Page 57 of Kick

“Then fuckin’ show me.”

“Take your hands off the whore,” the Cop says through gritted teeth. His gun is no longer trained on me. It’s on the biker.

“I don’t think I will,” the biker with the patch says. He takes his gun from my head and points it at the Cop. “See, I already got my money. You can have your girl when I’m done with her, Sergeant.”

I spin while he’s distracted and fist my hand just the way Kick taught me, and I punch him with all that I have, right in the nuts. Shots ring out, and blood blooms on the biker’s shirt. He lets out a strangled cry and falls to the ground, and then I’m left in the room with the Cop. The man who tortured me for weeks. The man who tried to break me and failed.

The gun falls from the biker’s lifeless hand. I reach out to grab it, but the Cop kicks me in the stomach. I try to curl in on myself, try to protect myself, but he rolls me onto my back, straddling my waist as he shoves the gun up under my chin. Beneath my hand I feel the silk sash from my robe and I slowly gather it up in my fist.

“You can’t hurt me anymore,” I whisper.

When I get back to the house, everything feels off. Country is no longer on the front step, but there’s a shitload of blood where he was sitting and the front door is wide fuckin’ open. I take off my helmet, park the bike and pull the gun from my pants, creeping quietly across the drive. I climb the front stairs, glancing down at the patch of blood, and then at the bloody handprints on the door. I keep low to the ground and move inside, walking through the kitchen, but when I clear the island I almost trip over Country. He’s dead, propped up against the bench. His shotgun is gone, taken from him likely, and he has a bullet hole in his chest, just below his clavicle.

I turn around, but a hand reaches out and grabs my leg. I spin, my gun aimed and at the ready. “What the fuck, old man?” I whisper. “I almost shot your fuckin’ face off. Where’s Indie?”

“Gym … she’s in the gym. Crawled in here, haven’t … made it no further … though.”

“How many?”

“One Eye.” He takes a ragged breath in. “Cop.”

“Where’s Squeals?”

“Dead.”

Gunshots go off, and I forget all about being quiet, ’cause my fuckin’ girl is in that room. I kick open the door; fuckin’ idiots didn’t lock it. One Eye is dead, the Cop has Indie on the ground, and his gun is shoved up under her chin.

“Shoot me, and she dies,” he says, glaring up at me.

“Shoot her and you die,” I challenge.

“I’m not going to shoot her, and I’m not leaving without her. He wants her back. He’s not finished with her. You took her from us.”

“Oh, he is finished with her. I can promise you that. The Priest is finished, period. Girl belongs to me now, and I don’t appreciate people trying to take what’s mine.”

“You can’t stop him. He’s higher than you or I could ever grasp. He’s on a holy mission, sent down from God to save us all.”

“By abducting women and destroying them? That’s his holy mission? It’s been a while since I was in Sunday School—no, wait, scratch that, I’ve never fuckin’ been to Sunday School—but I’m pretty sure your definition of worship is fucked.”

“You can kill me, but God’s plan, the Father’s plan cannot be undone.”

“Fuck God’s plan.” Indie jerks forward, wrapping a long black piece of fabric around his neck and yanking it tight. I don’t have time to think. I just aim and shoot the way I have with so many other mother fuckers. I fire off three bullets between his eyes, hoping and praying like hell his finger wasn’t actually on the trigger. He slumps forward on top of her.

My heart stops as I wait.

I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

His body jerks and then he’s rolled to the side as she emerges. I stalk over and fire off several more shots, emptying my whole clip into that fucker’s face. Indie covers her ears and squeezes her eyes tightly closed.

“Fucking zealots,” I mutter.

Indie stares up at me for a moment, and then the levee breaks. She covers her eyes and sobs while I stand there like a fuckin’ tool with no idea how to comfort her. I wanna pull her into my lap the way I did once before, but for the second time tonight I’m considering someone other than myself. Country is in the kitchen; he risked his life to save her and it’s only fair I repay the favour. I scoop her up in my arms and carry her out of the gym. Before we clear the door, she glances over my shoulder at the man who tortured her.

Country looks like shit. He’s pale, the wrinkled skin beneath his eyes as ashen as his beard.

“Not … too shabby …” He wheezes. “For a blind … geriatric, hey kid?”

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