The lightness in her tone vanishes. ‘Definitely the rabies. Bigger doesn’t always mean scarier. These guys,’ she points, ‘are flying syringes. They shouldn’t bite unless they’re hungry, or you smell like fear, which you’re basically marinating in with all that sweating!’
My gaze flicks between Stella and the naked man being feasted on, my body pressed against the enclosure, frozen, staring. The door is locked. A lone bulb flickers overhead casting shadows on the half-conscious man slumped against the chair. Bats scuttle over his skin, tiny claws tracing patterns in his flesh. Recognition strikes me like a slap.
I shift towards Stella. ‘Do you know who this is?’
She barely spares him a glance. ‘Does it matter?’
A weak groan escapes him. ‘H-help me.’
My pulse ticks faster at her comment. ‘Stella. Do. You. Know. Who. This. Is?’
The man’s eyes flutter, his sluggish demeanor catching up to our raised voices. Then, his gaze sharpens. The light, the voices, the fear and urgency overriding exhaustion is now sharpening his senses. ‘Hey, scumbag, you gonna get me outta here or what?’
I scoff at the interruption and tilt my head. ‘Scumbag?’ My voice turns cool. ‘Do you even know the meaning of the word?’
He thrashes against his restraints, as I continue. ‘You just called me a condom from the 1930s. Scum + bag. Not a way to treat someone when you’re asking for help.’
He spits curses like they’ll somehow set him free. The bulb overhead flickers – dodgy, projecting light across his bloodied face. I glance back at Stella. ‘How long has he been sitting here?’
She barely looks up as she answers. ‘Twelve hours.’
‘Twelve hours?’ My stomach turns inside out. ‘What were you thinking?’ I gasp.
She exhales hard. ‘I was thinking he’s a low-life. I told you I only whack bad people.’
‘Well, he’s definitely bad.’
‘And my little pets needed feeding, so I figured they could suck him off rather than me suck off some fat French f-’
I cut her off. ‘How long did you plan on keeping him here? Oh, for goodness sake, that bat’s lapping at his cock.’ I retch.
She shrugs. ‘He’d last about a week to ten days.’
‘We need to move NOW.’
‘Why? Our fun had just started,’ she smiles, stroking my arm.
‘Why?’ I echo, disbelief hitting like a punch. ‘That’s Ritchie Thompson…as in the grandson of Charlie Thompson.’
She chews on her lower lip. ‘So? Who the fuck is that?’
I wipe my mouth between my thumb and forefinger. ‘A wildcard who wouldn’t hesitate to off someone – if I’m being polite.’ I stare at her like she’s lost her damn mind. ‘As inThe Thompsons.’
But there’s silence. Then, realisation smashes through like a busted door. I don’t hesitate any longer. I snatch Stella by the arm, and drag her towards the barn door. ‘We need to go. Now! We’re lucky we aren’t dead already.’
From what I knew about Charlie’s grandson, he’s the kid that never quite filled his father’s shoes. Always overshadowed by his father’s and grandfather’s empire, he saw arms dealing as his ticket to power; a way to carve a name for himself so he could run with the big boys. If he was moving weapons, it wouldn’t have been for quick cash, it was for influence, connections and a seat at the table. My guess is if he’s down here in the south of France, he’s dealing with heavy hitters who move weapons alongside their drug empire through Spain. I’ve heard the stories of weapons being illegally transported to conflict zones in North Africa, often hidden in commercial shipping containers. If Ritchie is missing, Charlie won’t let it slide. Losing a member of his family? That’s a declaration of war, and bodies will drop.
‘Let’s just let him go,’ Stella shrugs.
I scoff. ‘And have him squealing all the way home? If his grandfather doesn’t already know where you are, Ritchie will lead them straight to us. If Ritchie walks out of here, then we’re already dead.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘We make sure he has no voice left to squeal.’ I grab her arm, my fingers clamping down to demand attention. There’s no finesse about it. Her arm is seized in a desperate attempt to anchor her before the conversation spirals.
She pulls back. ‘I’m not leaving my bats behind.’
I stare at her, and then back at the half-dead bloke still tied up. ‘I don’t give a flying arse about the bats.’
