Page 201 of Keeping Kasey
I park my car behind the truck, but I don’t go to it right away. At some point, hopefully not too late, my brothers will know something is wrong. They’ll track my car, and I need to leave them a hint.
The best I can come up with in my hurry is scribbling down the truck’s license plate number on the back of a car maintenance receipt. I add a short note in what little space I have to write.
Diaz has her. Find us.
With that, I take my phone and run to the car, which, predictably, is unlocked. The keys sit on the driver’s seat, and the GPS is already set to a location half an hour from here.
It takes several minutes for the car to defrost and for the windshield to clear off, but since the car isn’t absolutely freezing, I’m willing to bet it was left here within the hour.
It takes a torturoushourto reach the coordinates due to the condition of the roads. When I turn onto the near-invisible driveway, I’m grateful this car has four-wheel drive. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it two feet.
I reach three cars parked in front of a small cabin—two white trucks matching the one I drive now, and an old sedan. I barely turn the car off before I’m out and striding toward the small cabin.
And when I say small, I meansmall.
From out here, it looks like the entire building is roughly the size of my bedroom.
I reach the door, and it opens for me. The blank and punchable face of Emilio Diaz greets me, and he holds up a hand to halt me.
Two soldiers walk past him, and I lift my arms while they pat me down, never tearing my glare from the Diaz underboss, who is no doubt enjoying every second of this.
The soldiers nod to Emilio—confirmation that I’m unarmed—and he smiles. “Welcome, Mr. Consoli.”
I ignore him and step into the cabin.
When I do, my senses take in the surroundings one at a time.
The smell—heavy with the putrid scent of lost life, mixed with the musk of several men in a confined space.
The taste—distinctly of blood, sweat, and death.
The feel—chilly from the unforgiving blizzard, and thick with the tension of bracing for a fight.
The sound—howling wind against the thin cabin walls that barely hold the place up, and harsh, labored breathing.
But it’s thesightthat crushes my soul and drowns me in grief.
The woman I love lies unconscious on the couch, nearly unrecognizable.
She looksnothinglike she did in the pictures Diaz sent me. She’d taken one, maybe two hits then.
Now?
Her face is covered in dried blood—a sick mosaic of blue, purple, and red. She has a gash on her forehead, a black eye, and the bruising around her nose suggests it’s broken. Her arms have similar bruises with rare patches of unharmed skin, and the way she lies on her back—with one arm over her stomach and the other at her side—I can already tell that one shoulder is dislocated. Blood soaks her shirt from a cut at her collarboneand deep incisions at her wrists from where she must’ve been restrained with metal cuffs. She trembles where she lies, and I’m certain her clothes conceal even more injuries.
I have never experienced something so visceral and excruciating as seeing Kasey beaten nearly to death.
Knowing the pain she’s endured, the pain she’sin…
There’s no doubt about it: if Kasey doesn’t get medical attention soon, the injuries could be fatal.
Ineedto get her out of here.
I process all of this in two seconds. Then, I’m throwing myself toward Kasey, desperate to offer her any sort of relief—but I don’t move an inch.
I’m held on either arm by Emilio and another soldier.
“I believe you have something for me,” Leon says with a taut smile.
