Page 17 of Dimitri
“Take the next exit,” I advise Rocco when a message from Smith pops up on my screen. He’s hacked into my system to advise us of the most direct route to take.
The further we travel up the ramp, the more the headlights of the Range Rover bounce off a figure coming from the other end. Although the ground is wet from a recent sprinkling, all the clouds have moved on, exposing a full moon. It adds to the deathly halo shrouding the petite blonde.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Rocco mutters under his breath when the brightness dims enough, we spot the streams of blood gushing down the blonde’s face. She’s barely walking, her wobbly strides more stumbling steps than polished strides. Her dress and boots are ripped like most punks pay out the eye for when selecting designer jeans, and her blonde hair almost looks red from how much blood it’s absorbed.
She’s either been in a car accident or run over by one.
Their list of injuries are about the same.
“Someone fucked her over good,” Rocco summarizes, stealing the words straight out of my mouth.
He glares at me like I’m insane when I demand him to keep going. Although he didn’t place his foot on the brake, he did loosen his pressure on the gas pedal, slowing our pace.
“We don’t have time. Fien’s jet could taxi toward the runway at any moment.” I can see the lights of a control tower just over the horizon. We’re almost there. “I’ll send someone back for her once Fien is safe.”
“All right.” Although he’s agreeing with me, he isn’t happy about my decision. He has a soft spot for battered women since his momma was one. His dad used to beat the living shit out of his mother. Discovering the reason for her many bruises saw him facing his first stint in juvy at fifteen. His second was for his father’s murder. I loaded the gun and handed it to him. He took care of business how I should have done with my father years ago. Regretfully, my surname means there are rules I must follow. Back then, Rocco didn’t face the same issue.
With Rocco’s jaw as tight as mine, he increases his pressure on the accelerator. The paintwork on my door gets friendly with the railing on the side of the road when he takes a wide birth around the stumbling blonde. I don’t pay any attention to the brutal grind. I can’t take my eyes of the one green eye popping out from a mattered mess of unbrushed locks when we whizz by the blonde.
I’ve seen that eye before—more than once.
“Stop!”
Rocco locks up the brakes so quickly, I’m winded when my ribs collide with the glove compartment. It’ll teach me for not wearing a seat belt. Ophelia was killed when she was flung out of the windshield of CJ’s ride. If she had been wearing her seat belt, she may have survived their accident.
With my mouth refusing to relinquish my words, it takes me a good three seconds to garble out, “Go back.”
“Back?” Rocco double checks, not willing to risk death if he heard me wrong.
Although certain I’m making a mistake, I scream, “Yes! Now! Go!”
Rocco thrashes the living hell out of the Range Rover’s engine after tossing the gearshift into reverse. We arrive at the bottom of the ramp in an instant, but the blonde is nowhere to be seen.
“Where the fuck is she?” My eyes go wild, seeking the reflection of her stark white hair. “We’re the only people out this way. She couldn’t have just up and vanished.”
My eyes stray to Rocco when he mumbles, “Why go around if you go over.”
When he spots the confusion on my face, he points to a section of the railing a few spots up from where we are. Bright red blood gleams off the silver material.
“Fuck.” I throw open my door and sprint three solid strides to the portion of the blood-stained railing. My lungs react as if they ran a marathon when I spot the battered blonde at the bottom of the ravine. She’s breathing, but only just. “Bring me a rope.”
Nodding, Rocco pops open the back of the Range Rover before sliding out of the driver’s seat. While he does as requested, I remove my suit jacket before rolling up the sleeves of my dress shirt.
I have one sleeve in place when Rocco arrives at my side with a used length of rope. How do I know it’s been used? It’s soaked with blood. Guns, knives, and Molotov cocktails aren’t the Cartel’s only source of weaponry. Everyday instruments can be just as useful in the right hands.
“Secure it to the railing.”
I don’t need to tell Rocco what knot to use. He knows all the tricks of this life, so he’s more than aware the last thing you want is for a rope to snap when your boss sentences a man to be hung.
“I’ll go,” Rocco suggests when I wrap the loose end of the rope around my wrist so it can support my scale down the gorge. I don’t need it to keep me safe, but it will come in handy to hoist the blonde out of the ravine.
Although appreciative of Rocco’s offer, I shake my head. “I want to do this.” I don’t know why, and I’m reasonably sure I’ll regret it at some stage in the near future, but I want to do this.
Rocco nods for the second time before he steps back, so I can swing my leg over the railing. It’s slippery because of the recent rainfall, but I make it down the gorge relatively fast.
“Bring the car back around to the freeway. It’ll be quicker to walk her out than pull her out,” I shout after surveying the area. “I can see the interstate from here. It’s about the same distance as the height of the gorge.”
I wait for the lights of the Range Rover to disappear from above before kneeling at the blonde’s side. A massive crack splits her head from the top of her skull to the middle of her forehead, she has a number of bruises and scrapes on her arms and torso, and her legs are all types of fucked up. The only part of her that looks untouched is her midsection, so that’s what I toss onto my shoulder before hot-footing it in the direction I requested Rocco to meet me at.
