Page 51 of Redemption
"Night, princess," I returned the sentiment with an added layer of sarcasm. I took a moment to stretch out my stiff limbs before sliding the key into the ignition and starting the puttering engine. As I drove past Henry's gallery, an inexplicable pull made me glance at it. I thought I could see Sophias silhouette in the window again, but it was probably just a figment of my exhausted mind. The streets were deserted at this hour, apart from a few stray cats prowling around garbage cans and that same homeless man from earlier stumbling along the sidewalk.
Exhaustion pulled my eyelids down as I navigated the silent roads back to our hideout—the third hideout we had moved to since that night we saved the girls. A vacant, partially furnished, one bedroom unit in sketchy apartment building close to the outskirts of town. The dark road stretched out into the night ahead of me, barely illuminated by a flickering orange streetlight in a distant intersection. Headlights glinted off the rear view mirror, and paranoia whispered to my sleep deprived mind, urging me to floor it. Who else would be driving behind us at this hour if not my enemies? I kept my foot steady on the gas, driving the speed limit. The car behind me got closer, and closer still, until it was nearly tailgating us. I grabbed the pistol under my seat and continued toward the intersection, hoping the car behind me would turn. As we approached the intersection I kept my eyes on the side mirror, watching for their turn signal. I held the steering wheel tight and gritted my teeth, my tired eyes straining on the mirror. I let out a breathI didn’t realize I was holding when the rhythmic flashing turn signal finally confirmed we were clear. The car turned, leaving us alone for the rest of the drive to the hideout. We pulled into the crumbling parking lot next to the building. Its dull exterior and this shitty car had provided perfect camouflage for us. I parked the car and killed the engine. I woke my brother and we exited the car, making our way past piles of rotting trash bags and discarded furniture towards the one bedroom apartment we were squatting in. We dragged ourselves inside and barred the front door behind us. My eyes swept around—empty beer bottles, half-eaten pizza boxes, and discarded clothes littered the place. My brother and I shared a cautious glance, then performed a quick search of the place. We were alone. Damien sank into the couch with a case of beer in hand. He cracked one open and drank until it was empty.
“I’m starting to see shadow people, man. I need sleep, real sleep.” he said.
“Yeah, you do. You could barely stay awake out there, and we can’t have that happening again.”
He scoffed and shook his head. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this. We’ve been at it for a fucking week and haven’t seen even a hint that the Sinclair's are interested in her. They aren’t even that interested in us.”
“They aren’t that interested in us? Is that why they kicked in the door to our last hideout, my house, and your hotel room?”
He scratched his stubble but didn’t answer.
"You can go, Damien," I said quietly. "I never asked you to stick around in the first place."
He didn't respond, and within moments, his soft snores filled the room. I glanced at his sleeping face. In my mind, he was still that squeaky-voiced, wide-eyed 15-year-old kid, desperate for my approval and eager to be by my side. Yet, the gruff man beside me shared my features, had fought, bled, and killed forour family, just as I had. With a sigh, I looked toward the corner of the living room, where my old air mattress lay in a crumpled heap. I don’t know what made me keep it after I had moved out of the office into a house with a real bed, but I was glad I did. This air mattress had served me well, and I was beginning to feel sentimental about the thing. I sauntered over to it and filled it with air. I grabbed the case of beer next to Damien and drank one, then a second, then a third before getting in bed. The warm embrace of alcohol and the thin blanket were comfort enough. I closed my eyes, laying on my side, smelling the fading remnant of Sophias perfume on my pillowcase, I nearly drifted off to sleep. But as air hissed slowly out of the mattress and shouting erupted outside, I couldn't get comfortable. Damien’s phone rang. The whistling air mattress, shouting and now his phone all combined into a single irritating soundwave. I sat up, and the air mattress popped.Fucking perfect. I stood, grabbed his phone from under his sleeping hand and looked at the screen. I felt my eyebrows scrunch up and for a long moment found myself unable to process what I was reading. “Dad.” The phone buzzed in my hand. I tossed it in his lap and tapped him across the face.
“Hey, wake up.” He unconsciously opened one eye at me, then closed it again.
“Dad’s calling.” Before the words finished coming out of my mouth, he was awake, on his feet, scrambling to clutch his phone.
He hurriedly swiped the screen and must have put it on speaker in his haste. "Hey," he said, his voice thick with sleep as he walked away from me.
"Damien, my boy," the deep gruff voice echoed around the room. I could picture my father sitting in his large leather chair, holding his phone, a whiskey glass in his other hand. Damien pulled the phone away and turned off speaker phone, uncertainty etching lines on his face as he shot me a quickglance. I could hear the faint murmur of our father's voice on the other line but couldn't make out exactly what he was saying. I watched Damien's face slowly go from rigid to relaxed. After a few minutes, he ended the call with a curt 'alright' and just stared blankly at his phone.
"What did he say?" I asked, anxiety heightening my senses. A smile began to tug at the corner of his lips.
“We hit the Sinclair's hard last night in New York. Our inside man tells us they're pulling their guys off us.”
"Why?” I asked.
“They think we fled back home. Apparently, they haven’t seen a trace of us or Sophia in over a week.”
I looked at him in disbelief.
If we attacked them last night, that means my Father finally understands the Sinclair’s are an enemy. We are at war.
“They think you are back in New York, they think you led the attack last night. Damn, we must have really fucked them up. I wish I was there for that.”
I stared at Damien for a moment, letting the news sink in. My mind was filled with images of Sophia, safe and sound, no longer under threat from my family’s enemies. But then again, everything could change at any moment in our world; peace was just the downtime between danger. Damien reached for his beer on the coffee table among the dozens of open cans. He took a swig before twisting his face and cursing. I couldn’t help but laugh; who knows how old that beer was.
“Maybe that will teach you to clean up after yourself,” I said, still laughing at his grimace. He carelessly spit the old beer out onto the floor and opened a new one.
“Did he say anything else?” I asked. Damien gurgled a fresh mouth of beer before spitting it out as well.
“What the fuck man, come on.”
“Yeah. Check your bank account.”
I looked at him, puzzled. "Why?"
"Just do it."
Rolling my eyes, I reached for my phone on the table and punched in the password. The banking app took a while to load, but when it did, I couldn't believe my eyes. Everything was unfrozen. I had access again. It was all money I earned, but now that it had essentially been given back to me, it didn’t feel like mine.
“What, you don’t like money anymore?”
“What’s the catch?” I asked.
