Page 36 of Rooke
I surge forward, kicking at the ground, nudging myself forward, and my hand closes around the rough, splintered wood of the pole. The guy in the ski mask is almost on top of me. I twist onto my back, lifting the pole with both hands. I hit him with it. It strikes the side of his head, and I know immediately that the blow wasn’t hard enough. The guy in the ski mask tips his head to one side, smiling grimly. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?” he snaps. “You just don’t know when to give up.”
I suppose he’s right. I’m clearly beaten, but something inside me refuses to back down. I crawl backward, away from him, still gripping tightly onto the pole. I only stop when my back hits the wall. The guy approaches little by little.
“I tell you what. I’ll let you hit me again. One good swing. How about that?” He stops in front of me, legs planted wide. Amusement chases pity across what little I can see of his face. “One really good, hard swing, and then we stop playing games with each other, Doc. No more fucking around. Okay?”
I can’t breathe. He waits for me to say something, to move, to do something, but I’m frozen to the spot, the wooden pole held out in front of me.
He takes another step forward, and my body reacts. I’m not in control anymore. My arms are swinging, thrusting with every ounce of strength they possess, and I feel the moment that the hook hits him. I don’t even hit him that hard, but metal glances off of the side of his temple and the iron sinks into his skull, and there’s a moment…this long, drawn out moment where he just looks at me, like he can’t really believe what’s just happened. I can barely believe it myself.
He sinks to his knees, blinking wildly, and the movement rips the pole from my hands. It clatters to the ground, and his ski mask is torn from his head as the hook comes away, revealing the entirety of his face. Red hair. Weak chin. A nose that seems too large for his narrow face. I allow myself to see each of his features one by one, not taking them in as a whole. I don’t want his face to haunt me. I don’t ever want to close my eyes and see him there, waiting for me. I want him to be anonymous forever.
Blood pours freely out of the wide gash in his temple. I can’t see how deep the wound is, but the amount of blood he’s losing is terminal. Ithasto be. He gives one more solitary, mad bark of laughter, and then the guy topples sideways into the mountain of cardboard boxes, his body rigid and locked.
I snap out of my shock. I stand up, and I run. I don’t know how long it takes me to find a way around the building. I don’t know what I stand on to tear my foot open. I don’t feel any pain when I stumble and fall, cutting open my hands and my knees. I don’t know what I’m thinking as I careen around the corner, out onto the street.
I do experience the relief of a stranger picking me up off the ground and calling for help, though. And I do feel it. I do feel the relief of knowing that I’m not about to die.
EIGHTEEN
THE FALL
ROOKE
5 Years Ago
Goshen Secure Facility
“Get him, Viorelli!Fuckingkillhim!”
It’s pissing down outside, raindrops hammering against the windows, the sky grim and forbidding as Viorelli circles the Russian kid, Misha, who was brought in last week. Misha made some dumb mistake, sat at a table he wasn’t supposed to sit at, and Jared has taken it upon himself to teach the newbie a lesson.
I watch. I don’t get involved. Getting involved whenever Viorelli is on a rampage usually ends badly for both of us. I keep my head down and I eat my food. Everyone else stands in a circle as Misha does his best to defend himself against the fucking psychopath. They chant, they boo, they heckle. Jared’s right-hand guy, Osman, grabs a food tray and tries to hit Misha with it, and that’s when all hell really breaks loose. Jared turns on Osman, lunging at him with something. Something in his hand. Something sharp.
“I don’t need your fucking help, asshole!” he shouts.
I don’t see what happens next. The crowd takes a giant step back. The room is suddenly silent, and then Misha is shouting loudly in Russian.
“Shut the fuck up, man. Shut the fuck up, he’s fine!”
My curiosity gets the better of me. I get up. I don’t need to move to see what’s gone down now. On the floor, Osman is laying on his back, his hands clutching at his throat, and a fountain of blood is spraying between his fingers.
“Get up, man.” Jared kicks at Osman with his boot, but Osman isn’t going anywhere. His hands fall limp, resting on top of his chest, his body twitching and jumping as his nervous system shuts down.
Someone in the crowd hoots, splintering away, dashing across to the other side of the room, and then everyone else does, too, screaming and shouting. The doors burst open and twenty guards storm into the room, riot shields in their hands, weapons drawn. Jared rushes forward in the melee and snatches the screwdriver by the handle, ripping it free from Osman’s neck. He comes straight for me.
It’s like he’s seen his opportunity and now he plans on killing me, too. I’ve been waiting for this moment, though, I’m ready for it. I reel back, ready to go to fucking war with him. When he reaches me, he doesn’t attack, however. He thrusts the screwdriver at me, eyes narrowed into slits. “Take it, Blackheath.”
In the confusion, the guards don’t seem to know who they’re looking for. They grab the entire block one person at a time, throwing bodies down to the ground. I can hardly hear Jared over the chaos that’s unfolding around us. His intentions are obvious, though. He wants me to take the fall for him.
“You’re crazy,” I mouth.
“Take the fucking screwdriver, Blackheath.Take it.”
He really is insane. Osman probably would have taken the shiv for him. Shame he just killed him with it. A row of guards are approaching from the left. I slowly shake my head, then step backward directly into their path. Better to be bodychecked and get taken down than to be caught anywhere near Viorelli right now. As expected, the guards slam into me from all angles. I don’t fight back. My body is suddenly lit up with electricity as someone applies the prongs of a Taser to my skin.
I collapse, my back bowed, my teeth grinding together. I can still see though. I watch the guards grab hold of Viorelli. He kicks and fights, lashing out wildly with the screwdriver. No chance they won’t know he was responsible for the dead guy in the middle of the room now. I try to laugh as they take him down, too.
I try really fucking hard, but it’s impossible.
