Chapter Forty-Six

 

RYAN

 

Once they finally decided that it was time to get me moving, they didn't take their time getting me moving. Into the car. Onto the highway. I lean my head against the wall.

All I know for sure is, I couldn't save either of my brothers, not with all of my strength. Not with all my weapons. Not with all the so-called power I'd built up since I got into this two-gang town.

Now I'm in the back of a car, and I know what's coming. It's a plane ride to the District of Columbia, and then I get arraigned in Federal court for trafficking. They'll probably add a few charges as the case comes together.

Then I spend the rest of my life locked up in a hole so deep that I never see the sun again.

I guess I always knew that it was a real risk. that they might catch me, and that if they did, there wasn't a hell of a lot I was going to do to change it. But some part of me had hoped, against all odds, that I'd get away with it.

Some part had hoped that I could at least get away without my brothers getting hurt. I don't want to go back to prison. Never in my whole life.

But if it was a trade between Logan or Brian and going to prison—it's not a trade. I'm giving up something don't mean nothing, and getting everything back in return.

Not being able to do a damn thing about any of it never even occurred to me.

I should've shot that bitch when I had the chance. The thought shoots through my head. I should've shot her when I had the chance.

Would someone else have taken over her position? Sure. But I wouldn't be as bad-off as I was. It would take time. There would have been time for me to react, time for me to get away. Time for me to figure out what to do next.

Instead, I'd let Scheck go, and all because I thought it would be fine. Because I underestimated her, and I underestimated her organization. It isn't a mistake I'll make again. Not, I think glumly, that I'm going to get the chance to make any sort of mistake again at all.

I don't exactly have a great track record, and with my history, it's not hard to pin something on me. That's even more true if I did it, and I sure as hell did a lot. I can't even pretend I didn't.

I settle deeper into the seat and close my eyes a minute. I'd like to go to sleep. Sleep now, wake up in D.C. and then start the long wait for the arraignment.

There's a lot wrong with prison. You never really can trust anyone, for one thing. Lots of problems that wouldn't even have been an issue outside of the joint.

The biggest problem, though, the one that tops all the others, is the raw damn boredom. So much time to pass. Days stretch on forever. It doesn't much matter what you do to try to pass them. Nothing will work as well as you want it to.

When you have eight straight hours, there's not many books will last you more than a day or two. You can go through the whole library in a year or so. And that's including shit you would never even consider under normal circumstances.

I take a deep breath and look around. I may as well get as much as I can out of my last day of being outside iron bars. It takes me a minute to be sure, but I recognize the car coming up behind me. I've seen it before, a dozen times at least.

What surprises me a little bit is that the guys in front don't seem to notice, or at least aren't doing anything about it. Maybe they're trying to hide in plain sight, I don't know.

Davis pulls up alongside the car. I can see Brian in the seat next to her. He doesn't look good. Ragged. But he's alive, which is a surprise.

I hear Donaldsen curse in the front seat, and pull out his phone. A second later he's talking into it.

"I thought I told you to hold him."

A long pause. I don't like the ideas I'm getting about who he's talking to, nor the ideas about what they're talking about. Hold who?

I don't need to wonder. I already know who, and that's what's got me upset. The goon steps on the gas. We're not in anything special, though. I don't think we're going to get away.

The anger, dissipated into melancholy, starts burning bright again. This mother fucker thought he would use my own family against me? As a weapon?

He orchestrated this whole setup. He's the one responsible. The answer isn't hard, but getting the motion right, quickly, is. Slow is fast. Slow is fast. I can't afford to get ahead of myself.

I rock forward and at the same time slip my arms high above Donaldsen's head. My hands go down, and my weight comes back. I feel the strain in my shoulders almost immediately.

The chain between my hands goes tight in Donaldsen's fleshy throat. There's enough time for my arms to start really hurting before the goon notices, maybe two or three seconds.

I don't need long to get my revenge. Three seconds isn't enough.

"You let him go right now," he growls, reaching awkwardly for the pistol at his waist. Another precious couple of seconds wasted, and another precious few seconds of Donaldsen's air, gone. "Or I swear to God, you won't make it to D.C."

My knee goes up to brace against the back of the seat in front of me. It lets me pull tighter.

"You tried to kill my brother."

He gets the gun free and points it at me. He thinks I can be threatened into stopping. He's got a lot to learn.

"Your brother is fine," the goon growls. "Let Inspector Donaldsen go."

"Put the gun down."

"I can't do that, you know I can't."

He doesn't seem to realize the other problem with this scenario, though. For a big guy in the A.T.F., he's awfully dumb. All the time that he spends pointing that gun at me, keeping his eyes on me, he isn't keeping his eyes on the road.

The car slams hard into the corner of another. I can feel it forcing Donaldsen forward, but I've got him held back. It's almost like a harness, in addition to his seat belt. My arms feel like they're going to fall off.

The car goes spinning, hard. Tail hits the concrete barrier, and we finally spin back to a stop. My entire body hurts. For the first time in what must have been thirty seconds, I loosen my arms around Donaldsen's neck.

He doesn't move to do much of anything. I pull my arms back into the back-seat. This might have been a mistake, I think. I feel a little woozy. My head might have hit the roof a little. I can't really think straight.

The goon's moving, but he looks out of it. He picks his head up off the steering wheel slow, like he's just waking up in the morning. Like the next words out of his mouth are going to be 'where am I?'

I lean back. Good enough. I got my revenge, and if that's all I get, then it'll have been all I could have asked for. Then the door opens, and an angel reaches inside to grab me.