Page 44 of Hard Game

I watch him, absorbing his disgusting profile as best I can, hating every fiber of his being. There’s no way he’s unaware of what’s going on either—he’s no kid like I was. He’s in his fifties with a pot belly held in by braces, greasy hair falling into his beady eyes, and a permanent leer on his leather-like face. He’s panting, too. He is out of breath, like he’s exerted himself. My stomach churns again. I could take him out right now; no one would know. I’m tempted to do it, to hide his fat, bloated body in the undergrowth of the trees. But it’s too much work—I’d have to scale the fence, and there’s no way I’d get his rotund carcass over it before anyone found me.

No.

I’ll follow him home.

People like him think they’re untouchable, and with the amount of money they pay to abuse women, they should be. But with money comes ignorance, and that ignorance is the chink in their armor.

He finishes his cigarette, strolls over to a beat-up sedan, and climbs in, letting out a satisfied sigh.

Sick bastard.

I have every intention of following him home when the door opens, and a young woman is shoved out, falling onto the gravel with a cry. My heart slams in my chest at the sight of her, my breath catching in my throat. It’s one thing knowing what is going on behind those dirty doors, but seeing a woman like this is soul-destroying. I release the breath captive in my chest and force myself to focus on the girl. A ripped tank top exposes her bruised breasts, and her shorts are torn and bloody. Her hair is lank and sweaty, and the heels on her feet are too high for her to walk in.

Breathe.

“Get up, princess.” The man behind her leers, slapping her ass. “Up!”

I don’t recognize him, but it’s clear he’s not a punter. He’s thin and wiry, dressed in blue jeans and a long t-shirt, a thick gold chain hanging from his scrawny neck.

He leans down and scoops her hair into a knot in his fist, twisting her terrified face to his before he grips her cheeks in his other meaty hand. “Get. The. Fuck. Up.”

I have to count to ten slowly before moving; otherwise, I’ll charge at this prick with everything I have, and I’ll die in seconds, and so will she. Because these fuckers don’t go anywhere alone, and they’re always armed.

Another two men follow him, and one of them stares at the girl like he’s starving, and she’s his meal.

I lock my eyes on him, committing every feature to memory. Thinning hair that was once blond barely covers his baldness, and his bare arms are tattooed with green ink, old school style. He’s a massive man, but not in muscle. He’s about six foot four and probably about three hundred pounds of pure fat.

“Get her in the van,” the man beside him commands the scrawny man, and I still. I recognize that voice. Marvin Delmetski. His dark hair is swept back into a quiff like we’re still in the fucking eighties, and he wears a dark suit like a wannabe don.

He wishes.

Marvin grins when the scrawny guy half drags the poor woman to a van, throwing her inside and ignoring her desperate howls. I wince when she pleads for death. She doesn’t even ask to live; that’s how bad her existence is. She probably knows she won’t make it out of this alive, not realizing that someone is standing by, ready to help her. I return my attention to the rats.

“You don’t want me to tie her up, Boss?”

Marvin curls his lips into a sneer and smacks the back of the scrawny guy’s head. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

Of course, old Marvin wouldn’t want to be known as the ‘leader’ of this shit show, would he? But he’s not the boss, so it’s also not true. As much as he’d like to be, that role is Alastor’s. Marvin is still three men below Alastor, so I’d call him a skivvy.

“Sorry,” the scrawny guy mutters, slamming the door shut. “Where are we taking her? Did you decide?”

Decide? What the fuck is this, a restaurant?

To them, maybe.

“The woods,” the giant of a man breathes excitedly. “But tie her feet together; I don’t want to run far.”

The fat fuck couldn’t run far if his life depended on it.

“You got it,” the scrawny guy says, heading to the van’s driver’s side. So he isn’t just a driver; he’s more than aware of what’s happening.

Noted.

“Can I have that other one too?” The giant asks, still licking his lips as he glances back to the building longingly.

Marvin gives him a thin smile before patting his arm like one would a dog. “She’s not ready.”

“Needs more training, huh? I bet you lot enjoy that,” the giant rasps with a grin, revealing yellowing teeth.

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