Page 2 of Rebel
I skitter away from him, clutching my hands to my chest. It’s a natural reaction most people would have, I think. A terrifying old man, dressed in a torn great coat, and covered head to toe in blood comes flying at you from out of nowhere, and your first instinct is to run. Not people like my father or my sister, of course; they would run straight toward someone like that. It takes a heartbeat to get myself together before I realize this guy needs me to be like my dad. Or like Sloane.
“What…what happened?” I hurry forward, unravelling the scarf from around my neck, preparing to use it to staunch the bleeding, wherever it’s coming from.
The old man’s eyes grow round. Suddenly he’s not staggering toward me anymore; he’s backing away. “No…” His voice comes out in a ragged, wet rasp. “No!” The look on his face is sheer terror. And he’s staring at something behind me.
I’ve seen enough films to know what comes next. The hand that clamps over my mouth. The iron grip of the arm that wraps around me, pinning my arms to my sides. The weightless, stomach-churning sensation of being lifted off the floor by someone much bigger and much stronger than me.
I try to scream. Pain rips down my throat, but I barely make a sound. The hand covering my mouth captures my cry and shoves it back inside me, effectively putting me on mute. My heart’s racing. I can’t…I can’t see properly. Black spots dance in my vision. I’ve never been good with small spaces, and being trapped inside this person’s arms is a very small fucking space. I react. I’d like to say I remember the training I received from the on-campus security team, showing us how to protect ourselves when out walking alone late at night, but that’s not what this is. This is the panicked flailing of a twenty-one-year-old girl gripped in the deepest throes of fear.
I bite down on the hand and taste blood. A loud hiss from the man behind me lets me know I’ve caused him some discomfort, but the bastard doesn’t let go. My feet are still off the ground. I lash out, kicking backward. My heels hit shinbone and strong muscle, but the grip around me doesn’t falter.
“What the fuck you doing with that bitch,hijo?” a voice demands. The accent is strong and thick. “Get her off the fucking street.”
I’ve been too terrified to take in much, but now I see the bloody man, on his knees, staring off up the street. He looks devastated, like he knows this is the end. His abject hopelessness hits me like a wave; this man, whoever he is, knows he is alone right now and no one is coming to his rescue. Which means no one is coming to my rescue, either.
He looks up at me, his mouth hanging open, and shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he tells me. I try screaming again, with just as much luck. My captor tightens his hold on me and then we’re moving, heading into the darkness of the side alley. Fuck. I know it instinctively: if I disappear into the darkness of this alleyway, I will never be seen again. And pinned to this stranger, struggling with every last ounce of strength I possess, there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. I see the face of another man, a Hispanic guy with a shaved head and a spider tattoo underneath his right eye, as he moves forward and grabs hold of the bloody old man under one arm. He spits on the old man, takes hold of him, and drags him behind us into the alleyway.
Dumpsters, trash, broken wooden crates; there’s nothing back here to indicate someone is going to come along at any moment and save us. The sound of footfall—many pairs of boots—rings off the walls on either side. We reach the iron railings of a tall gate in the middle of the alleyway, dividing it into two, and this is where my captor stops. He spins us around, and for the first time I see exactly just how much trouble I’m in.
Seven men, all with guns drawn, stare back at me. The same cold, indifferent look marks most of their faces; only one man wears a different expression—the guy who dragged the old man behind us. His victim is laying face down on the concrete, shoulders shaking, and now he has turned his attention to me. And he looks…excited.
My stomach drops through the floor.
He’s wearing a black Parka with grey fur trim, which strikes me as odd fashion sense for someone of his…standing. It’s also strange that I should be thinking things like this when he’s stalking toward me and sticking his face into mine. Regardless of his fashion sense, I know with certainty I’m looking into the eyes of a killer.
“You scream…and I’ll cut your tongue out withthis.” He draws a narrow, six-inch knife from the pocket of his jeans, sharp and cruel-looking, and I know he’s being very, very serious. “You hear me?”
I can’t tell him yes. I can’t even nod. I’m far too scared to have any sort of control over my body. Instead, I manage to blink at him. The Hispanic guy accepts this and nods to his friend. “Uncover her mouth so she can speak, fuckhead.”
The hand lets go of my face, though the arm around my chest doesn’t loosen any. “You know this old guy,puta?” Spider asks.
I shake my head straight away. I don’t want to give him any reason to get angry. His boys all look bored, but this guy…this guy looks like he could get riled up, and easily.
“Let the girl go. She doesn’t know me,” the old man on the ground groans. He shouldn’t have opened his mouth; one of the other men boots him in the chest so hard I hear a snapping sound. Without looking over his shoulder, Spider guy says, “Don’t worry, my friend. We’ll get to you in a moment. But in the meantime…” He strokes the back of his hand down my cheek, running his tongue over his top teeth. “You swear you don’t know this guy?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I swear.”
With little more than a blur of black material, Spider pulls his hand back and lashes out. Pain rockets through my head, surprising and sharp. I open my mouth, trying to gasp in a breath, but it won’t come. He hit me. Hehitme, and he looks like he enjoyed it. He smiles at me, nodding. “I think I believe you. But I have to be sure. What did he say to you, pretty? Did he tell you something, huh?”
I’ve never been struck before in my entire life. I can’t even remember my parents striking me for misbehaving as a kid. A tiny part of me is roiling with anger at the treatment, but the rest of me is shocked, paralyzed with fear. “He didn’t tell me anything. He asked for my help,” I whisper. Spider laughs at this.
“He asked you for help, pretty? That’s kind of ironic, no?” The question is rhetorical. He nods to the man holding me, and the hand comes descending over my mouth again. Spider presses the tip of his knife into his index finger, turning around so he’s facing the old man on the ground. I catch the glint of a gold wedding band on the old guy’s finger—somewhere out there this man has a wife who is probably worried about him. It’s late, and it’s dark. He could have been on his way home when these guys jumped him. He could already be late for his own family meal.
“So, what we gonna do with you,ese?” Spider asks. “That was some crazy shit you just pulled. You seriously thought running was a good plan? And I thought you guys were supposed to be smart. Educated and shit.” He spits on the ground. I can’t see the expression on his face, but I’m betting his eyes are glinting with that same poorly concealed depravity he fixed on me a moment ago. This man thrives on power. He thrives on blood, and from the way the old man on the floor is shrinking away from him, I think he knows it, too.
“I…I can’t help you. You know there’s nothing I can do,” the old man says. His voice catches in his throat. “Just…just let the girl go. Please.”
Spider looks over his shoulder at me, one eyebrow arched into a bemused black line. “Her? You’re begging forherlife?” With a shrug, Spider crouches down, still playing with the knife. “What about your life, Conahue? Not worth begging for?” he asks.
The old man—Conahue—swallows. The action looks painful, as though he’s swallowing razor blades. He looks up at me and I see the last flicker of fight in his eyes fizzle out and die. “You’re going to kill me anyway. Begging is probably a waste of what little breath I have left.”
Spider barks out a sharp blast of laughter. “Your life’s been in your hands for a long time, my friend. We gave you plenty of warning. When my employer asks for something, he gets it. There are consequences if he doesn’t. Hence this little…meeting, my friend. You could always change your mind? Do as he asks?”
Conahue gives a brief shake of his head, breathing heavily. His face, underneath the congealed, drying blood, is mottled and ashen. “I’ve never lied. I’ve never taken bribes. I’ve never let a piece of shit gang lord get away with murder.”
“Ah, so you’re a man of morals?” Spider asks this, twisting the knife over in his hands.
“Yes,” Conahue gasps. “Not that Hector would understand that. He hasn’t suffered a guilty conscience a day in his life.”
