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I leave the insults where they lay and return to rummaging through the pockets of the first duffel bag.
I don’t see his knee scything toward my face until it’s too late.
My head snaps back. Pain blooms in my nose, which instantly starts gushing blood. I think he broke it. I wouldn’t be surprised.
The backhand comes next. Then the kick to my ribs, which I barely manage to block with my shoulder by curling up and hunching over.
But then he swings his leg and aims for my stomach.
And when he does that, something inside me goesferal.
I move like there’s someone else piloting my limbs. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until it’s too late to stop it. But even then, I wouldn’t stop.
Because the sickening crack of the crowbar connecting with his skull is music to my ears.
I thrust a solid kick against his chest to give myself some space to stand up. Before he has a chance to lunge at me again, I swing the crowbar again and land a blow against his ribs. More shit goespop.
Martin cries out. “Youbitch!”
“You’re damn right I’m a bitch! I’m fucking pregnant, you asshole!”
I swing again. And again. Every blow lands.
“I’m pregnant! And you’re right—Ilovedspreading my legs for Demyen, because you know what? He’s areal man!”
The next swing snaps his wrist when he tries to block it. He screams in pain, in fury, but shock has him frozen in place instead of diving for me.
“You’re nothing but a whiny, selfish, pathetic excuse for a man,” I continue, swinging after each word to punctuate the unbridled rage now coursing through my veins. “You’re so fucking pathetic, you can’t even find someone your own age. You have to, what—beg your boss for his daughter? Prowl the local high school for your next victim?”
Martin balks. Covered with smeared blood and limp with half a dozen broken bones, it’s almost kind of comical. “I never! It’s only just been you!”
“Oh, please.” I give the crowbar a few test swings. I am really starting to understand why Demyen is who he is. This kind of retribution is cathartic. Therapeutic. “You think you’re the only one who knows how to bug a phone?”
It’s a blatant lie. I don’t know shit about bugging phones. But he doesn’t know that. And the look of shock, then guilt, then horror on his face tells me everything I need to know about just how despicable this “man” really is.
“Clara, please.” He struggles to limp forward, arms outstretched. “Baby, I… It’s not what it looks like. I just… I mentor these girls, and I?—”
I cut him off with another swift blow to his back. Something else cracks. His scream is cut off by a wet, sucking breath, his eyes widen, and he looks at me with horror, like he’s actually terrified of me.
Is he?
Is Martin Patterson scared ofme?
Good. He should be.
“You’re sick,” I tell him. “Sick, pathetic, and not worth my time.” I drop the crowbar and listen to it clang against the metal floor of the shipping container. “Good luck trying to hide from the feds. I’ll be making sure they always know where to find your ass.”
Martin takes the bait and, teetering between upright and sprawled, awake and unconscious, he lets out an angry roar and charges at me.
I duck beneath his swinging arm and slam myself against his legs.
We both go sprawling.
We both scramble for the crowbar.
I grab it first.
A thousand different things flow through my mind. All of them blind me. All of them fuel me.
