Page 41 of Scotch: Unraveled

“What did you do?” I ask, okay, well kind of screech.

He smacks my cheek, hard. “I ain’t done shit. One ’a the men thought he’d get a little somethin’ last night.”

I gasp.

“Calm your tits. He roughed her up but was stopped before he got any further. He’s been dealt with. When you’re given a direct order, ya follow it.

My poor Brighton; she must be so scared. We had a deal. I don’t give a shit if he’s been“dealtwith” or not. It’s up to them to make sure their men follow the rules. I harden my resolve. All bets are off now… I’m getting them out one way or another.

The one thing that could throw me off my guard happens when we reach the lab again. Deputy Rodrick is there barking orders at the other two men whom I worked alongside yesterday.

Deputy Freaking Rodrick.

He saunters his way over to us, dragging his finger along my cheek like he’s checking out the merchandise. “Looky what we got here, boys. Guess she likes us too much to leave.”

I keep quiet, not giving him anything. Apparently, he doesn’t like that and lashes out, slapping my bad eye. It stings so badly and water leaks out, but not because I’m crying. Oh, no… only that eye leaks and I stand straighter.

“Not so tough without yer fuckboy to protect ya,” he says, and I want to laugh in his ugly, smug face. Scotch a fuckboy? Seriously?

Instead of responding to that, I turn to Scud. “Same thing as yesterday?” I ask.

He shoots me a chin lift, which I take as an affirmative and begin limping toward the crack table. Not getting the response he seems to have wanted, Rodrick grabs me by the back of my neck, digging his fingers into the flesh just enough to cause pain, and pushes me forward until I’m bent at the waist with my face smushed against the table.

“I could take what I want right now and there wouldn’t be a damn thing for you to do about it.” He says low and threatening in my ear. And he’s right, he could. But I don’t care any longer. I refuse to cower to this bastard.

At my nonresponse, he punches me in the side by my broken ribs and he puts his all into it. My breath rushes out in a gush, but I don’t move or make another sound until he pushes away from me. Then, even slower than yesterday, I limp around the table to sit and get back to work.

Every so often, Rodrick shows his slimy face in the lab to yell at us. “Faster!” he shouts. Or, “Gotta get this shit moved.”

At one point he walks in, screaming at someone on the other end of one of those cheap burner phones. I hear a ticking like someone lighting a burner and then—boom!—it sounds like I’m underwater as a rush of heated air blows me off the stool.

Pandemonium erupts everywhere, but it all looks to be happening in slow motion. I keep low, curling into a ball and covering my ears. My seat was far enough away from the backfire not to seriously injure me, but the moans and cries of the men who weren’t so lucky fill the room.

“Spike’s dead… Spike’s dead!” people keep yelling through the melee. It’s a chance you take when cooking chemicals.

As everything happens around me, I look to the left and to the right, trying to figure out what my next move should be and that’s when I believe there are no coincidences in the universe. I believe that because on the floor, against the metal wall, there’s the burner phone Rodrick was on when the blast happened. It takes real effort not to get stepped on or raise suspicion while crawling across the floor.

The black, plastic outer casing has melted and warped from the heat of the blast, but the screen is still lit up with the date and time in the window, which means it’s working. I slip it in my bra and wait for my chance to make my call.

Scud lifts me to my feet several minutes later and drags me to a utility closet, where he pulls on a long piece of string tied to a light fixture hanging from the ceiling to click on the light. Then he shoves me inside, shutting the door. After waiting a bit longer, I reach inside my bra to pull out the phone when the door opens again and I snatch my hand back quickly. He’s brought the hotplate, frypan, cleaner, and bricks of cocaine. “You work here,” he says, plugging the hotplate into the wall.

I nod, keeping silent and wait. Once he’s good and gone, I fish the phone out to call Rory, hoping like hell I press the correct numbers. He’s in my contacts, so I don’t have to dial the actual numbers when I call.

“Please, please, please be right…” It starts to ring.

“Who is this?” a person answers.

“Rory?”

“Frankie? Christ, Frankie…mo leannan, where the fuck are ya?” There’s commotion in the background and rapid-fire questions at him, but he ignores them all, focusing on me.

“I don’t have much time. There was an explosion. That’s how I got the phone. All I can tell you is we’re in a very large warehouse with smaller outbuildings on the property.”

“Warehouse with outbuildings,” he yells to someone else. “What else, Frankie? Anything lass.”

“The men are Horde… A man named Scud was in charge yesterday.”

“The Horde,” he yells. “Scud’s in charge.”

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