Page 43 of Hard Game

“I’m coming,” I tell her, hanging up the phone and grabbing my keys. My best friend needs me, and that’s all I need to know.

The traffic is light, and I get to Tassa at record speed. She’s on the front steps of her apartment block, and two police officers stand beside her.

“Tassa,” I say, ignoring the officers and scooping her into my arms.

She clings to me, her sobs echoing through my body as she wails. She doesn’t need to say anything; the fact that she’s like this tells me everything I need to know. Tassa trembles in my arms, and I let her cry, knowing she needs to be held right now.

“Are you her brother?” One officer asks, tipping his hat back with a pen. His eyes are wide and bright, his lips pressed together in a firm line. He’s new.

“Yes,” I lie, not caring what I told them. I’ll go along with anything they say. “What happened?”

“Zia Montague was found dead this morning by the river,” he says, flipping through his notes. “We have reason to believe it was a homicide.”

No shit.

“Maybe you can take your sister inside; we still need to ask her some more questions,” the other officer interrupts, licking his lips. Greedy for the case. It’s probably their first homicide.

“Not now,” I tell them, lifting Tassa into my arms. “She can’t talk like this; give us an hour, would you? I’ll get her to drink some sweet tea and see if she can calm down.”

They begrudgingly agree, no doubt checking their ‘how to’ books for what to do in this situation. Not that they had a choice—I was already on the phone with Carmen Torra before I’d entered the building.

“It’s me,” I bark, aware of the outer rim of my vision turning fuzzy with rage. “They’ve killed someone personal to me.”

This was beyond personal—it was a message that the ring knew we were onto them. Not that I cared—we were getting closer to nailing the bastards’ thanks to Tassa and her girlfriend, Zia. Whom I’d never even met, I think guiltily. But Tassa had wanted to keep her a secret, and I knew why. Because this outcome was likely—very fucking likely—and it had happened.

Carmen sucks in a breath and promises to call me straight back—and she’d better—and hangs up.

Tassa moans in my arms, and I tighten my hold on her, pressing a kiss to her warm forehead and willing the elevator to go faster. Time slowed, and every movement felt sluggish and hard to make; such was a reality as this. Her apartment door is open, and my heart sinks at the sight of the little love nest she and Zia have created together. A sofa for two is scattered with plump cushions and warm blankets, and two mugs on the coffee table before it, both stained with lipstick. Books lay on the floor beside it, and a food-to-go magazine shouts about the upcoming holidays and how to order early to avoid disappointment.

My heart sinks. They were planning Christmas.

Light spills in from the window, highlighting the two socks/slippers thrown beside the TV like an afterthought. They probably were. I can imagine the two women cuddling while watching a movie, a blanket thrown over their knees as they huddle together for warmth. They’d wear the slippers and be lost in whatever they were watching for an hour or two. When they went to bed, they’d kick/pull the slippers off and toss them aside, too tired to care. I’m sure Tassa always had anxiety about the gang coming for her—she knew it was a risk she took to help me hunt them down, but she did it anyway.

She just didn’t count on falling in love. Because that’s what I can see—the remnants of a couple in love.

I lay Tassa down on the bed and call my doctor, arranging for a private visit for Tassa. She shudders and sobs, her whole body trembling like she’s cold.

“Tassa,” I say, leaning over her. I sweep away the hair clinging to her soaked cheeks and exhale heavily. “I promise I’ll kill them for this.”

“Zia!” Tassa chokes out, her mouth open in a silent scream that rips me apart.

I’d never seen her like this, and I’d seen her in some bad states, considering how we met. My chest aches, my soul screams for revenge more than ever, and darkness descends on me without warning. This could’ve been the detective—Lauren, I allow myself to call her. Not that we’re in love—far from it, but I’d kill anyone who lay a hand on her. My mouth twitches at the memory of killing Taron for disrespecting her. I’d slowly torture anyone who hurt her. My eyes flicker back to Tassa, who has paled significantly, her eyes rolling in her head. It feels like forever before the doctor arrives, sedating her and promising she’d be out for the rest of the day and probably the night.

Good.

Because I don’t need Tassa trying to stop me from losing my shit, and despite everything, she would because she is good and pure.

Luckily, I’m not. I know their hideout thanks to Tassa, but I’ve avoided going there because I had wanted to observe them like the rats they are, work out everything they do—when they eat, shit, breathe, and fuck. Who they are. What matters to them? Not that they have morals, but pussy and money matter to them.

So here I am.

The wind whips around me as I hide in the trees, far behind the wire fence and shipping containers. The stench of sewerage is more pungent than ever, and my stomach churns. I fight the urge to vomit, but it’s more from the memories it conjures more than anything else—sour, putrid excrement and piss, the kind that’s been there for days. The kind that prisoners leave. I twist my neck to release some tension, watching the steel door in the dirty grey building. To most people, it looked like a disused factory, a rundown warehouse no one gives a shit about, not knowing it was making rich people richer. A farm if you like, except instead of cattle, young women were being used. Destroyed.

There are only two vans here alongside a few shitty cars, and they’re decorated with various business logos to distract away from what they really are—cattle vans. There is nothing seedy about them—not from the outside, anyway. Ice cream and baked goods that make the mouth water don the ice-white sides, with fake phone numbers and websites printed below them. I read one of the slogans and grit my teeth, seeing the message loud and clear.

“Sweet treats to make your mouth melt,” I mutter, hating every word. “I bet.” I stand for what feels like hours, but I keep my muscles loose, stretching and moving every few minutes. I can’t afford to seize up now. Then the door opens, and if I weren’t watching it, I wouldn’t have known, for it is silent. There’s no creak, telltale whine, or audible slam as it shuts. A man steps out to smoke, and he’s so cocksure of himself that he doesn’t even glance around.

Prick.

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