
I release the door frame and stand up, moving back as he starts the car. “Yeah, something like that.”
He reverses quickly, and I watch him as he leaves my home. I could ring my father and warn him, but I won’t. Shay won’t kill him tonight, and I won’t warn my father. That way, I will gain Shay’s trust.
Davy lingers in the hallway. “He’s unstable.” Davy starts.
I’m not amused. “We are all unstable. Every last O’Reagan. It’s in our blood.”
Davy doesn’t answer as I walk to the back of the house. The second garage is out here, and that’s where the Range Rover is parked.
“Bob,” I say his name as the back window rolls down. A pair of wild green eyes widen, and recognition slowly drips into his foggy brain. They’ve beaten him badly. I had said rough him up, but not enough that I couldn’t enjoy this moment.
“Richie?”
Fuck me. I hated that name.
“What’s going on?” He looks to Andrew, who sits beside him. I nod my head at Andrew and move away from the Range Rover as Andrew drags Bob out. Bob starts shouting and cursing immediately. I walk around to them.
“What is this?” Bob tries to pull away from Andrew, but the action does nothing but burn away his energy reserves.
“Let me show you something, Bob.”
Andrew drags Bob behind me as I follow through on the plan I had all along. Only now I hesitate at the top of stairs that lead into the basement. I don’t want Claire to see this. I hadn’t cared before.
“Look, Richie, you got to tell me what’s wrong. Come on, bud.”
Anger escalates until all I see is red, red blood that poured out of me that day as they left me to die in a pool of my own blood. Each step I take reminds me that what I am doing is right. The moment we step into the basement, I look to Claire, who’s too absorbed in what she’s drawing on the floor.
Bob stops, and his face contorts with fear and confusion. “What is that?” He squints at the glass box. I nod at Andrew, and he pushes Bob, who keeps looking back at the glass box. “Is that Claire?” He tilts his head, and I didn’t think anything could ever make me angry apart from what they had done to me, but him looking at her has me spinning on my heels.
The satisfying crunch of his nose under my fist makes the blood splatter on my shirt worthwhile. Bob reels and falls back, squealing like a pig being slaughtered.
Claire moves, drawing my attention. I focus on her long enough to watch her stand before returning my attention to Bob.
I won’t give in.
We keep walking until we reach the glass coffin. Bob tries to run, but Andrew grabs him and twists his arm to the breaking point, forcing him back toward me.
“Richie, don’t do this.” His whimpers are music to my ears.
I help Andrew put him in the coffin before sliding the top closed. He’s screaming, trying to get out. I open the small window, and he gasps for air.
“I’m sorry about what we did to you. It was Patrick’s Idea.”
I close the panel, and his face grows red as panic sets in. More banging on the glass, only this time it’s not coming from Bob. I look up when I know I shouldn’t. Claire’s eyes are wide with horror as she watches me.
“Get me the hose,” I speak to Andrew but never take my eyes off Claire. She’s screaming, but I’ve turned off the sound. Yet, it’s clear she’s begging me to stop. Does she recognize him, too?
I open the window and let Bob gasp for air. “I’ll do anything.”
I really look at him. “Anything?” I ask.
Hope grows fast and hard, and he sobs. “Anything.”
Andrew hands me the hose, and Bob stares at it. “What is that?”
I soak up his fear. “It’s a hose.”
His cries grow more frantic. “Please, man. Let me out.”
I turn the nozzle on before pushing the hose into the coffin and letting the water trickle in.
Bob screams as he tries to move in the tight coffin; it’s as immobilizing as I thought it would be.
All the hairs rise on my body as he thrashes and screams in the tight space. I push the hose deeper into the coffin.
His thrashing slows as he looks up at me. “Please. Don’t do this. It was Patrick. He threatened Lenny and me.” His ramblings mean nothing.
The water continues to rise. “You have no family.”
My statement is met with fragmented focus as he watches the water rising like if he looks away, it will fill quicker. “No.” He admits.
“If you had, I would have found them and caged them, too. Just like I’ve done to Claire.” My stomach twists with guilt.
They brought this upon themselves. Each one of them deserved this.
My gaze darts to Claire, who’s crying. Her fists keep pounding the glass, and I want to tell her to stop before she hurts herself. The bandage on her wrist is bleeding again, and I grit my teeth at the sight.
“Please!” Hysterical words I should be relishing, but Claire is taking all the enjoyment of this moment away from me.
Water pours over my hand, and I look dow
n to see Bob submerged. His eyes wide as he kicks and punches the glass. It’s useless, but it’s human nature to fight to the last breath. I want my face to be the last one he sees as he loses the battle that he’s fighting with his deprived lungs. It’s that moment when he opens his mouth when he has no choice but to let the water pour in and fill his lungs. The drowning slows his thrashing; his eyes close as his body gives out, and I know he’s dead; one down four to go.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CLAIRE
My fingers move faster than my eyes can track. I want to slow down, but the burning need to complete the drawing has me pushing the pencil across the floor over and over again until the image starts to take shape in front of me. I’m almost smiling at how realistic this one has turned out. His eyes, they hold too much all at once—a bottomless pit.
My stomach squirms as I stare down at the drawing. Hunching over, I continue from memory of his sharp brows, long thick lashes, moving down to his sharp jaw; I pause once again as the rest of his face takes form. His face is for the front of magazines or movie stars. I shiver as I think of what lurks behind his face that’s designed to lure people in—a man who has locked me in a glass cage.
My fingers tighten around the small colored pencil that I’ve worn down to a nub. I sense his presence in the basement, but I don’t look up. I’m waiting for him to enter. I’m waiting for the click of the door. I’m waiting, and nothing happens. I finally risk a glance in his direction. He’s not alone. A man who’s been very badly beaten is dragged by another man who doesn’t look fazed at all. I can assume the unfazed one is one of my captor’s men. My gaze darts to my captor, who keeps walking deeper into the basement, the lights flickering on, lighting the way. My captor stops, and it takes me a moment to make out the coffin. My stomach heaves as I get off the ground and move to the wall of glass. The man whose face is swollen and coated in bruises looks at me, and I swear he says my name. His green eyes bounce around the space, and I can see he’s looking for an exit. I should tell him it’s pointless, that I tried. He rushes forward out of the security man’s grasp. He might have gotten five steps away before he’s restrained and dragged back kicking and screaming. My heart races as they take him over to the glass coffin.
