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Then I notice a huge, pink and fresh bruise on her left cheek, and a little blood trickling from her nose.
My nostrils flare and my jaw tightens. I blink my eyes open, and it’s like I’m watching everything through a first-person shooter video game and I’m about to die. The edges of my vision are splattered with red and everything darkens. In a few seconds, I won’t be able to see anything at all.
He hurt Pea, and he’s going to pay.
I jump onto his back and peel him off of her, dragging him by his neck and throwing him against the wall. He’s not going to die. He’s going to live.
Too bad for him.
Pinning him until his body molds with the exposed bricks, I signal her with my index finger to come closer behind my back. Her figure appears next to me in no time. My fingers sink into the flesh of his neck, cutting off his air.
“What’s your name?” I ask the young guy. He looks to be in his early twenties, fat, thuggish and ugly. There’s a red handprint of her small palm across his cheek.
“I ain’t telling you nothing,” he hisses out, along with whatever oxygen’s still left in him, and then spits blood. Prescott hands me my dagger, and I shove it deep into his thigh, until I hear the tear of his pants as the edge pokes through the other side of his leg.
“All right, let’s go through your options”—I shrug, sporting a polite smile—“Tell me what your name is, and you’ll live, plus, I’ll let you go. I got a little message to send Godfrey, anyway. However, if you do not cooperate, I will kill you, find out who you are, then go and butcher your family. Seeing as you know who I am, I trust you’ll go with the sane, user-friendly option number one. Now, I’ll ask again—what’s your name?”
“T-T-T-Tony,” he sobs, snot running down into his mouth. What a fucking wimp. It makes what Prescott went through with her chin up so much more admirable.
“Listen to me carefully, T-T-T-Tony,” I repeat mockingly, yanking his cell out of his pocket. “Call your backup downstairs and tell them you need help dragging our bodies down. When he gets up here, we’re going to sit down and discuss your next move. Am I clear?”
He nods frantically and follows my instructions. Three minutes later, another guy walks in. He’s black and tall, and looks like he’s seen a ghost when he enters the room. Prescott points with her stress ball to the corner where T-T-T-Tony sits.
“Please, sit down. Would you like anything to drink?” Her upper-class manners kick in, and our new guest’s mouth hangs open.
I drag the dagger out of the first guy’s thigh, slowly as I possibly can so that it’ll hurt more than necessary, and bring the dagger to the black man’s throat, the blade stroking the pulse in his neck.
“You know you’ve been playing for the losing team, right?” I poke at his skin, producing a pea-sized dot of blood, before withdrawing it and admiring the blood at the tip of the blade from all angles. “The good news is, you can still atone for your mistake.”
The dagger flies down the guy’s T-shirt, and I tear it almost completely, letting the blood on it stain the cloth. I squat down to his legs and slash his pants. Then I go back up and punch him in the face, so that it’ll look like he’s been in a fight. All while Tony is still slumped against the wall, staring at his thigh wound in horror while holding his leg like it’s about to run away and leave him behind at any moment.
“Here, that looks better. Now, as the lady said, please sit down.” I throw him head first to collapse next to his injured friend and then bend down.
“Gentlemen, driver’s licenses.” I open my palm and wait for them to slap their IDs into it. I’m starting to think that this is the best thing that’s ever happened to us, being discovered by two of Godfrey’s wise guys. Prescott writes down their names and addresses on the back of her hand with a pen we stole from the motel. As if she’d ever use ‘em.
“Caleb,” I go through the black guy’s wallet, walking back and forth in the tiny room that’s now crowded, with three grown men and my girl inside it. “I see you’re a baby-daddy. She’s cute. I’d hate to fuck her up, ya’ know? Look at that smile.” I pass his wallet to Prescott. There’s a toddler, around two years old, in a photo behind the dirty plastic of his wallet. A big, innocent smile adorns her sweet face, pink flowers in her braids. Pea tsks and shakes her head, playing along with my game. “We can make a good buck selling her across the border. Too cute,” she agrees, straight-faced. I almost snicker. I’d rather slit my wrists than hurt a kid, but he doesn’t know that. He thinks like a scumbag. And sadly, a part of me, the fresh-out-of-San-Dimas part, thinks like one, too.
