It’s something I can’t shake. I hold still while the girls exchange, but my pulse picks up. It’s a primal whisper in the back of my mind that we’re not alone. My focus shifts behind us, beyond the tangled trees and winding paths as the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Footsteps? No, not quite. A sense of displacement…of presence.
‘Stella,’ I whisper, throwing her a glance. Evelyn clocks the concerned look on my face, immediately her eyes flicking past my shoulder. She doesn’t speak, but it’s a silent confirmation. Stella turns towards me like she hasn’t noticed. Maybe she hasn’t? But I have. Evelyn backs away, disappearing into the building, the door lock snapping shut like a trigger being pulled. I don’t think – I just act. My hand clamps around Stella’s arm and I yank her towards me, my instincts screaming louder than reason. ‘Ouch!’ she groans, stumbling as she’s caught off-guard. I don’t have time to explain. My pace quickens as I hurry towards the car, urgency sinking into every step. Behind us, the zoo hums, alive in ways it shouldn’t.
‘We’re not alone, Stella. Get in the car.’
Footsteps.
Closer.
‘MOVE!’ I hiss, barely more than a breath. There’s a rush of blood in my ears as Stella’s face contorts. She hears it too – feels it.
The second my fingers curl around the car’s handle, the world explodes. A force slams into my back, pinning me against the car, as Stella is ripped away before I can even process the attack. She’s fighting. Hard. Thrashing, kicking and screaming through the hand that clamps over her mouth. Her small frame is hoisted into the air by hands that don’t falter. I twist, whipping around to face my assailant, throwing a punch towards the shadow – but it doesn’t connect. Instead, a knee drives into my gut, stealing my breath, and folding me in half. I choke, stumble, but he’s on me. Gloved hands seize my shirt, wrenching me forward so hard my shoes skid across the concrete. I stumble again. My feet barely catch the ground beneath me before my back slams into a wall with a hollow thud. I don’t breathe, I can’t. I react. My heart isn’t just pounding – it’s ricocheting against my ribs like it’s trying to escape my chest entirely. Every instinct screams at me to run, but the weight of fear for Stella pins me in place. That helplessness, that inability to reach her, to protect her – it’s worse than any pain. There’s fear, real, cold fear flooding every nerve ending, but underneath that something deeper stirs. Maybe it’s desperation. Maybe it’s Stella. I’m not a fighter, at least I haven’t been one for some years, but something inside me refuses to crumble. My legs shake, my hands are slick with sweat, and I move.
She needs me.
My elbow drives low – connects with a thud, and there’s a grunt, their grip loosening. I manage to twist free, pivoting hard, slamming a fist into his ribs. He buckles, just enough, so I follow through with a strike to the jaw – his head snaps sideways, a spray of spit cutting through the air like shrapnel.
My knuckles scream, my breath is ragged, and blood smears warm across my cheek. Then –crack. Pain explodes at the base of my skull; the world blinks sideways in a rush of sparks. I fall to the ground. Muffled voices bleed through the fog in my skull, they’re garbled and distant. Boots scuff against the gravel, each step sounding sharp and jarring like needles in my ears. Hands fumble at my collar, rough and impatient, dragging me forwards. The car boot creaks open, wide and gaping, like a mouth mid-yawn waiting to swallow me whole.
Hands shove me forward, and I’m just a heap of breathless muscle and blood hitting cold metal. The impact rattles my bones as my head snaps forward, my forehead knocking against the car’s metal with a thud. Pain sears through my eyes, the taste of copper flooding my mouth. Blood drips slow, tracing a lazy path down my chin as I gasp, struggling to orient myself in the cramped space. Then – slam. The boot closes and locks.
The first thing I register is the pain. It’s a dull, throbbing ache that pulses behind my eyes. My wrists burn – bound too tightly behind me, my legs too, restrained against a chair.
The scent of damp, dusty concrete fills my nostrils, laced with motor oil, and wood from shipping crates stacked high in the vast warehouse. I blink against the dim glow of a single, flickering bulb, and I see a figure standing to my right – hooded and motionless. A faceless executioner. Then I see him – Charlie Thompson.
He’s leaning against a crate, arms crossed – too comfortable.
‘I expected you to wake up, sooner.’ His voice is smooth, unhurried. I swallow against the dryness in my throat, forcing my thoughts to sharpen, to push back the nausea.
‘What do you want, Charlie?’
Charlie chuckles. ‘Now, that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? WhatdoI want?’
There’s no rage in his expression – something worse. He eyes me like an experiment. That’s the thing about Charlie, he never wastes a moment, never raises his voice, because he doesn’t need to. I’ve seen men unravel just from the way he looks at them. I breathe through the discomfort. There’s no room for panic – not when it comes to him. I used to think men like Charlie had a code, that underneath his blood-stained history there was an ounce of logic, of fairness, but I was wrong. Charlie isn’t just running this war – he enjoys it. The feud with the Sanchez’s wasn’t born out of necessity, nor was it about turf or money – not really. It was personal. Personal to Charlie. Mr Lewis’s father made the mistake of underestimating Charlie once, thinking he could out-manoeuvre a man who sees ten miles ahead. That mistake cost the Sanchez’s bodies, and a reputation that stung the Sanchez family. I tried to warn Mr Lewis, vendettas, betrayals, and power plays stretch back further than I, and most remember. His father, Mr Sanchez, just had that way about him, and for a time the Thompsons tolerated him, because it kept things predictable, but that predictability was shattered when the Sanchez’s made a move they shouldn’t have – a backdoor deal, and it cost Charlie something irreplaceable. Rumour says it was money, others whisper it was blood – someone close to Charlie taken as collateral, executed as a message. That’s the moment the war stopped being about business and became personal. Charlie never forgives. Never forgets. And most importantly, he never lets an enemy breathe longer than necessary. I’ve never personally dealt with Charlie, although, I’m sure in another life we’d probably get along quite well - even though he’s not someone who plays games – he ends them. But this isn’t the Charlie Thompson the world sees – the man with the sharp suits and polite conversation – this version of him, the one standing in front of me, sleeves rolled up, blood already staining his knuckles on one hand, is closer to the real Charlie. He stands there, fingers flexing like he’s shaking off tension.
‘You know,’ he muses in a low, casual voice. ‘I came here for one thing. One problem to solve. One person to bury.’ He pauses with a slow shake of his head. ‘I didn’t in my wildest dreams think I’d find a bonus thrown in. What’s it been, Salvador?’
‘It’s Sal!’
‘Sal…what’s it been, twenty years?’
‘Twenty-one.’ I force myself to still, to breathe evenly. ‘Where’s Stella?’
‘Is that her name? I thought she was some cunt that tried to take advantage of my grandson.’
My pulse betrays me, hammering against my restraints. Charlie crouches down, resting his forearms on my knees, staring at me like bacteria under a microscope.
‘Never thought I’d see Mr Lewis’s consigliere snooping around a cunt in France…’ He chuckles through his nose, amusement threading his voice. ‘And before Mr Lewis…his father’s consigliere. I guess that means you’ve always been good at making deals?’
He lets the statement hang for a beat, waiting, watching. Then, his jaw twitches. ‘The only problem is…’ His fist flies from the side, cracking against my jaw. ‘I don’t make deals.’
Blood fills my mouth, metallic and warm. I don’t move. I can’t move. Charlie stands up, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt to their rightful position like nothing happened.
‘Mr Lewis is a reasonable man, Charlie. I’m sure we can work something out.’
‘Last time we spoke, he went all gob-shite on me, didn’t he? Spat out some half-baked drivel about my family, and called me a greasy, Guinness-guzzling felcher.’
‘That was ten years ago,’ I sigh.
