Prologue - I Fucked Up
It’s fucking hot. The stench in this room is getting worse by the hour. It’s all I can do to focus on breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
I never knew breathing could be a distraction, but it’s the only thing to focus on since it’s echoing in my ears from this damn thing tied over my head. The monotony of my breathing—keeping it steady, listening to myself exhale—almost makes me forget about the pain.
Almost, but not quite.
And as bad as the pain is, what’s worse is I don’t know where Crew is. They could have him—we’d just separated when they got me. I’ve never fucking hated myself more than right now, knowing he’s here because of me.
The door slams. They’re back with more yelling—again demanding to know who I am, who sent me, and how I found them. I get another warning, and just like all the other times, I’ve learned to brace because I know something’s gonna follow.
Fuck.
I bite back my groan, trying not to make a sound, but that felt like a pipe. Hanging from one arm, those hits fucking hurt. I’m pretty sure they cracked some ribs. Little do they know, I was taught how to take a beating—but a pipe? That’s new, even for me.
I go back to focusing on my breathing because there’s nothing more for me to do. I never realized how fucking big and heavy I was until all my weight is hanging by a thread—that thread being a rope, tearing through my skin.
More threats, demands, warnings. It’s all been bad—worse than I ever imagined—but listening to them speak in their language, this shit’s about to get even worse.
It doesn't matter how much I try, I can’t control my heartbeat. My breaths, which have been echoing in my head for what’s got to be almost twenty-four hours now, get louder and faster.
Focus, Grady. Focus on something.
Nothing. I can’t find one fucking thing to think about besides my good hand being tied to something hard. For the first time since they got me, I struggle. Thrashing and twisting makes the pain worse, but fuck me, I think I’m about to lose my hand, or at least my fingers one by one.
I’m not sure which would be worse.
Yeah, I fucked up.
My chest heaves, my lungs not able to keep up. It doesn’t matter how long this sack has been tied over my head, I suddenly feel smothered.
Then my body jerks, and not from another strike, hit, or thrash. I force myself to concentrate, making sure I still have all my extremities. It’s a noise. I've used them enough, I know instantly what it is.
A flashbang.
A lot of fucking gunfire mixed with screaming voices follow, all in their language. The commotion around me is too much. I tense and I feel the pain in my shoulder more than anything I’ve felt so far.
I hear bodies slam into others and two more gunshots ring out. That’s it.
Silence.
“Grady? You with me?”
Crew.
They didn’t get him.
Even with the pain, I exhale in relief. But I still can’t utter a word.
My good arm is untied and before I know it the weight of my body is lifted. That weight was so fucking heavy. Never felt anything like it, not even when I was seventeen. That weight would’ve been too much for most people at that age. Not me—not even then. That was when I created a new path for me and my family. Since then, I’ve felt free. Never a heavy day since.
Until now, when I fucked up and almost got Crew killed along with me. I almost got the one person I care about outside of my family killed and right when he found something to live for. That path led me here, hanging by a thread—beaten, bloodied, and almost dead.
He must’ve cut the rope. I groan in pain as the blood starts to flow, even as my arm falls limp to my side. When my ass hits the ground, Crew rips the stench-soaked cloth off my head. I have to squint from seeing light for the first time in almost twenty-four hours. My friend is bleeding from the mouth and a bruise is already forming on the side of his face.
He’s serious, all business, when he demands, “I’m gonna pop your shoulder back in. It can’t wait, then we’ve gotta get out of here.”
I wince and barely nod.
“Brace, I’ll go on three,” he warns.
I swallow and nod. Then, I brace.
“One … two …”
I scream, allowing the first sound I’ve made since they got me. “Fuck! You said three.”
Crew yanks me up by my good arm and I don’t know if I feel pain or relief in my shoulder.
“Sorry, man. It would’ve been worse on three. Come on, we’ve gotta get the fuck outta here.”
I shouldn’t feel the weight. No matter the condition of my body, all parts are still attached, and I’m alive. I should be light as a fucking feather.
As Crew drags me out of the broken-down makeshift warehouse—littered with bloody, dead bodies—I’ve never felt heavier.