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He looks like he wants to argue, then his eyes shift to both his shoulders and down to the dead body on the floor, and swallows. “We were supposed to take you with us.”
I wait for more, and when I don’t get it, I shoot him in the foot. “Do you need me to explain what trigger-happy means? The caliber of henchmen has really slipped over the years.”
“The cops—” he cries from the floor, where he dropped after my bullet destroyed several bones.
“Won’t do shit. It’s why you guys are here, right? Let’s see. There have been, what? Four gunshots. But can you hear any sirens?” I cup my ear and widen my eyes as if shocked. “Nothing. Crazy, right? I could hear John banging Karen last night and Derek getting assfucked by his brother-in-law, yet nobody can hear four gunshots?”
He swallows hard before speaking. “We’re supposed to take you back to Cirillo’s villa.”
“Why didn’t you just say that? I mean, all of this could have been avoided. Come on, no time to just lie around.”
He looks stunned.
“Oh shoot, I’m sorry. Let me help you.”
I step forward and offer him my free hand. He stares at it as if it’s covered in bugs. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell him before reaching for him.
He flinches away, so I place the barrel of the gun against his head. “Well, if you don’t want to come—”
“No, wait, I’m coming.” He manages to get to his feet unaided and pretty quickly for a man who’s been shot three times. I’d be impressed if he weren’t such a dick.
“After you.” I point to the door and move up beside him, reaching into the belt of his pants for his gun as I press mine against the small of his back.
“How far is the villa?”
“It’s about an hour away.”
“Yay, road trip. Shit, I should have packed some snacks. Oh well, next time.”
He turns to me and frowns. “You know you’ll probably be shot on sight.”
I smile widely then. “That’s okay. I don’t plan on letting any of them see me.”
* * *
I close the trunk,locking henchman number two’s body inside. He still has the look of shock on his face from when I shot him in the head. It amazes me that they assume they’ll walk away. Do they think that having boobs somehow makes me more compassionate? If anything, having boobs makes me more vengeful. Some women, I’ll concede, might be happy being a doormat, but I learned early on that if I didn’t want to be walked over then I needed to be prepared to cut off a motherfucker’s feet.
Pulling on a black ski mask, I make sure my hair is hidden. I check that I have enough ammo in my backpack and my gun in hand before I make my way toward the villa. The henchman’s pass was enough to get us through the gates, though I doubt it will help me get in the house, but I take it with me anyway, just in case.
My stomach churns the closer I get to the building. I’m not sure I understand why. I’ve faced the worst the world has to offer, but there is something about this man that turns me back into that terrified little girl. If nothing else comes from tonight’s showdown than one of our deaths, at least the hold he has on me will finally be broken.
The house is unlocked. I’d say I’m surprised, but I’m not. Seems evil does think it’s untouchable. Maybe they just assume people would have to be insane to cross them, but as I said before, there is a little bit of crazy in everyone. You’re only the top dog until someone more vicious comes along. Right now, I’m more than capable of tearing this man apart with my bare hands.
The darkness is comforting, offering me the ability to move around undetected, like a ghost. A cry makes me pause and frown, my head swiveling to the door I just passed that I assume leads down to the basement. It seems I’m not the only ghost haunting this place.
I swallow hard, remembering another time and another basement. The only comfort I draw is from the knowledge that I torched that place the second I could, burning the house to the ground and taking all its secrets with it.
I hesitate for a second before heading toward the door. I place my hand on the knob and turn it. It swings open silently, the crying louder now. I creep down the steps, descending farther into the darkness.
As my eyes adjust, I see row upon row of cells. No, not cells. Cages. The kind you keep dogs in. Looking inside, I see people curled up on the cold stone floor. They all seem out of it, but I can still hear the sobbing, which has quieted down now to whimpering. I follow the sound farther down the aisle and stop in front of the next-to-the-last cage.
I gaze inside and gasp when I see a dirty little face staring back up at me with the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. I put the gun in the holster and drop down into a squat, pulling off the ski mask before taking the chopsticks from my hair and shoving them into the old-style lock. I spent a long time mastering this technique, but that doesn’t mean it’s a fast process. After what seems like an hour, the lock clicks, and I pull it free. Slowly, I open the door. It creaks, sounding loud and ominous in the dark room, but nobody stirs.
I bite the inside of my lip and hold out my hand, waiting patiently, wanting nothing more than to scoop the kid up and run. But if they scream, they’ll bring everyone down here. A little hand slides into mine, snapping my thoughts back to how cold they are. Hesitantly, they allow me to pull them from the cage.
When they’re standing under the lone dim bulb above my head, I get a better look at the kid and realize he’s a little boy of no more than four years old, caked in dirt, wearing nothing but a long T-shirt. He looks at me as I sit down on the cold floor, watching him. His hand in mine is the only connection between us, yet somehow it changes something inside both of us.
He pulls his hand free before he climbs into my lap and buries his face under my jaw. I squeeze my eyes tight to stop myself from crying. But at least the boy’s tears have stopped for now, so I’m counting that as a win. I wrap my arms around his too-thin body and hold him tight enough to offer him some warmth, but not so much that I hurt him. I breathe him in, the smell of urine permeating the air, but I can’t find it in me to care.
