Here's another chapter for you lovelies. I do want to preface this with a little trigger warning. This chapter does contain some violence as well as being drugged.
Enjoy! And feedback is always appreciated.
SAM
I'm standing in the parking lot of an old abandoned warehouse in the hell-if-I'd-be-caught-here-after-dark part of Atlanta. My instructions were to come alone to this address after I retrieved the ledgers from the bank. So I did. Earlier, I made a show of leaving my apartment and going to a bank that I'm familiar with across town. I went back to where the safety-deposit boxes are located. The anteroom isn't visible from the rest of the bank, so I knew I could pull off my ruse from there. There was a young, too-eager guy manning the desk outside that room. I talked to him about the rates for renting the boxes and how secure they are, shit like that to waste some time. I have no doubt they sent someone to follow me, so I was making it look good. I left the bank after about fifteen minutes, still carrying the bag I walked in with.
When I got into the car, I slipped the fake ledgers into it, just in case someone got the wise idea of hijacking me on the way. But they didn't, which encourages me that they really might be willing to play ball. Now, as I wait for…whatever to happen, my mind is on the empty ledgers in the car. Cam has the real ones. He's parked on the motorcycle behind an old generator a couple of hundred feet away, watching. I've been here for six minutes and haven't seen a soul. There's one rusty door to the right of the big hangar-style doors of the warehouse, but I haven't checked it. I'm not going into that building. They're batshit crazy if they think I'm dumb enough to do that. They can bring Marissa out to me.
I hear the crunch of gravel behind me, and I turn to see a white painter's van driving toward me. Good God, could they be any more cliché? It rolls to a stop near the building and a fat, balding guy in a tracksuit gets out of the driver's side. Apparently, the answer is yes, they can be more cliché. His back is to me, but I do not doubt that under the jacket of his black leisure suit is a wifebeater tank top and at least one gold chain around his neck. Evidently, the classic mobster look is no longer reserved for followers of The Godfather or Goodfellas. I watch him walk across the gravel lot toward me.
"Do you have the books?" he asks when he stops in front of me. His Russian accent is thick. Do you have zee books? It would be no surprise to anyone who knows organized crime that he's Bratva. Russian mafia.
"I'm sure you know I do."
Up close, I can see how this guy differs from movie mobsters. It's not his face. It's scarred, but not too grotesquely. It's not his size. His heft is intimidating, but not overly much since I'm the same height and obviously in much better shape. It's not his words. They're direct and innocuous enough. No, it's his eyes that make my palms sweat. They're cold and dead. If I ever had to describe to someone what the eyes of a killer look like, I'd describe these. Not the color or the shape, but what they say. They say he doesn't mind doing his job and that he probably never has. They're the eyes of someone who's never had a soul, someone who was probably born into this world doing horrible things to innocent people inside his head until he was old enough to do them in reality. I pray to God these eyes never touch Mercedes. Not even from a distance.
"Give them to me and I give you the girl."
"Let me see her first. I'm not giving you anything until I know she's okay."
Those eyes watch me for the longest ten seconds of my life before he speaks. Without fully taking his gaze off me, he turns his head and yells something in Russian. Seconds later, one of the van doors slides open and Marissa is pushed out of the van. Her hands and ankles are bound and she's gagged and blindfolded. She falls limply to the ground, landing on her side. I hear her moan of pain and see her draw her legs up toward her chest as if in pain. Around the gag and blindfold, I can see that her face is bruised, as is her shoulder, which is bared by the camisole she has on. It looks like the top to some pajamas I've seen her wear before. I hope they haven't done anything worse to her than just bruise her. Whether or not I like Marissa or respect her as a person, I wouldn't wish what has happened to her on my worst enemy.
"Now, give me the books."
"Have them put her in my car."
"Show me the books first."
I had sort of figured it might go like this, so I feel prepared when I turn and walk to the car, retrieving the blank ledgers. I leave the driver's- side door open, which will hopefully save me valuable seconds if I need to get away quickly. I walk the books back to the big guy, stopping short of where I stood before. The more distance between us, the better. I hold up the books briefly, then drop them back to my side.
"Now, have them put her in my car."
The guy smiles the most chilling smile I've ever seen. It makes me wonder if I'm somehow playing right into his hands. I don't know how I could be, but I'm smart enough to know that underestimating people like this is a fatal error. So I don't. I do my best not to underestimate him.
He calls behind him again, to whoever is in the van. "Duffy put her in my car."
I watch a smaller, more American-looking version of the guy in front of me step out of the can, scoop Marissal up, throw her roughly over his shoulder, and carry her to the BMW. He opens the back passenger door and flings her onto the backseat. Through the still-open driver's side, I can hear her muffled sobs. I don't know if they're sobs of pain or relief.
"Now, give me books," he repeats like I'm an obstinate child he's running out of patience with.
My heart tries to hammer it's way past my ribs as I hand him the blank ledgers. As I suspected, he flips through them. When he raises his cold eyes to me, if possible, they're even colder.
"I thought you'd be smarter than this. Your father, not so smart. Look what happened to him." He pauses meaningfully. "And to his family."
Fire races along my veins at his reference to my mother and her horrific death. "Things are going to be different this time. You're going to le us leave here with the books, and you're going to assure me, on behalf of you and your boss and all your shitbag associates, that no one will ever come near me, my family, or my friends again. Because if you do, the books will be the least of your worries."
"What makes you think I do that?"
"Because we have video. Very damning video of the triggerman at the dock that day seven years ago. A man who can be directly linked to Slava." Slava is the leader of the Bratva cell in the south. "Now I can promise you that as long as everyone I've ever known or met remains safe, this video will never see the light of day. But if-"
The cell phone in my pocket rings. My heart skips a beat. There's a problem. A big one. Everyone was clear on when to use this number- only if something has gone terribly wrong.
My stomach squeezed into a tight knot.
"Hold that thought. This must be my contact for getting you a preview of the video."
It's a bluff. Only Cam has seen the video and it's only on his phone, not mine. He made a copy onto a flash drive, but it's not with him. It's in a safe place, according to him. But it buys me a couple of minutes, which I need.
"What is it?" I answer.
"They took Mercedes." Gavin's words and the steel in his voice make my chest feel tight.
It's arguably my worst fear to date. And it's happening. Right now.
"Where?" I ask, mindful of the enforcer standing not too far from me.
"I followed them to a small brick house in Macon. Looks like a hideout."
"How the fu-" I catch myself, clamping my lips together tightly. I love Gavin like a brother, and I trust him. I trusted him with the thing most important to me. And he let me down. "What happened?" I ask, trying to be mindful of the people who might be listening.
"Took her mom's ride to school while I was in the shower." I'm too mad to respond. After a long pause, Gavin continues, his voice dripping with contrition. "Sam, mate, you know I'll do anything to help you get her back. I'm so sorry. I know-"
"Stop," I say, cutting him off. I don't doubt something unexpected happened, because he's still one of the biggest badasses I know, but at the moment I don't give a shit. I'm just angry at the fuckers who took Mercedes. Furious even. And scared as hell. But there's no time for any of that. The only thing I care about is getting to Mercedes.
"Are you...prepared?" I ask.
"Mate, I'm always prepared."
"I'll call you back."
My thoughts are racing through ways to get us out of this. Giving them another bargaining chip- the ultimate bargaining chip, as far as I'm concerned- was never part of the plan.
Outwardly casual, I smile at the big guy, turning just enough so that I can keep the smaller guy, Duffy, in my peripheral vision. "Change of plans. I'll give you the books for the girl, but I'm holding on to the video as insurance."
"I don't think so. I don't believe you have a video." He takes a slow step toward me, one meant to be intimidating. And it is. I won't lie.
I take one step back. "You'll get a preview of the video when you get the books, but the new deal is that you let us go and we can arrange another meeting for the video trade."
"Another trade? For what?"
"I know you took her." Even saying the words makes me furious- at them, and myself, at my father. My pulse pounds in my ears and my hands shake with the desire to tear into this guy.
His upper lip twitches. "Give me the books and video or she's dead."
"No deal. It's my way or you'll never get what you want."
"No, it's my way or she dies." He takes another step toward me, only this one isn't slow. It's aggressive. I've made him angry. "And, just for the aggravation, I'll make it slow. I might even let some of these boys have fun with her before I kill her."
A blinding combination of fear and rage drops down over me. I can't think past the vision his words conjure and the fury and panic it inspires.
Before I can give the wisdom of it a second thought, my fist is flying through the air toward the big Bratva. It connects with his steely jaw and I hear a crunch. Whether his jaw or my hand, I can't be sure. I'm numb to any pain that I might otherwise be feeling.
He's so taken off guard by someone willing to actually touch him, he stumbles back two steps, giving me a momentary advantage. And I jump on it. I come across with my left elbow, smashing it into his face as hard as I can. I push my position and keep pounding away at him-left, right, left, right, fist, fist, elbow, fist.
I barely hear the sound of the motorcycle approaching, and I barely feel the arm that wraps around my neck from behind and starts to squeeze. It's only when my air is cut off that I pause in my assault on the Russian. Duffy has me in a pretty tight chokehold.
Before I can throw him off, the big Russian plants one fist in my stomach, doubling me over. His knee meets my cheekbone next, knocking me to one side as light explodes behind my eye. Blood is buzzing in my ears as I struggle to catch my breath. I'm gasping, staring at the ground, and I see the Russian's wingtips retreat one step. My head is getting fuzzy from the lack of oxygen, and the only thing I can think of is that no one wears wingtip with a tracksuit.
My vision starts to blur when I hear the sound of a gun slide being drawn back to jack a round into the chamber. It's an ominous sound, but Cam's voice is even more so. "Let him go or I'll put a bullet in your skull."
I know both of these guys have guns. My attack on the big one and the subsequent involvement of the little one served as the perfect distraction for Cam to move in and get the upper hand. The grip around my neck eases enough that I can catch my breath. I inhale and straighten, expanding my lungs and gulping in air.
After two deep breaths, my vision clears and I see the Russian glaring at me. His eyes aren't cold anymore. They're furious. And deadly. "You boys, you make a big mistake," the big one says, wiping blood from his dripping nose and mouth with the back of his hand. Then, never taking his eyes off mine, he spits at my feet. "We don't bargain."
"That's funny because I was under the impression you brought me here today to bargain."
"I brought you here today to kill you," He says. Deadpan.
"Not much of a negotiator, are you?"
"With one phone call, she'll be dead. Also, if I don't call with instructions within the hour, she'll be dead. No matter what you do, she'll be dead."
My heart freezes inside my chest at the prospect.
"Unless you give me what I want."
"You just said you don't bargain."
The Russian's sneer is nothing short of evil. "No matter. If you leave here today, I'll find you tomorrow. And her. And him," he says tipping his head at Cam behind me. "You can't run far enough."
"I'd run that by your boss before you make any rash decisions. There's more than one copy of the video. Something happens to anyone I know and it goes straight to the police, along with some really helpful tips about the triggerman. And his associates."
A muscle in the Russian's' jaw twitches as she listens to me. I can hear the heavy breathing of the little, Duffy, at my back. Cam is behind us somewhere. The Russian's eyes have flickered to him a time or two. I wonder if he knows who he is if he recognizes my supposedly dead brother behind the facial hair. "I still don't believe you. I think I kill you all and take my chances."
Suddenly, Duffy releases me and moves to the Russian's side. Turning to face us, he draws a gun from the waistband of his pants and trains it on me. I know I should be afraid, but it all seems so surreal, I'm just...not. My emotions haven't caught up with my brains yet. My adrenaline is still kicking the shit out of everything except for the fear that Mercedes might get hurt. That's my primary concern right now.
I take a step back to align myself with Cam. I do a double-take when I glance over at him. He's a pale as a ghost under his tan, staring at Duffy like he's seen a ghost. "What?"
"That's him," he says quietly, almost too quietly, like he's in shock or something. I just don't know why.
"That's who?"
"That's the bastard that killed Mom. He's the one on the video."
There are about ten seconds of absolute silence while everyone digests what Cam said. He's the first to recover, of course. Taking us all by surprise, Cam lets out an animalistic growl and lunges forward. "You motherfu-"
With reflexes still under the influence of an ass-ton of adrenaline, I'm able to reach out and stop him before he can get to Duffy. "Cam, no! They've got Mercedes." I feel the muscles of his shoulder flex as he strains against me. When he looks at me, his eyes are blank. It's like he's so furious he doesn't quite understand what I'm saying. That or he just doesn't care. I give him a shake to snap him out of it. "They've got Mercedes, man. Be smart."
His look assures me that smart to me is much different than what smart is to him. He's got no stake in this, only his hunger for revenge. That's all he wants. And I'm standing in the way of that. But I'll be damned if I risk Mercedes just to satisfy his needs. There will be time for that later when we can think and plot and be prepared. Today is not that day. Today is only about making sure Mercedes is safe. Nothing else matters as much. Not by a long shot.
I look to the Russian. "Still think we don't have a video?" If there were no video, Cam wouldn't have recognized the triggerman.
I can tell by the return of the tic in the big Russian's jaw that he doesn't like something. And I know exactly what it is. He's stuck. He knows there's no way he's leaving here with everything, and he knows he can't kill us and take it. So he has to bargain. Even though he says he doesn't bargain.
"You're not leaving here until I get the books. The real books."
I hate to give up the books, but the only reason Cam is here is so that I could give up the books without being up shit creek. And if this is the bone I have to throw these doges to get them off my back so I can get to Mercedes, so be it. "Fine. Take the books. A good-faith offering." I turn and nod to Cam. His lips thin, and I can tell he doesn't want to give them a damn thing but a bullet between the eyes. I can almost hear Cam's teen grinding. He looks livid. But he doesn't argue. Thank God. At least he didn't come back a total bastard. At least he can be considerate of the lives at stake here.
Never taking his eyes off the other two men, Cam reaches into the compartment behind the seat on the bike and pulls out the real ledgers. With an eff-you flip of the wrist, he flings the books onto the ground about a foot in front of the big Russian.
Still oozing blood from his nose and mouth, the Russian says one short, clipped foreign word to Duffy, who immediately moves to get the ledgers. He hands them over and the big guy flips through them, verifying that they're actually full of writing.
He opens each book and checks the front page, I assume for dates. When he gets to the third one, he turns to the middle of the book, then forward a few pages, scanning the rows of numbers for something. My guess is it's how he authenticated that they're the books, not just any books or clever reproductions. This is exactly why I knew better than to try to deceive them. Mafia doesn't get to the level of criminal activity it gets without having some brains.
When he seems satisfied, he looks up at me and sneers. "Take the girl in the car, but know that you've made enemies, enemies you don't want to make. This is not over." With that, he nods to Duffy, and the two turn and walk away, not the least bit concerned with turning their backs on us. I'm sure they know that we know that it would be suicide to do anything to them at this point, although I doubt Cam sees it that way.
When they're back in the van, I turn to Cam. "Take Marissa. I'm going to get Mercedes."
"Bullshit! You're not leaving me with-"
"I don't have time for this right now. Get off my bike before I throw you off." One eyebrow shoots up like he might consider pushing me just for the hell of it, but then he sighs and gets off the bike. "Keep your phone on. Marissa will tell you where to take her." I sling gravel all over the place as I peel out and gun it.
Once I get to a more populated street, I pull over and call Gavin.
"Where the hell are you?" he asks without preamble.
"I'm on my way. Give me directions." Gavin gives me the route he took to get to the house and describes which one it is. "Do you know how many people there are inside?"
"From what I can tell, just the two who took her. One young guy, one old. Now that you're on your way, I'll sneak out and see if I can get close enough to have a look around. When you come, stop at the north end of the street and walk-in. There are some trees that can keep you from sticking out like a giant bloke you are."
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Be careful. Somebody's gonna have to get her the hell out of there while I clean up the mess."
That tells me all I need to know about Gavin's intentions.
It wasn't a dream. I realize this with a fuzzy sense of panic as my hearing comes back online like a flickering fluorescent bulb. I recognize the voices I'm hearing. They're the same two I heard earlier. How much earlier, I don't know. Time has slipped from me altogether.
"She's waking up again," I hear one say. "Give her some more."
I try to shake my head and tell them not to, but the slightest movement sends a sharp pain lancing through my skull and saliva gushing into my mouth. I hear a moaning sound and realize it's me. That must be what the no that's in my head sounds like out in the open air.
"Hurry before that bitch starts screaming again."
I try again to dissuade them, but I hear only garbled gurgling noise. My head spins and dips, even though my eyes are closed. The slow squish of blood through my veins sounds like a tired river inside my skull. I try again to speak. "Nooooo morrrrre." The words are drawn out around a protracted moan.
"Pour some more on the cloth and hold it longer. Maybe you're not giving her enough."
I whimper. I can't help it. I know instinctively that they shouldn't give me more. I feel like barely hanging on as it is. "Too much," I slur.
One lowers his voice, but I can still hear him. "Is she supposed to sound like that?"
"I don't know."
"You don't think that elbow to the head did something to her, do you?"
Fear brings just enough adrenaline with it to clear my head of the fog that muddles it. At least a little.
I think back to the parking lot at school. I remember rolling down my window. I remember the cloth over my face. But then there's a blank until I was carried. Disjointed images from the underside of a bridge flash through my mind, and I remember waking up as the two guys were transferring me into another vehicle. I remember kicking and screaming, clawing, and biting until the one holding my upper body dropped me. I screamed and kicked harder with my feet until something dense and heavy hit me upside the head. And then there's nothing again until I woke up tied to a bed in an otherwise empty room. I raised my head and started to look around just as the same young guy lunged at me with a rag in his hand. He smothered my face with it until blackness swallowed me again. That's the last thing I remembered until now.
"We're not supposed to kill her yet. Maybe just give her a little bit more, in case we need to wake her up and let someone talk to her or whatever."
"Yeah, let's do that."
I feel tears running down my cheeks, but it's an oddly detached sensation like I'm feeling the warm streaks through a layer of fabric stretched over my skin. I try to open my eyes to see what's going on, but they won't cooperate. It's a struggle just to draw one breath after another. My chest feels so heavy, the urge to sleep so very strong,
The strength to fight eludes me when I feel a rag come across my face. I try to turn my head away, but the hand is persistent and I'm too weak. Vaguely, like smoke drifting through a room, it occurs to me that they might be giving me enough of whatever they're using to cause permanent brain damage. I think of dad and how heartbroken he'll be. I think of mom and how smug she'll be. But most of all, I think of Sam. Of what his lips feel like, what his smile looks like. Of all the things I didn't say, of all the things I'll never get the change to say now. Of how cowardly I was about telling him I love him. More tears course down my cheeks, fading, fading until I feel them no more.
And then all thought is gone.