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GAGE
The old farmhouse is in need of repair, but I can’t be bothered to care about it as we pull up under the cover of darkness. There aren’t any neighbours close enough to see our arrival, not with the amount of land included with the house, but it’s still better to be safe than sorry. The stonework on the outside of the house is rough and old, just as I remember, but now, even in the dark, I know it crumbles more than it covers. I haven’t been here in over seventeen years, not since I’d run away from my father’s drunken fists as a teenager and found my way to the back streets of London. It’s still a surprise he even left the land and house to me at all, considering the kind of prick he was. Even when I’d gotten the letter about the inheritance and his death, I hadn’t bothered to come out here.
Likely, all his shit will still be inside.
“You good?” Booker asks, eyeing me as we all step out of the Range Rover. I hate the car, it’s too bloody small for me, but I can’t argue that it’s not inconspicuous. Still hate the little thing though.
I nod rather than answer, even as I stare up at the façade. Archer moves over to the porch and tries the doorknob. Unsurprisingly, it’s open. This far out, no one really worries about burglars. My father never had much to steal anyway.
“I’ll check the perimeter,” Eric says, moving past me to go around the farmhouse.
“Don’t bother.” I stare after him when he just waves my words away. “There’s nothing out here, man.”
“Better to check,” Eric retorts, and I’m reminded he’s not as stupid as his appearance makes me think he is. The man has never only been about his looks. He’s smart, charming, and could probably convince a crowd to grab their pitchforks if he wanted them to.
“I’ve got the woman,” Booker adds, reaching inside the backseat for her. He’s far gentler than I would have been. My chest still stings where she stabbed her heel in. Carefully pulling the collar of my shirt down, I stare at the small, indented bruise there, where a bit of dried blood stains my skin.
She left a mark.
“The power is on,” Archer announces, flipping a switch to turn on the porch light. Immediately, the light flickers and dims before settling on a brightness that doesn’t do much of anything at all. “Almost.”
“Everything should still be inside.” I gesture for Booker to follow me once he gets the woman thrown over his shoulder. She falls over him like a sack of potatoes, and for a second, I wonder if I hit her too hard. “Is she still breathing?”
“Yeah,” Booker answers. “Are you suddenly growing a conscience?”
“Nah. Just know she’s worth more alive. We still need a payday, remember?”
Booker snorts but doesn’t question my words. I might be impressed with the good hits this woman got in on us, but that doesn’t mean she’s not still the enemy. She’s one of them, a rich bitch only worried about charity events and what her hair looks like. I glance back at her as Booker follows. She hadn’t seemed to care about messing up anything to do with her appearance when it came to attacking us. I’ve never met a bitch who attacked rather than fled.
Inside, the farmhouse isn’t much better than the outside. Everything is covered with a fine layer of dust, which isn’t a surprise. I hadn’t bothered to hire anyone to take care of it once I’d gotten the notification that everything had been transferred over to me. Honestly, I wouldn’t care if this trash heap of memories burned down. Maybe when we leave here, I’ll strike the match myself.
The stairs creak as we climb them. The bedrooms are all upstairs, and though I should be worried about falling through, they all seem to hold my weight just fine. If they hold me up, then they’ll hold everyone else. The wood floors groan like a motherfucker, just like the stairs, making it almost impossible to move through the old house without alerting everyone that you’re there. That’ll be a nice detail in case the woman ever gets out of her bonds.
I’m almost tempted to open the door on the left, the one I know leads to my father’s room and the shrine he used to have of my mother. Once she passed, he developed an alcohol problem, but the asshole syndrome was worse than the alcohol. I never told anyone that I never forgave my mother for dying and leaving me with him. Despite my father being absolute waste of being a human, he loved my mother. Losing her left him with nothing but his darkness—darkness he took out on me, but I learned and grew hard. I did well on the streets of London, and now I’m better off than I’d ever been living under this roof.
Still, I don’t want to see the shrine.
I move over to the door that used to be my bedroom. It’s probably empty now, which will be just fine to store the woman in. We can bind her hands and feet and just throw her on the cold wood. So what if she gets sick? The air is chilly, but it’s not deathly cold. She’ll survive.
I’m surprised when the door opens with a loud squeak to reveal the room exactly how I left it when I was fifteen. There’s a thicker layer of dust here than the rest of the house, as if it has been closed up for longer, but everything is exactly the same, from the too small twin bed to the posters of half-naked women.
Booker’s brows go up as he walks in, but he wisely doesn’t comment on it. I’m not sure what I would have said if he opened his mouth and spouted some bullshit.
“Just throw her on the bed. We can tie her to it and figure out what to do until she wakes up.”
Booker hesitates for a second before stomping across the old floor with heavy feet. Every step sends a little billow of dust dancing in the air, making the end of my nose tickle. My bloody allergies will probably start acting up soon.
Carefully laying her on the bed, Booker actually takes the time to straighten out the sparkly dress and adjust her limbs comfortably before turning to me. I toss him a length of rope and move around to the opposite side to get the job done. Though Booker had shown care putting her on the bed, he’s sure to tighten the ropes enough to hold her if she wakes. I wouldn’t put it past the woman to come downstairs and attack us all. It was heels last time. Next time, she might use her nails.
“There. She won’t be going anywhere.” Booker nods and steps back. Her wrists are tied to each post of the headboard, the metal frame still sturdy enough to hold, and her ankles are tied together at the base of the bed. There’s no use tying her spread eagle—we aren’t those kinds of criminals.
We aren’t murderers.
Funny enough, both Booker and I are, though he has more honour than me.
“Come on,” I grumble. “Let’s go downstairs and figure out how to clean up this bloody mess.”
In the living area, Eric is already lounging on one of the dusty floral sofas, his arm thrown over his forehead as if he’s sleeping. I know he’s not simply by the pattern of his breaths. Archer is in the kitchen area, furiously scrubbing at the dust on the countertops. The old farm kitchen is dated, just like the rest of the house, done in a horrible green my mum used to say made her happy.
