Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (38 page)

“What the hell was that?” snarls Lukas, looking around with narrowed eyes.

“Help! Help!” the rat-man starts squealing, desperately thinking I might be a cop or someone here to rescue him from his chained interrogation.

“
Zatk’nis
,
mu’dak
!” roars Lukas, jabbing a right hook into the rat-man’s face.

“Who’s there?” calls out Leon, walking briskly toward me, squinting.

Oh no.

He’s going to find me. I’m going to die. They’re going to chain me up and beat the hell out of me like they’re doing to the rat-man. It’s all over.

Just then, my fight or flight instinct kicks in. Flight takes the reins.

With a terrified little squeal I stand up, tuck my boots under my arm, and bolt away as fast as my nearly-bare feet can carry me, my heart pounding in my ears.

“Stop! Stop right there!” Leon shouts, his voice running chills down my tingling limbs. I can hear his heavy footsteps quickening behind me. He’s chasing me.

“Boss?” Lukas yells.

“Stay back! I’ve got this!” Leon calls back in response.

He’s got this.

He’s got
me
.

M
y head is pounding
and my entire body aches, my legs having gone numb from running so far, so fast, in the cold air. My feet are frozen by this point, my toes totally without feeling. I’ve still got my boots tucked up under my arm, which is trembling but paralyzed in a kind of vice grip. The muddy, slushy earth beneath me splatters and smacks with every frantic step I take. I have not dared to look behind me, and I can’t hear much beyond the booming of my heart beat and the blood rushing in my ears. I am not a runner by any means, and in fact my gym membership card was little more than a shiny, colorful little decoration on my dresser back at my apartment in the city. I went a few times, but it was never a priority for me. The work I did, the kind of profile I kept, required me to be pretty and slim, but certainly not buff.

So this is probably the most physical exercise I’ve had in years. And it shows.

My lungs are in constant pain, causing me to wince with every labored breath. I don’t even know how long I’ve been running now. It could be fifteen minutes or it could be five hours — either way, I cannot wipe the fear out of my mind that my would-be attacker is just a few steps behind the whole way. I hope, vaguely, that I am running in the direction of help. Out here, in as close to the middle of nowhere as you can possibly get in the industrial state of New Jersey, it’s hard to find your way back to the road. At first, I took off into the woods, not thinking clearly enough to have a real destination in mind. But slowly, cautiously, I’ve made my way back in a loop toward where I think I parked my rental car.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, there’s a shrill voice screaming at me.
How could you possibly lose your car? What kind of idiot are you?
But at last the glint of something like polished metal flashes in the watery sunlight just ahead and my heart soars.

A sleek, unobtrusive, little green Ford Focus. My rental car. Thank God!

Somehow I manage to wrangle my aching, half-responsive arm into the back left pocket of my jeans to fish out the keys. With all the momentum I’ve been building up, I all but slam into the driver’s side door, shaking violently as I fumble to fit the key into the door. Finally I allow myself to look around, my eyes blinking and wide as I scan the area for my pursuer. He’s nowhere in sight, but that does little to satisfy my fear.

“Come on, come on,” I mumble nervously. Then the key wiggles into the hole and I turn it to unlock the door and fling it open. “A-ha!”

A-ha? What are you, a magician?
I think to myself in annoyance. I jab the key into the ignition and turn the engine over, immediately throwing the car into reverse and peeling out in a sharp, backward semi-circle before switching to drive and jerking forward. With my basically-bare foot shoving the gas pedal down to the floor, the Focus plows down along the dirt road I took to get here, barreling away from the warehouse, away from this nightmare.

The trees blow past, leaning narrowly into the pathway as though half-heartedly trying to guard me from leaving. As I drive along at a definitely-illegal speed, I notice that my toes are regaining feeling — and that the thin hosiery has worn through. It probably disintegrated some ten or fifteen minutes ago from being pounded into the wet, rocky ground. Another pair of pantyhose ruined in the name of journalism. What a shame.

When I reach the main road I suddenly slam to a halt, unable to decide which direction to go. In my panic to reach safety, I have been laboring under the assumption that I would drive straight back to my hotel and lock the deadbolt. But it dawns on me now that my plan may be flawed. There’s no guarantee I’d be safe at the hotel. God knows it isn’t exactly the fanciest or most secure accommodation I’ve stayed in. And besides, if I am being followed — and I feel pretty damn confident I am — do I really want to lead them straight to where I’ll be sleeping tonight? The thought of those guys hounding me, maybe chaining me up in my own hotel room, is enough to make me gulp.

Hell no. Plan B.

Instead of taking a right, I slam the gas pedal down and spin the wheel to the left, the tires squealing and emitting the sour odor of burnt rubber as I turn the car in the general direction of the coast. I don’t know what I’ll find there, but some ancient, long-buried memory reminds me that there are usually cops stationed out by the water. By the docks.

I can hardly remember it now, as so much time has passed and I’ve done such a good job of burying my past self. Thinking of the docks now — it’s like looking through a foggy window.

Running up and down the beach, chasing the seagulls and singing old Britney Spears songs from the CD with the flower on it. The memory of the time I scraped my knee on a piece of driftwood and an older neighbor girl scared the hell out of me telling me I was going to get tetanus and die. The sound of my father’s voice, buffeted by the coastal breeze, calling out to tell me it was time to go home. That lump in my throat is getting all too familiar. I’m going to have to let myself break down and cry sometime soon.

And a boy… a boy with scraggly dark hair and a charismatic smile. His hands plunging down into the blue depths, grasping for my arms just as my chest goes tight and the world starts to fall into darkness around me. His fingers locking around my wrists, tugging me up out of the churning white foamy water and urging me to
breathe, breathe, it’ll be okay, just breathe
. The tickle of sand dragging along my spine, my wet clothes weighing me down. My eyes blinking open and burning with saltwater, focusing hazily on the stormy, purple sky high above me and then closing again just as the boy whispers, “You’re safe now.”

I’m so far away, so deep in these distant thoughts I have not visited in years, that I have to slam on the brakes to stop the car when it pulls into the nearly-empty parking lot near the entrance to the docks. The sky overhead is getting cloudy and a very light rain starts to drizzle as I catch sight of the police car down the way from me. I hop out of my car and barrel through the rain to tap on the tinted window of the squad car, hoping the cop inside doesn’t think I’m some crazed homeless person trying to start something.

I realize now how ridiculous I must look: eyes wide with panic, my whole body woefully overdressed for the occasion and underdressed for the weather, my feet bare and blue except for the holey hosiery. Slowly, the car window rolls down with a faint buzz, to reveal a middle-aged cop with a shaved head giving me a dubious look.

“Anything the matter, ma’am?” he asks flatly.

“Y-yes, sir,” I begin, my voice wavering. “I think I’m being followed.”

The cop leans out of his window and looks around the empty lot. “By who?”

“Some guys. From… from a warehouse.”

At this, the cop’s attention flicks back to me instantly, his eyes suddenly full of interest.

“Hold on a sec’, miss,” he says. He leans away and says something into a receiver, too low and soft for me to catch the words. Then he gets out of the car to stand up in front of me. He’s barrel-chested and paunchy, with a bit of a beer gut. He glances down and does a double-take at my lack of shoes before fixing me with a raised eyebrow.

“Where are your shoes?”

“I, um, took them off when I was running.” It sounds even stupider out loud.

“You must be freezing. Here, hop in the back,” he offers, opening the car door so I can slip inside. I hesitate at first, but then I slide into the seat to get out of the rain.

He shuts the door and stands outside, speaking quietly into the receiver. Over the gentle patter of the rain I can’t make out a single word. I hope that he’s calling for backup. For several minutes we wait like this, and I surreptitiously take out of my cell phone. It doesn’t look to be damaged or anything, but when it hits me that I totally forgot to record any of the scene I witnessed at the warehouse I want to smack myself in the face.

Maybe I’m not cut out for this investigative journalism thing, after all.

Finally, in the distance, I can hear the growl of engines approaching. I strain my eyes to look out the window and make out the approaching shapes of what looks like a fleet of motorcycles. I wrinkle my nose. That’s weird. Why would the cop call for backup in the form of moto-cops? Where are they going to put the guys when they arrest them?

But as the bikes get closer my heart sinks. These guys aren’t wearing police uniforms. They’re dressed in leather jackets and jeans, and they all look mean as hell.
They look like trouble.
They pull into the parking lot quickly and hop off their bikes, dusting off their hands as they walk over to the squad car. My heart is racing in my chest at this point. Where is the backup? Where are the other cops? We can’t face these guys without help!

The cop leaning against the car seems unperturbed by the bikers’ arrival, standing nonchalantly with his arms crossed on his chest. I want to bang on the window, tell him to take out his gun or something — anything!

What is he doing?!

“Yo! Caught this one. Held her for ya,” calls out the cop. I look up at the back of his head through the window, unable to process the words he just said. Caught me? Holding me?

“Get any information out of her?” barks one of the bikers walking up. I realize with a jolt that it’s the guy from the warehouse with the blue shirt — the one called Lukas.

“Didn’t ask. Just waited for you guys. Like I was told.”

“Good work,” says another biker. I recognize his voice long before I can make out his face: Leon. The guy in the black shirt who chased me.

The cop is working with these guys. He’s a crooked cop. I’ve been tricked. The realization is coming over me slowly, as it seems just too outlandish to be real. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. This only goes down in the movies, on true-crime shows.

I’m just some puff-piece journalist from the Big Apple — not an undercover detective.

What if they kill me?

“Whatchu want me to do with her?” asks the cop. In a panic, I slide across the seat to the other side and try to open the door, but there’s no way to open it. I’ve never been in the back of a squad car before, but I’m pretty sure he’s got me stuck in here. I pull my legs up to my chest and try to recoil from the scene unfolding outside.

“Just let me talk to her,
khorosho
?” answers Leon.

“I don’t want no blood on my seats, eh? You got that?” warns the cop.

“We’ll get it detailed for you,” sneers Lukas sarcastically.

“Hey man, I’m serious. Chief is on my tail about my unaccounted hours and whatnot. I don’t want him gettin’ suspicious on me, alright?” complains the officer, holding up his hands.

“Shut up,” Leon says, “and open up that door.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“No,” I murmur softly as the officer pops the door open and Leon reaches inside to grab at me. I slide as far away from him as possible, shaking my head. “No!”

“Come here,” Leon growls, grabbing me by the wrists and dragging me out into the rain.

My lungs clinging to that last wisp of oxygen
.

“No! Don’t hurt me, please!” I cry out, flailing at him.

There’s laughter from the biker guys, but Leon doesn’t even flinch, pinning me against the slick side of the police car with effortless ease. He leans in close to my face and even in my stark terror I am taken aback by how handsome he is. His eyes are a jade-green, a color surely too vivid to be natural, and there’s dark stubble shadowing his strong jaw. His lips are barely parted, his breaths slow and measured, as though he’s done this a thousand times. Like this is nothing to him. Like my life is nothing to him.

Even hunched over to get in my face, he towers over me, but I refuse to shrink away — there’s nowhere to run now anyway. I am surrounded. There’s no way out.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks, his voice so low and deep it sends a thrum through my chest. “Who sent you?”

“Nobody.”

“What is your name?”

I close my lips tightly, giving him the fiercest glare I can muster. If I’m going to die in this shitty parking lot, then I am damn sure not going to die cowering like a wimp. It’s the least I can do. Be brave, like dad would have wanted. Not give in to the people who very well might have killed him.

Anger flashes in his green eyes and he shakes my shoulders, pressing me harder against the car. “Why were you in that warehouse? What did you see?”

“Why were
you
in that warehouse?” I snap, narrowing my eyes.

There’s some unrest among the bikers as they look around at each other, surprised at my brazenness. I gulp.

“None of your damn business,” Leon snarls.

“Right back at ya,” I reply, surprising even myself. Leon inhales slowly, clearly fighting to hold in his fury at me. One of his hands releases me to swipe back through his dark hair, as he shuts his eyes momentarily. He’s losing patience, I can tell. I don’t know exactly what that means for me, but it can’t be anything good. That’s for sure.

“Look,” he growls, his voice so low I doubt anyone else can hear him but me, “I don’t want to hurt you. But I ask the questions here. Not you.”

Well, at least he says he doesn’t
want
to hurt me — unlike Lukas behind him, who is rubbing his knuckles and giving me the coldest glare on planet earth. Still, with Leon’s hands pinning me like this, his words aren’t particularly comforting.

After a long, tense silence, I finally break a little.

“I saw you and that guy behind you,” I sigh, gesturing toward Lukas. “You had some other man chained up on the floor in the warehouse. I couldn’t really hear what you were saying, though,” I lie. It’s only half a lie. After all, I did hear some of what they said, but I can’t really put it into context at the moment, so it’s not especially helpful intel.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Leon says, easing up ever so slightly.

“But I’m not going to tell you why I was there,” I add, tilting my face upward defiantly.

“Oh, come on! Just shake the information out of her! We don’t have all day!” shouts Lukas, waving his arms angrily. He’s definitely the hothead of the crew, that much I can tell.