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“Get the fuck off me!” the guy snapped, drawing the slow turn of the Vigilante’s head back to him.
“Who are you?” the Vigilante asked in a rough, grinding voice that reminded me of sandpaper scraping over gravel.
No answer.
“What were your orders?” the Vigilante pressed.
“Go to hell,” he spat in response.
The Vigilante speared the guy’s upper thigh with his blade, inches away from his manhood.
His roar bounced off the walls, piercing my eardrums.
Could someone hear that? I glanced at the broken window.
Run, Luna.For God’s sake, run away.Move!
But my body was frozen, my mind racing to figure out what was going on here. Was this guy part of Franco’s crew? Or the one that had sent me that threatening letter? After all, we were here at the prison.
If it was the latter, this guy might be the only one who knew something about my dad’s case—something that could help free my father.
“Do you know about the filing?” I demanded.
The Vigilante kept the blade against the man’s jugular as he swiveled his head toward me in a brief but electric moment. As I stared at the gray mesh covering his eyes with that red-and-black mask of his, it was as if time stood still, and in that instant, an unexpected connection between us burned that went beyond the chaos of the situation—likely rooted in dumbfounded gratitude for having just saved my life.
For a heartbeat, maybe two, the Vigilante remained unmoving, an eerie statue, and then with deliberation, his face swung back to the assailant.
“Answer her,” the Vigilante demanded.
“Go to hell.”
The Vigilante drove his blade into the guy’s other thigh, again inches from his manhood, but he must have missed the critical veins and arteries because blood did not pool beneath him. Not yet, anyway.
“I don’t know about no filing,” the assailant groaned, spit forming near the corner of his mouth. Right by that scar.
Outside the van, distant thunder rumbled through the sky while in here, the only sounds were the assailant’s labored breaths, each one a rasping gasp of agony. His face was slick with grease, shimmering in the dim light, a mask of pain and fear.
Trapped in the back of a van with two violent men, I knew I should probably stay quiet, but I couldn’t stop myself. The desperation to get information about my dad’s case was too strong.
“Do you know something about Richard Payne’s case?” My heart swelled with hope.
But the attacker merely glared at me and then spat. If I’d been closer to him than four feet away, it probably would have landed in my eye instead of on my chest.
The Vigilante swiftly slashed the assailant’s cheek, filleting him like a piece of meat—skin peeled back and the wound so deep it nearly punctured the inside of his mouth. A blood-curdling shriek was so loud, it vibrated the air itself. He shoved at the Vigilante’s chest with a thud, but the Vigilante had a knee on the man’s thigh and had a better angle and greater size going for him.
Three more pained breaths escaped the assailant before the Vigilante pressed the tip of his knife against the man’s crotch.
“What filing?” The assailant’s voice rose an octave. “I don’t know anything about Richard Payne, okay? I was told to watch the visitor room. See if she shows.” He nodded to me.
“And if she did?”
“Get the USB drive.”
“What USB drive?”
“Dominic always had it on him. It was missing when Franco found him dead.”
My chest deflated in despair. As this guy’s eyes darted around, they revealed nothing but anger and fear, confirming he didn’t have any information that could help my father; he was just one of Franco’s henchmen.
