Target on Our Backs
Page 63
It's an address I know… a place I've been to before.
"You want me to believe you, Lorenzo? You want me to trust you?" I start toward him, pausing right in front of him. "Then get me my meeting, like I asked."
I shove past him, hearing him call after me, following me out of the house. "Where are you going?"
"To get my wife back."
"How do you know where to look?"
I hold my phone up. "I've got a map."
"A map?" He laughs. Laughs. "You ever feel like Admiral Ackbar with the Death Star plans?"
I look at him, brow furrowed.
"You know... Return of the Jedi? It's a trap!"
I shake my head.
"Really? Nothing?" He scrunches up his face as if I disgust him. "How are we even friends?"
"We're not."
"Look, I'm just saying—"
"You're saying it's a trap."
"I'm saying this is awfully convenient, so either you're dealing with a bunch of idiots, or yeah... it's a trap. And these guys… they're not exactly brilliant, but they're not stupid, either."
He's saying nothing I'm not already thinking.
But it doesn't matter… I've got no choice.
Trap or no trap, I've got to go.
"Just get my meeting, Lorenzo."
He nods, walking out. "It's as good as got."
Killer tries to follow me when I leave, but I lock him in the house. If he gets loose, if I let something happen to him, Karissa will be distraught when she gets home.
Because she's coming home.
She is.
I'll destroy the whole world to make sure it happens.
And I know where to start.
I t's dark.
So dark.
But the darkness wasn't gradual.
It was a sudden plunge into blackness, like the light was siphoned from around me. Gone. I was at home, terrified, fighting, then blink, and I'm here.
I don't know where here is.
The terror still flows through my veins.
Where the hell am I?
Scarce windows surround me, covered with old bars, the glass so grimy they might as well be tinted. I can't see out of them, and I know it's just as impossible for anyone to see in. I woke up lying on a cold concrete floor, pressed against a wall in the darkness.
It's like being trapped in a void.
A dirty, disgusting void. Ugh.
My vision is fuzzy.
The air smells funny.
My head is pounding like a fucking bass drum.
I came to just a moment ago... or maybe an hour ago, I don't know. It's all a big haze. Forcing myself to sit, I blink, and blink, and blink some more, trying to make sense of my surroundings, trying to push back my fears, but it's not helping.
Nothing is helping.
I'm confused.
"You must be confused."
The voice across the room startles me and I flinch, letting out a gasp of air, a shuttering breath. My chest burns, and I inhale sharply in response, as my eyes trail the sudden movement across the room.
A guy.
The guy.
The one who was in my house earlier.
He stands in the shadows on the opposite side of whatever room this is, watching me. Oh God. He looks like a beast. He's staring me down, awaiting some sort of response to what he just said, but I can't get my voice to work yet.
Fuck, I can barely think.
He gives up waiting on me to answer and takes a step in my direction, his leg almost buckling as he does. "Don't hurt yourself trying to remember what happened. If you want to know, all you've got to do is ask."
"Who are you?"
My voice cracks, the question quiet when it leaves my lips on a shaky breath. He hears it, though, and limps even closer. He's injured. There's blood on his ripped khaki pants. Killer tore into him good.
Killer. Oh God, I hope he's okay.
"Let's just say I'm a friend of Vitale's."
I slowly shake my head, my vision blacking out around the edges, as I whisper, "he has no friends."
He's told me that, and I believe him, most definitely, if these are the kind of people who call themselves his friends. We certainly define friendship differently.
With friends like these, who needs enemies?
He laughs at that, still advancing toward me, that strange smell wafting through the air. It's sickly sweet. Acidic. My nose scrunches up, my lip curling instinctively as he crouches down right in front of me, close enough that I can see his eyes are bloodshot, like the blood vessels have burst.
Tears burn my eyes.
I look away.
His hand reaches out toward me, and I press my back against the wall, cowering away, but that doesn't deter him. Rough, red patches coat the skin around his palm and fingertips, rubbed raw and bleeding, like a chemical burn. He grasps my chin, roughly tilting it, squeezing my face to force me to look at him. A cry bursts from my chest, unable to be restrained, as tears start to flow from my eyes.
His calloused thumb wipes them away as a smile touches his lips.
He's enjoying this.
I try to pull away, to move away, but he's too strong and fuck, I'm weak. I'd drop the second I got to my feet. My legs are shaking, my head swimming. Even at my best and him at his worst, I couldn't outrun him.
"Please," I whisper, "just let me go."
His smile grows.
There's a spark in his eyes.
I think he likes it that I'm begging.
Ugh, sick fucker.
"Please," I say again. If it buys me time, if it buys Naz time to realize I'm gone, to come for me, I'll do it. Because he'll come for me. I know he will. He's promised, time and time again. I'll always come for you. "I don't know who you are, or what you want, but I've done nothing—"
His smile dissolves into a full-blown grin as he again laughs. This time it's sharp and loud, cutting off my words, as he grips me tighter. "You really think your innocent act is going to work on me?"
"It's not an act."
"Oh, but it is. You married a monster, little girl. Don't act like you don't know what he is, like you don't know what he does. He murders, in cold blood, and he makes it personal. That's why he uses his hands, why he uses a knife… why he suffocates, and strangles…" The man lets go of me and leans back, drawing his fingertips across his neck. "Why he slits throats."
My blood runs cold at those words.
"He likes to be up close," he continues. "He likes for you to look at him, for you to know who is stealing your final breath, like it makes him some sort of God, some angel of death, casting judgment while he stares you right in the face. He doesn't just kill, little girl… he robs you of your dignity, of your strength, of your self-respect. He takes it all as he toys with you. He takes it all for himself. And then he kills you, after you've got nothing left. So don't act like you're innocent, like you're ignorant, because I know who you are. We all know who you are. You were one of the hunted. He was going to do the same thing to you. He wanted you to suffer, too. And you know that… you know it, yet you gave him your heart, you gave him your cunt, and now you have the nerve to act innocent about it, like you've done nothing to get yourself here?"
I look away from him again.
"You want me to believe you, Lorenzo? You want me to trust you?" I start toward him, pausing right in front of him. "Then get me my meeting, like I asked."
I shove past him, hearing him call after me, following me out of the house. "Where are you going?"
"To get my wife back."
"How do you know where to look?"
I hold my phone up. "I've got a map."
"A map?" He laughs. Laughs. "You ever feel like Admiral Ackbar with the Death Star plans?"
I look at him, brow furrowed.
"You know... Return of the Jedi? It's a trap!"
I shake my head.
"Really? Nothing?" He scrunches up his face as if I disgust him. "How are we even friends?"
"We're not."
"Look, I'm just saying—"
"You're saying it's a trap."
"I'm saying this is awfully convenient, so either you're dealing with a bunch of idiots, or yeah... it's a trap. And these guys… they're not exactly brilliant, but they're not stupid, either."
He's saying nothing I'm not already thinking.
But it doesn't matter… I've got no choice.
Trap or no trap, I've got to go.
"Just get my meeting, Lorenzo."
He nods, walking out. "It's as good as got."
Killer tries to follow me when I leave, but I lock him in the house. If he gets loose, if I let something happen to him, Karissa will be distraught when she gets home.
Because she's coming home.
She is.
I'll destroy the whole world to make sure it happens.
And I know where to start.
I t's dark.
So dark.
But the darkness wasn't gradual.
It was a sudden plunge into blackness, like the light was siphoned from around me. Gone. I was at home, terrified, fighting, then blink, and I'm here.
I don't know where here is.
The terror still flows through my veins.
Where the hell am I?
Scarce windows surround me, covered with old bars, the glass so grimy they might as well be tinted. I can't see out of them, and I know it's just as impossible for anyone to see in. I woke up lying on a cold concrete floor, pressed against a wall in the darkness.
It's like being trapped in a void.
A dirty, disgusting void. Ugh.
My vision is fuzzy.
The air smells funny.
My head is pounding like a fucking bass drum.
I came to just a moment ago... or maybe an hour ago, I don't know. It's all a big haze. Forcing myself to sit, I blink, and blink, and blink some more, trying to make sense of my surroundings, trying to push back my fears, but it's not helping.
Nothing is helping.
I'm confused.
"You must be confused."
The voice across the room startles me and I flinch, letting out a gasp of air, a shuttering breath. My chest burns, and I inhale sharply in response, as my eyes trail the sudden movement across the room.
A guy.
The guy.
The one who was in my house earlier.
He stands in the shadows on the opposite side of whatever room this is, watching me. Oh God. He looks like a beast. He's staring me down, awaiting some sort of response to what he just said, but I can't get my voice to work yet.
Fuck, I can barely think.
He gives up waiting on me to answer and takes a step in my direction, his leg almost buckling as he does. "Don't hurt yourself trying to remember what happened. If you want to know, all you've got to do is ask."
"Who are you?"
My voice cracks, the question quiet when it leaves my lips on a shaky breath. He hears it, though, and limps even closer. He's injured. There's blood on his ripped khaki pants. Killer tore into him good.
Killer. Oh God, I hope he's okay.
"Let's just say I'm a friend of Vitale's."
I slowly shake my head, my vision blacking out around the edges, as I whisper, "he has no friends."
He's told me that, and I believe him, most definitely, if these are the kind of people who call themselves his friends. We certainly define friendship differently.
With friends like these, who needs enemies?
He laughs at that, still advancing toward me, that strange smell wafting through the air. It's sickly sweet. Acidic. My nose scrunches up, my lip curling instinctively as he crouches down right in front of me, close enough that I can see his eyes are bloodshot, like the blood vessels have burst.
Tears burn my eyes.
I look away.
His hand reaches out toward me, and I press my back against the wall, cowering away, but that doesn't deter him. Rough, red patches coat the skin around his palm and fingertips, rubbed raw and bleeding, like a chemical burn. He grasps my chin, roughly tilting it, squeezing my face to force me to look at him. A cry bursts from my chest, unable to be restrained, as tears start to flow from my eyes.
His calloused thumb wipes them away as a smile touches his lips.
He's enjoying this.
I try to pull away, to move away, but he's too strong and fuck, I'm weak. I'd drop the second I got to my feet. My legs are shaking, my head swimming. Even at my best and him at his worst, I couldn't outrun him.
"Please," I whisper, "just let me go."
His smile grows.
There's a spark in his eyes.
I think he likes it that I'm begging.
Ugh, sick fucker.
"Please," I say again. If it buys me time, if it buys Naz time to realize I'm gone, to come for me, I'll do it. Because he'll come for me. I know he will. He's promised, time and time again. I'll always come for you. "I don't know who you are, or what you want, but I've done nothing—"
His smile dissolves into a full-blown grin as he again laughs. This time it's sharp and loud, cutting off my words, as he grips me tighter. "You really think your innocent act is going to work on me?"
"It's not an act."
"Oh, but it is. You married a monster, little girl. Don't act like you don't know what he is, like you don't know what he does. He murders, in cold blood, and he makes it personal. That's why he uses his hands, why he uses a knife… why he suffocates, and strangles…" The man lets go of me and leans back, drawing his fingertips across his neck. "Why he slits throats."
My blood runs cold at those words.
"He likes to be up close," he continues. "He likes for you to look at him, for you to know who is stealing your final breath, like it makes him some sort of God, some angel of death, casting judgment while he stares you right in the face. He doesn't just kill, little girl… he robs you of your dignity, of your strength, of your self-respect. He takes it all as he toys with you. He takes it all for himself. And then he kills you, after you've got nothing left. So don't act like you're innocent, like you're ignorant, because I know who you are. We all know who you are. You were one of the hunted. He was going to do the same thing to you. He wanted you to suffer, too. And you know that… you know it, yet you gave him your heart, you gave him your cunt, and now you have the nerve to act innocent about it, like you've done nothing to get yourself here?"
I look away from him again.
