Page 3 of Ignite
The thought makes me sick.
I’m not afraid of pain. These guys can torture me all they want. I’ve endured far worse. It’s the fear of being confined in that boarded up warehouse that has fresh adrenaline shooting through my veins.
I can’t wither away in the dark again. Mentally, I don’t think I’d survive it.
Running my fingers over the rows of safety pins fastened to my tight black pants, I shove down memories before panic can take root.Definitely not the time to lose my shit.
I glimpse another figure dressed in black walking the perimeter. It triggers me to scan the decrepit lot once more for an escape route. My attention snags on the vision of sleek high rises staggered across a glassy, cloudless sky on the other side of the murky river.
East Bank.A mythical land of big business and affluence where people worry more about sales deals and balancing checkbooks than where their next meal is coming from or who is going to shank them in their sleep.
Moving there was me and Jakey’s grand plan. A dream that may never come true, but it still inspired the mind while laid out on wafer-thin shelter beds in the middle of the night.
The leading gunman smacks a palm on the warehouse door hard enough to rattle it. When the door screeches open, revealing a musty, dim interior, my combat boots find themselves nailed to the ground.
Pain lances through my lower back as one of the gunmen slams his gun into my kidney. Normally, it would be enough to focus me, but the idea of strolling into the dark space has cold prickles spider-walking down my spine.
My brain replays the soundtrack of my life.Not safe. Not safe. Never safe.
“No trouble from you,” the gunman utters in a thick accent.
I throw him my best glare, though it’s hard to intimidate anyone with my soft, youthful features. His icy eyes reflect nothing but a desire to inflict harm, and I drop my gaze, catching the hint of a neck tattoo peeking out from his mask—a series of numbers and letters.
He tugs his mask back over the ink.
“Cheat your way through preschool?” I taunt. “Or just a big fan of alphabet soup?”
A wad of spit hits my cheek, and anger surges through me. I weigh the consequences of throwing a fist at his face. But now all three gunmen are shouting at me in their indistinguishable language, so I figure I better get my legs to cooperate.
“Heathens,” I mutter under my breath, wiping the glob of tobacco spit on the sleeve of my tattered jean jacket as I step inside the warehouse. All of me, clothes included, will need a wash later.
I’m escorted through towering rows of wooden crates and smaller rooms overflowing with corroded machinery and yellowing paperwork. This place hasn’t been touched in decades, which only nudges me further toward meltdown territory.
The gunmen shove me into a boxy, cluttered room with an extensive wall display of guns. Forcing down the terror eager to hook razor claws into me, I focus on the man behind a metal desk.
I assume he’s in charge. He’s not very intimidating in size, and I get the feeling that he tries to make up for that fact with piercings and tattoos. He also doesn’t appear much older than mid-thirties. His dark hair and stubble are free of gray. The only signs of aging are the crows feet at the corners of his lifeless eyes.
How does one rise to the top of so many armed criminals so young? Is there a box on the job application to check that reads:I’ve killed at least five whole humans?
“Cozy in here,” I mutter, fighting the building energy in my body urging me to move. To run. To freak the fuck out.
I need to keep my wits about me if I plan to make it out of this shit-pile situation. If I die, then Jakey won’t have anyone to look out for him. And if I live, but somehow piss these people off, Jakey might become a victim of their aggression again.
The leader swivels in his chair to face me. I take in the name Gabriel stitched on his mechanic’s shirt. Something tells me he doesn’t actually fix cars for a living, and I doubt that’s his real name, unless he’s got an inflated ego, but it’s something to report back to the police, I suppose. Not that I can rely on them to get involved in anything on this side of the river.
“This is him? The notorious street thief?” Gabriel asks, his gaze sweeping over my lean frame and ragged clothes in clear disappointment. I mean, I’m not petite, but I’m not a six-foot hulked out viking like the masked gunmen surrounding me.
“No bowing needed, thanks,” I reply. Something solid hits me in the back of the head. “Ah, fuck! Not my skull, please.” I rub fingers over the pounding warm spot, certain I can feel the bruise developing already.
“I hear you’ve been doing some jobs for an acquaintance of mine at the docks. Says you never fail to deliver,” Gabriel comments.
Shit. I should have known better than to assume I’d found a quick way to earn some cash. The bleach blonde man at the docks was shady as fuck, but I’d convinced myself he wasn’t any worse than anyone else that roamed the streets in West Bank.
“Give me a few weeks, and I’ll probably fuck something up.” I shrug, trying to make light of the situation.
Gold and silver teeth gleam from Gabriel’s wide smile. “Cocky. You’ll need to be for the job you’re about to do for me.” He props his boots up on the corner of the desk. “You ever heard of Sinro Enterprises, kid?”
I bite back the urge to correct him on my age. Still, my words come out sassy. “Hard to miss their name posted on the tallest building in the city.”
