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Where is she? What’s he doing to her? “Check in with Beckett,” I grunt, scanning the streets for any sign of the car from the video. We’re in a fairly well-off part of town, but a car like that would still stick out like a sore thumb. Not the sort of car person drives if they want to blend in, which was something I thought we had in our favor.
How naive could I be? I’m well aware beating myself up isn’t going to change anything, but I need to. I’m at fault. Anything that happens to her tonight will be on my head, and no amount of rationalization is going to change my feelings. She was my responsibility, and I let her down.
When Jock’s phone buzzes, I have him send the call through the car’s speakers rather than his earpiece. It’s one of our guys, and his voice is tight. “Somebody posted some pretty nasty shit on a message board. It looks legit.”
“What are you talking about?” I blurt out. Now he sounds like he’s choking, probably unaware he was on speaker and that I could hear every word. “Out with it.”
“A couple of the guys were looking at some shady sites, sort of a hunch,” he explains. Funny how my presence on the call makes him sound more clipped and professional.
“Dark web,” Jock mutters.
“Right. There’s a post with a picture and coordinates. No text other than that.”
“What’s in the picture?” I’ve never so fervently wanted to know something I’m sure it’s going to tear me to pieces.
“I’ll send it to Jock.” he pauses, clears his throat. “Like I said, it looks legit. Undoctored.” A moment later, a message lights up Jock’s screen. I grab the phone rather than waste time on proprieties and open the app.
It’s her. If it wasn’t for the dress and the diamond bracelet she’s still wearing, I might not be able to recognize her. Bile floods my throat. I’m barely able to swallow it back in time.
“GPS coordinates,” I realize, copying and pasting them into the map app even though all I see in my mind’s eye is the destruction in that photo. The nose that looks like it’s been broken. Swollen eyes, split lips. He kicked the shit out of her.
I realize now we’ll be lucky if that’s all he did.
“Motherfuck,” Jock growls, and the car seems to jump forward when he floors the gas. “Three fucking miles from here.” He follows the path laid out by the app. All I can do is sit here and hope that bastard hasn’t left yet. Or that we somehow cross paths along the way.
I know for a fact there’s a Glock in the glove box. I’d love nothing more than to empty it into his skull.
“How long do you think it was before somebody found that post?” My question goes unanswered, not that I expected one. How would he know? I shudder to think. Her face. Her beautiful face. And all I can do is hope that’s as bad as it got.
“Jesus, where the fuck is this place?” Jock steers the car down a narrow road it’s really more of a path cutting through dense woods.
All I see in front of me is her limp body lying across a filthy mattress. Was it her blood spattered on it, or someone else’s? Was she alive? The son of a bitch posted her picture online to taunt me. There’s no other explanation.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the headlights wash over what could easily be the inspiration for a horror movie. “You’re kidding me,” Jock mutters, but I barely hear it as I jump from the car before he’s put it in Park. He throws open the door. “Wait!”
Wait? For what? There are no other cars here, nothing but a fresh set of tire tracks. Fucking coward. Didn’t want to wait around until I got here.
I know better than to call her name as I run unarmed into the house. It only takes a few long strides beyond the open front door to tell me I have to take my time—the wood is rotting, there are random holes pockmarking the floor. “Watch your step!” I call out to Jock before taking the stairs. Moonlight flowing through holes in the roof reveal glittering beads strewn around the landing.
I follow the trail into a room at the end of the hall. There’s a large hole in the ceiling that allows silvery light to form something like a spotlight illuminating heartbreaking destruction.
I want to scream. I want to rage. The only thing that comes out is a deep breath with her name on it. “Delilah.” My feet begin to move, my arms outstretched, my hands aching to touch her even when I’m not sure it’s a good idea.
It doesn’t occur to me to check out the room, to make sure there’s nobody waiting. Right now, I don’t care. Even unarmed, I’d gladly kill anyone with my bare hands. I doubt they could take me down with an entire clip full of lead.
Jock joins me as I’m checking her pulse. “Fuck me,” he groans, joining me on the other side of the bed. “Is she…”
“She’s alive. She’s breathing.” But damn it, look at her. Just look at her. I don’t know what to focus on first: her mangled face, the torn dress revealing a map of bruises, blood on the insides of her thighs.
Or her shorn head. “He even cut off her hair,” I whisper, taking her head in my hands but afraid to move her more than that. “He cut off her hair.” The photo he posted was taken up close, but now the handfuls of hair all over the bed are testament to how he brutally sawed it off.
“We have to get her out of here.” I know Jock is right, but I’m not sure we should move her. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? I don’t want to break her any worse than she’s already been broken but this isn’t the place for her.
And when she moans softly, it’s a knife to my heart. “I’m here,” I whisper, leaning in close. “Delilah, I’m right here. It’s Luca. I’m getting you out of here.” I wish she’d open her eyes, but I doubt she’d be able to. They’re badly swollen already and will probably only get worse. Black eyes, I’m familiar with.
It’s the rest of this—especially the way my insides twist up every time she groans—that I don’t have the first fucking clue what to do with.
“Come on. I’ll call the doctor from the car.” When Jock reaches down like he’s going to pick her up, I wave him off in favor of doing it myself.
My fault. All my fault. Every wound, every bruise, every drop of blood. This is on me.
I gather her into my arms and lift her as gently as I can but still she groans. “I know, I know,” I whisper. My God, there isn’t a clean inch of skin on her face. My lips brush against dried blood when I kiss her forehead. “I’m taking you home. We’re going to get you fixed up.”
And then, I’m going to drain every drop of blood from that motherfucker’s body. I’m going to listen to him scream. I might even record it so I can play it back for myself until I’ve memorized every note, every shriek, every plea.
“Don’t you worry,” I tell her once I have her in the back seat of the car, draped across my lap with her head on my shoulder. “I’m going to make him pay for this. I’m going to make him hurt.”
