Page 53 of Refrain

“Fuck.” He curls a fist and slams it into the palm of his other hand. Once. Twice. Again. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

He plunges the abused fingers into the pocket of his jeans, and I half expect him to go for the gun, but he withdraws anothercell phoneinstead. A second later, he’s snarling into the receiver.

“Get the truck and get the fuck over here. Now. You have five goddamn minutes. Andyou.” His eyes cut over in my direction while he hangs up. “You’re coming with me.”

He grabs me by my arm. The bad one. I wince as he manhandles me toward the door, but either he doesn’t care, or he doesn’t notice. It takes everything I have in me not to resist as he hauls me down the hallway and out of an exit that opens onto an alley. Not out of fear. Even drunk, Arno doesn’t seem like the type to be easily overpowered.

I try using logic to reach him instead. “Where are we going? Can I put some shoes on first?”

He just grunts and pulls me forward, though he loosens his grip enough so that I don’t go falling down the three concrete steps after him. My foot has barely hit the pavement as a black pickup truck swerves into the alley.

I don’t recognize the driver, but he lunges across the passenger’s seat to fling the door open, and Arno shoves me inside, forcing me to climb onto the back bench. He muscles his way in after me and slams the door.

“We’ve got to visit an old friend,” he says, but the edge to his tone doesn’t inspire any warm or friendly feelings.

The driver shrugs. “Which one?”

“Jose, that sick fuck,” Arno spits out. “Take us to the fucking bike stop.”

The “bike stop”is on the other side of the city from Mulligan’s, situated between a rundown warehouse and theriver. Most of the buildingswithinthe general vicinity are dilapidated, vacant, or overrun with druggies and homeless.

It’s the perfect place for the lair of a self-professed outlaw king. I recognize the territory from some of Grey’s secondhand horror stories. Everything on this side of the bridge belongs to theEl Patróncartel.

Something tells me that Arno’s use of the wordfriendwas in the loosest sense. He tenses up the moment we near the property, like a guard dog sensing the piss of another beast nearby.

Overall, the place looks like an old gas station that once might have serviced the towering warehouse behind it. I assume from the state of the pumps that it’s still in service, though I doubt to the general public. A chain-link fence encloses the space, and in the attendant’s station, two men sneer at their newfound company.

“Stay in the truck,” Arno tells the driver. “If anything goes down, you get the fuck out of here and bring backup.They tryto take the truck? You shoot them in the fucking head.” He wrenches the glove compartment open, revealing an impressive array of weapons.

Either he’s not worried that I’llsnitchor he’s desperate enough to ignore the caution. He grabs two guns and presses one into the driver’s palm while tucking the other into his back pocket. Then he nudges the passenger’s door open and climbs out. His feet hit the pavement. Then he reaches back and tugs me out after him.

I’m frog-marched barefoot to the mouth of the fencing. By thetime we pass through, one of the men has left the attendant station. He shouts at us, the words in Spanish—the only language I studied in college.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Arno chuckles, his smile feral. “Hola, ese. Taco fucking Bell. Take me in to see Jose.”

Standing beside him, I feel like a doe caught in the rampage of a crazed, wild bear tearing through anything in its path. Either he gets us both killed before we get in the door or the display will strike enough fear into the lackeys that they snap to attention.

So far, it’s the latter effect. The two men share a look between them, and the one closer to us breaks away toward the warehouse. I assume we’re meant to follow when Arno marches in his wake, dragging me alongside him.

With every step we take, something inside my stomach clenches up. The air here smells similar to what haunts my nightmares. The stench of decay. Of hopelessness. Whatever dark corner of hell spit out Vlad and Piotr apparently had a few other monsters running loose.

The man leading us to the warehouse’s entrance is sporting the same guarded expression as one of the bouncers at Moe’s, even though his attire of a white T-shirt and jeans differs slightly. He comes to a stop before a battered metal door and knocks on it once. It opens, held by a man wearing a flannel shirt splattered with a dark substance. It’s oil.

I think. I hope.

“Let’s get this fucking over with,” Arno mumbles as he shoves me through the doorway first.

I stagger inside, catching myself against a firm surface. A wall? It’s made of concrete, harsh and uneven beneath my fingertips. I blink to make out more of my surroundings and catch sight of a narrow hall before Arno grips my shoulder and drags me closer.

“What’s this?” a soft voice calls from what appears to be a larger area beyond the short entrance.

I blink when we reach the threshold of the cavernous space. It must have served as a cargo bay during the building’s official use. Now, it appears to be a makeshift den where a shirtless man is lounging on the floor, eating cereal out of a bowl.

Therelativeharmlessness of the scenario is undercut by two chilling realizations—one, the man is “lounging” on the body of a prone figure lying on the ground—make thatchainedto it. There’s so much blood surrounding the body that I can’t tell where it ends and the poor soul begins. Or even if they’re alive despite the carnage.

The man sitting on the victim’s back doesn’t seem to mind themess,however. His ass rests comfortably over their spine, his legs splayed on either side. A bowl of Fruity Pebbles balances on a rent section of back, and he calmly takes a heaping spoonful. The movement draws a moan from the body—they’re definitely still alive.

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