Page 10 of Beneath the Burn

A shadow fell over her, and the silencer pointed at his lolled head. She repositioned her body, caging him, shielding him.

The music fell quiet, signaling the song’s end. Oh fuck, her fucking phone was plugged in behind the counter. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Kilroy Tattoo, Charlee? Roy doesn’t appreciate your humor.”

She loathed that rasp, the cruelty in his eyes, and the strength of his fist. She used to call him the Craig. She’d called them all Craig. This Craig was Roy’s right-hand.

“Fuck Roy.” Her shout was venomous, distorted with tears. “And fuck you.”

Hang in there, Noah. Please, please.She kept her back to the Craig, blocking Noah’s body, her hands moving frantically, searching pockets, front and back, his ankle holster, shoulder holster. Empty. Empty. Empty.

Her bag, which held her gun, sat behind the counter. Fuck, fuck, so fucking stupid.

Blood collected beneath them and filled the grout between the tiles. The stench of sewage and copper pervaded the air. His stomach was leaking, leaking…so much blood. Christ, it wouldn’t stop.

She shoved a hand under his jacket, bumped into the weight of his phone in the inner pocket.Oh, thank God.She wrapped trembling fingers around it.

“Bad idea, Charlee.” The Craig’s boot shot out. A direct line with her head. Sharp pain stole her vision and darkness stole the pain.

4

The thrum in Charlee’s head was a small thing compared to the agony crushing her heart. Oh God, Noah. She rubbed her eyes, her hands stiff with blood, though she was surprised to find them unbound.

Flashes of light passed the car window. The crunch of tires on neglected pavement vibrated the leather seat beneath her. The wide bench stretched across the black interior, a standard feature of all the SUVs in Roy’s fleet.

She’d never successfully escaped one of his vehicles. The tinted bulletproof glass didn’t roll down. The doors never opened from the inside. And they traveled in a procession of three. She would be in the center one.

An unfamiliar Craig drove. The other occupant—the Craig from her shop—tilted his head. With a phone pinched between chin and shoulder, he shook a water bottle with one hand. “Yes, sir.” His other hand gripped her jaw, turning it. “She’s just waking…I understand.” He dropped the phone in a breast pocket and held out the bottle.

“I’m not thirsty.” Not for Valium, Xanax, Ambien, or whatever sedative he was offering.

“We can do this the nice way or the Salvador way.” The manner in which he whispered his name flared old wounds, surfacing memories of the flex of fingers, the whistle of parting air, and the crack of her jaw beneath his fist.The Salvador way.

She swallowed. “What’s in the water, Craig?”

“Don’t be ‘Craig’ing me, bitch. I’m not your father.”

Craig Grosky was the first and the worst in a long line of Craigs. She glared at the ear of the Craig beside her, the one missing the lobe. Last time he called her a bitch, Roy relieved him of that bit of flesh.

He glared back. “Rohypnol keeps you out of trouble.”

Roofies. Roy wasn’t taking chances. “Is Noah alive?”

The intensity in his gaze agitated. “If you want to live, you will not let Mr. Oxford hear you utter that name.”

If there were a chance he survived the wound, reminding Roy and the Craig of that possibility was counterproductive. Anything could’ve happened after she lost consciousness. Perhaps Noah’s gun was at the small of his back. Maybe the Craig tossed her over his shoulder and ran out with a volley of Noah’s bullets at his heels. She grasped onto that thought, wrapped it around her, and nested into it. Then she grabbed the water, a promise to behave while she scrambled for options. “Where are we going?”

“Airport. We’ll be at the tower when you wake.”

Roy’s private jet. Roy’s tower penthouse. Back to San Francisco.

Fear, a living tangible thing, erupted in her stomach, grew in strength and size, and boiled through her throat. She folded at the waist and heaved. Bile splashed the floorboard, her sandals, and the door.

“What the fuck? You got that shit on my shoes.” He yanked a Taser out of his pocket. “This or the water. Choose now or I’ll choose for you.”

Her stomach plunged. He’d choose both and would probably do so with a hard-on. She leaned back, wiped her mouth, and came to grips with her destination in three long, drug-laced gulps.

5

---