Page 65 of The Hitch
Roman raps his knuckles on the yellowing laminate of the counter. "Evening, chief. How's the day been?"
"Same ol', same ol'. What can I get for ya?" The man finally clicks off his phone screen and looks up at me. "Oh, hey. Welcome in."
"Man, my buddy here thinks his old lady ran off on him. I keep telling him that's not a crime, but he's… agitated. Thinks she's been here today. You mind taking a look?" Roman pulls out his phone and scrolls through his camera reel. The folksy affect he's adopted is stunning; I swear, he's a chameleon when he needs to be.
Thank god he's on my side.
"Ah, that sucks. I feel you, man. My wife took off after the market crash. Yeah, I'll take a look. What are we workin' with?" The clerk leans forward over the counter, peering over the reading glasses perched on his nose. As his eyes focus on the screen, his eyebrows jump up—I grip the handle of my gun a little tighter—and he schools his face back into a neutral expression. "Haven't seen her, sorry."
Ialmostbelieve him, but the look of surprise at her photo and the fact that his eyes keep flicking between myself and the security camera give him away, wholesale. His greasy forehead breaks out in a sweat, and he quickly wipes it away, rubbing his grimy hands on his filthy shirt.
"Wrong answer,chief." Roman's down-home ruse is gone, replaced by the hardened professional I know him to be. Quickas a flash, he reaches across the counter and grabs the man by his shirt, yanking him hard. The clerk launches over the countertop and tumbles to the floor, whining and sputtering.
"It wasn't me, I swear, I swear, man! They were just here for a second, I don't—I don't know nothin'!" He continues blubbering and sobbing, holding his arms over his head.
I crouch down next to him and tap the barrel of my gun against his forehead. "I want you to think carefully.Thinkbefore youspeak. Where did they take her?"
He eyes the gun and gulps audibly, tears pouring down his reddened face. The smell of urine hits my nose, and I see he's wet himself. Fucking pathetic.
"I… I don't know. They went south. I swear, man, they got wings everywhere. I don't know anything about where they go, what they do, I just—they use my shop, okay? Sometimes. And I'm not the only one—honest! Sometimes they lure people here and use the store as snatchin' grounds. I keep my mouth shut, and they pay me. That's all. That'sall." He gulps in another breath of air. "See? I told you what I know. We good?"
I stand up tall and look down at the man cowering before me. He whimpers again as I slide my finger into the trigger guard. "No."
Bang!
The man's head—or what remains of it—lolls back to the floor with a thud. Roman hurries into action, heading to the back office to gather whatever else might be on the dead man's computer. I wander over to the hot bar and snag a few napkins, wiping the blood from my face. I much prefer the basement. Clean up is soeasywith a power washer and a built-in drain. Dropping the napkins on the corpse, I head to the office to find Roman yanking power cords out of the computer tower.
"Anything interesting?" I ask casually, flicking the safety back on my gun.
"No cloud backup," he grunts. "Cheap fucker, but good for us."
I sigh. I'm so goddamn tired. All I want is to crawl into bed with my wife, but the Seraph stole her from me. If they brutalized Valencia like that, I don't dare to think what they might do to Melody. My feral queen. My murderous wife.
I hope to god she's giving them all the hell they deserve.
Melody
My head pounds and throbs. I hiss out in pain as I lift myself up, shivering at the cold. It's cold and… dark. A single lightbulb casts a hazy yellow glow on the far side of the room. Where the fuck am I?
I sit up straight with my heart frantically pounding in my chest. It looks like a jail cell. Iron bars stretch from floor to ceiling, trapping me in. No. No, no, no. Oh, fuck. A jail cell and a torture chamber.
A single steel chair sits in the middle of the room, bolted to the floor. On my right is another cell, where Helena sits on her heels, her face wet with tears.
"Oh, thank god, Melody!" she whisper-yells. "I thought you were dead, I didn't—I couldn't—you weren'tmoving—I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry I didn't keep you safe."
Rubbing my eyes, she comes into focus a little more. Her face is bruised, and my heart sinks. She's got a hell of a black eye and split lip, with crusty dried blood on her chin. Her usually perfect strawberry blonde ponytail is missing, shoulder-length locks matted with sweat.
"What? No, no. You're okay. You're okay, sweet pea." I swipe my hair out of my face and yelp in pain as my fingers touch the back of my head. "Shit, that hurts. Fuck. Where are we?"
"I don't know. I don't know. There are two of them—or maybe three, I don't know." She breaks down into quiet sobs as she repeats herself, over and over, her shoulders shaking.
I scramble over to the bars that join our cells—cages, really—and reach my hand out to her. She snatches it and sidles up next to me, leaning her head on the bars.
"What did they do to you?" I whisper.
She sniffles and shakes her head. "They—they want Dante. I don't know. They asked me so many questions, and I refused to answer—I refused, and they kept hitting me. Over and over. I screamed so loud, and all I can feel is… shame."
"Shame? Forscreaming?Oh, honey, no. Scream like hell. Make themhurt. Why the fuck do they want Dante?" I stroke the back of her hand with my thumb. I hope it's at least a tiny bit of comfort in this hell.
