Chapter Thirteen

Colleen

 

The man grips onto my knee painfully, pinning me to the seat, as the driver screeches away and the car narrowly misses hitting two screaming pedestrians. For a few crazy moments, hell breaks loose, the driver roaring at the top of his lungs: “Fucking bitch! Slap that fucking bitch! Slap that fucking whore!” The man doesn’t take long to carry out the order; his knuckles catch me across the cheek, sending me sprawling to the opposite door. I almost slam my head into the glass, catching myself at the final moment. And then the car swerves around the corner and I go sprawling again, this time into the footwell.

 

I catch myself on the back of the seat, struggling back to a sitting position with my face pulsing in agony.

 

“Fucking bitch,” the gunman snarls, pulling out the bigger pistol he talked about back in the café. He aims it at my head. “Where do you think we’re going, eh? To a fucking ball? No, bitch, the end of your road is to be sold on at auction like a fucking cow, or killed in the dirt like a dog. So it don’t matter too much if we hurt you a little. We just have to—” His words are cut short when we round another corner. The driver doesn’t seem to care about keeping us or anybody else safe; he darts down alleyways, onto the sidewalk, takes bends without slowing to see if other cars are coming from the opposite direction. It’s like he wants us to crash. “We just have to keep that face pretty, so no more fucking around.”

 

“You’re the one who hit me!” I scream into the chaos.

 

“Shut the fuck up!” the driver snaps.

 

I look out the back window. We’re leaving a trail of mayhem behind us, pedestrians gathering in groups, an old woman hugging the wall like we’re going to turn around and mow her down. Following swiftly after us, though, is Gabriel. He drives skillfully. I catch a glimpse of his face, or at least I think I do: loving, determined. Or maybe the knock to the head has messed me up more than I thought.

 

“You’re making a mistake!” I scream. “You can’t sell me! My father—”

 

“Shut the fuck up!” the driver screams again. That’s when I realize that he’s on some kind of drug. I’m not very experienced with drugs, but I’m guessing it’s speed or cocaine or something like that. He’s all twitchy, and when he glances into the back, his eyes are shot with thick bolts of red. “Shut up!” he screams for a third time, as the back end of the car bucks out around a sharp bend, the car sliding on the slick road.

 

I fall forward, only barely stopping my nose from crushing against the passenger-side seat.

 

“Nobody cares about your father, whore,” the gunman snarls, catching himself with one hand and levelling the big silver pistol with the other. It’s more like a hand-cannon. “You’ll be a real whore soon, a real whore! Some Russian oilman’ll make you his dog!”

 

“Gabriel will kill you!” I cry, jaw aching with the movement. “He’ll kill you all!” Something snaps in me. It’s as though a lifetime of suppressed rage finally comes out in this moment. “He’ll fucking kill you!” I roar, not even feeling guilty for swearing. These men think they can just pick me up and do whatever they want with me; that I’m some kind of commodity, that they can just … “You better let me go or you’re dead! You’re dead! You’re fucking dead! I hate you! I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!”

 

“Shut her up!” the driver screams, barreling past a rundown building to come to the waterside. We leap over the sidewalk and enter the parking lot of an industrial site, past a warehouse and further on, darting down toward an abandoned area at the end of the lot. “Shut her the fuck up!”

 

“Where are we going?” the gunman snaps. “Fucking hell, Jackie, where the fuck are we going?”

 

“Shut that bitch up!” Jackie howls.

 

Gabriel is right on our tails, getting closer every second. He has his gun out, propped on the open window, aimed at us. But he won’t fire with me in the car. What is his plan? As long as they have me, there’s nothing much he can do. He needs a distraction; he needs me to do something. All my life, other people have taken care of everything. If Alma and Father kept me trapped, at times I was glad to be trapped because it meant I never had to take responsibility. But this is it now, something different. Either Gabriel catches up with us or these men take me far away and do whatever they want with me.

 

My mind—all those inner doubting voices—tries to stop me. But I ignore it and leap across the car at the gunman, who’s busy shouting at the driver. I hardly believe myself as I grab ahold of the gun-carrying hand and then bring my teeth to it, biting down so hard that I feel bone and taste blood.

 

“Ah!” the man roars, thumping me with his free hand, right in the side.

 

I gasp at the sudden pain, my lungs emptying of air. But I don’t let go of his hand. I bite even harder, my teeth cutting through the flesh. I only stop when I can’t bite anymore, my jaw aching. He drops the gun. I catch it. The driver turns to see what’s going on, and then Gabriel speeds up and veers the car around, cutting us off just as we reach another parking lot.

 

“Fuck!” the driver roars, slamming on the brakes. All three of us go flying.

 

My world spins over and over—a rush of ceiling, a snapshot of outside, and Gabriel, amidst it all, climbing from his car—and then I land in the front of the car. Something slams … my head? I try to lift myself but it feels as though I am stuck in thick layers of mud, struggling to get my arms and legs free; each movement comes with a great effort. People are shouting, men at the top of their lungs. Somebody’s shouting about a gun; there’s a gun; drop the gun. I feel as though I’m floating above everything, my body feeling very far away, but at the same time I can’t see what’s going on, like I’d be able to if I was really floating. It’s a strange, disembodied sensation, my vision blurry, my head pumping, my body aching numbly.

 

Slowly, I come back to myself, to find that I’m in the front seat, pummeling the driver wildly with my fists, hitting him wherever they land, screaming incoherently. Outside the car, a blur of motion tells me that Gabriel and the gunman are locked in some sort of fight. A gun fires, metal clangs, and then the gunman goes on screaming at Gabriel to drop the gun. “Let’s fight like men!” he roars, but Gabriel keeps trying to find the shot. He looks briefly at me, wincing, as he approaches the car. The gunman is ducked down behind the trunk, bleeding from the side of his head and holding his hand strangely from the deep gouging bite wound.

 

“Bitch!” the driver snarls. “Fucking bitch! Get the fuck away from me!” He darts for his hip, where his gun sits at an awkward angle, jammed against the seat. I don’t think. It turns out that when I shut off my mind and allow my panic to take over, I’m far quicker and more decisive than I’ve ever thought of myself. I dive on his arm, grab his wrist, and snap it away from the gun as hard as I can. He’s far stronger than me, but he’s also bleeding from his forehead where he bounced off the steering wheel. “Whore!” he roars, going for his gun again.

 

“Stop it!” I scream, as he snaps at my throat with his free hand. I dart aside, dart back down, and once again clamp my teeth on soft, bloody flesh. He lets out a roar of agony and I keep biting, even harder now, sinking my teeth deeper and deeper so that they almost meet in the middle. When he grabs at me with his gun hand, instinct drives me. I don’t want to die, but more than that, I don’t want Gabriel to die. It’s not fair that these evil, sadistic men get to waltz into my life and ruin everything. It wasn’t Gabriel kidnapping me that did it; it’s these assholes, taking me from my kidnapper.

 

I grab his gun from the holster at his hip and aim it right at his face.

 

“Stop,” I pant, leaning back and letting go of his hand.

 

Outside the car, the gunman and Gabriel have both run out of ammunition. Gabriel has hit the gunman twice, once in the shoulder and once in the foot, but the gunman limps toward him like he’s ready for a fight. Gabriel sizes him up, tilting his head to the side, and then leaps forward.

 

“Stop,” I repeat, when the driver makes as if to move.

 

“Fucking bit me,” the driver growls, eyes as wide as saucers. He looks around as though surprised to find himself in reality. “You fucking whore.”

 

“I’m the one holding the gun!” I shout, trying to keep my trigger finger from shaking too much. I’ve never held a loaded gun before, much less fired one, but they were going to sell me like cattle; sell me, as though I’m just a collection of limbs with no dreams or desires of my own. “You shut your fucking mouth!”

 

He shakes his head slowly. “It’s a pity about the mouth,” he whispers, licking his lips. “You’d make a fine piece if it wasn’t for that.”

 

“Shut up!” I scream.

 

We’re both half watching the fight outside the car, with Gabriel on top of the gunman, raining down punches on him. The gunman has his hands over his face, but on the final strike his hand falls aside and Gabriel dives on him, elbowing him in the nose so hard it explodes in a shower of crimson that spatters Gabriel’s cheeks, war-painting him.

 

The driver turns back to me with a set jaw; he knows he has to act now.

 

“You won’t fire that thing,” he says, moving slowly closer. “Have you ever killed a man, sweetheart?” Inching closer, hand aiming at the pistol. “You ever taken a man’s life? It’s not an easy thing to live with, girl. Not an easy thing at all. Maybe you think you’re tough enough. Maybe you think you’ve got what it takes. But few folks have, especially little spoiled princesses like you. Now give me that fucking gun!”

 

He leaps; a deafening shot explodes. I fall back, ears ringing, as the driver slides onto the steering wheel and then slumps to the floor; the steering wheel is stained blood red from where the hole in his upper lip touched it. He twitches a couple of times, making choking, gurgling noises from the back of his throat, and then he lies still.

 

Gabriel stands up, wiping his hands on his pants. He approaches the car cautiously with his hands in front of him. “Colleen,” he says. “Come on, eh? Put that thing down. You did well. But the fight’s over. You’re safe.”

 

I look long and hard at the gun, which is silver, but now decorated like Gabriel’s face. Gabriel wipes his face on his shirt and then walks around to my side of the car and tears off a piece of his shirt. He dabs at my face, wipes my cheeks clean, and then grabs the barrel of the gun.

 

“Let go,” he whispers, right into my ear.

 

That’s what does it, what finally allows me to calm down: Gabriel’s warm breath.

 

I drop the gun and drop myself, falling back into his arms.