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And whatever branch of law enforcement has crashed my apartment brought what feels like two hundred elephants, all standing on tiptoes on my kidneys.
In other words, my shoulder’s just been wrenched out of the socket by someone zip-tying my wrists together. I see lightning bolts across my vision as the pain sears me.
My rights are barked out to me in a clipped, loud voice, and then I’m hauled on my feet, my gun long gone, my naked body arched forward, vision blurring.
Someone shoves my legs into a pair of orange prison scrub pants, and then I’m perp-walked out my own front door into the back of a van.
Ever shake a bead in a Pringles can?
Yeah. I’m the bead and the van is that can for the twenty-minute drive to the local police station. By the time we arrive, I’m as bruised as an apple being used as a soccer ball.
And through it all, the only thought I have is this:
No fucking way will they win.
It takes Mark less than half an hour to arrive, flashing government credentials that don’t mean shit when the people in charge of arresting me don’t seem to care about jurisdiction, policy, or the basics of the law itself.
A television blathers on in the corner of the ceiling, the volume too low to hear the newscaster’s words, but the closed captioning big and bold.
I’m the star of the show right now, the clip of my arrest being shown over and over, half naked, wearing orange scrub bottoms.
“Submit that video to America’s Funniest. You could win the grand prize.”
I snort. A bubble of blood shoots out my left nostril.
The news cuts in with a report that Lindsay Bosworth, presidential candidate Senator Harwell “Harry” Bosworth’s daughter, will leave today for a humanitarian mission working with Fair Trade coffee growers in Guatemala.
* * *
“Sources confirm that Lindsay Bosworth has decided to engage in the Fair Trade coffee project to work on assisting with literacy issues, teaching at the elementary school level. Ms. Bosworth earned a bachelor’s degree in education and is fluent in Spanish, according to Bosworth campaign spokesman Marshall Josephs, and -- ”
* * *
“No. Oh, God, Harry. No.” I groan over the rest of the newscaster’s words. This is a joke, right?
No. It’s not.
It’s dead serious.
Deadly.
Mark lets out a big puff of air, eyes nervous and darting. To someone who doesn’t know him, he looks pissed.
A thread of fear tugs inside me, because I do know him.
He’s scared.
“The scarves set you up one hundred percent, Drew. Now it’s your fingerprints on Lindsay’s brake lines. You sent the threatening texts to her phone. And Jane’s on the record that you broke into her apartment last night -- ” He gives me a vicious look. I flinch.
“Jesus, Drew,” he groans. “Tell me it’s not true.”
I stay quiet.
“Fuck, Drew. I don’t know if I can undo this.”
“I broke in to talk to Lindsay privately! She said Jane disappeared because she knew I was there. Why would Jane lie like that?”
“Don’t tell me you seriously just asked that question, Drew.” He’s looking at me like I’m an imbecile.
