31
I reach the heart of the staircase in Charlie’s house and pause to assess things, staring over the banister.
Darkness swallows the entrance hall except for a streak of light from the outside lanterns, piercing the glass on the front doors, shimmering against the marble floors. It’s dead quiet, not a breath of sound under the rain hammering at the house. Four armed Los Zetas man the front doors, clasping rifles over their middles. One must sense my presence because he turns to me, squinting through the shadows.
“Señorita?” he croaks, asking in Spanish if I’m okay. “The Señor expected you would be in bed. Do you need anything?”
I debate on asking them to let me leave of my own free will or just killing them to avoid a conflict I don’t have time for. Asking would prevent a probable rift between Charlie and I, but only if they let me go—which I’m almost certain they won’t.
No. The latter is safer, less time consuming—and they deserve to die if they support my brother’s death.
“How many of you are guarding the house tonight?” I ask, my Russian accent coming out cold and detached. “Four here”—I point outward—“I assume four at the back doors, too?”
“Why, you don’t need to concern yourself with guards, Señorita,” he says softly, a forced smile reaching the brown gleam in his eyes. “You are very safe. Señor Charlie has ensured that.”
Señor Charlie has done more than ensure my safety. He’s tried to guarantee that I can never get to my brother. I realize that now. Our current enemy is here, imprisoned, so why else would the house need to be fortified this heavily?
The loaded gun is heavy, silencer fixed on the barrel. Lifting it, I aim and shoot without thinking, not daring to leave anyone between me and my objective tonight.
P-taff!
P-taff!
P-taff!
P-taff!
My arm jolts against every shot, but I exude strength from my belly and hold the gun steady.
Their heads whip back, bullets plummeting in their skulls, and they drop to their knees slamming face down on the floor. Four more dash out of the kitchen, aiming ready to fire. I take them out next with one quiet shot for each man. They buckle and skid across the polished, marble floors, landing to their deaths.
Eight men in total.
Four bullets left.
Before executing the next stage of my plan, I pause in position, listening for other signs of life. Luna said Charlie’s at the guardhouse with Andres and Nic causing bloody murder, so I don’t worry about bumping in to any of them. I suspect I won’t see Charlie for a few days given what happened the last time he went on a slaughtering bender.
Plenty of time to get James to freedom.
The downpour outside turns up a notch, thunder crackling, beating down on the house. I crouch behind the banister rails when a few dark figures wander past the front doors on late night guard. They have the full house perimeter to patrol before they come back, so I use every second of time to my advantage. I tie Charlie’s baggy t-shirt in a knot at my back, so it doesn’t restrict my movements, tuck the gun into my joggers, and pull out my mobile. I navigate to my Dark Web profile application to message the one person I know will help me get James to safety.
It’s a mistake getting her involved, a big fucking mistake, but I have no one else.
Unread messages stream down the luminous mobile screen, most of them from T1. My stomach hangs at the sight of them, all blatantly angry with capital letters.
DID YOU KILL MAKSIM?
WHERE IS HIS BODY?
CONTACT ME, NOW.
WE NEED TO TALK.
IT’S BEEN TWO MONTHS ALREADY, AND I’VE HEARD NOTHING FROM YOU, BLAIRE.
YOUR LACK OF COMMUNICATION RILES ME, MY GIRL.
Familiar, cold shivers chase up and down my spine, nerves once wielded by my master now wielded by his. I should really call her in person to beg for forgiveness and plead for her help, but she doesn’t appreciate pathetic displays of weakness. She’ll also be more interested in me than James. He is her means to an end. I am her goal. And I don’t have time to dally with conversation. Every second spent waiting is a second closer to James’ alleged demise.
Certain of what I must do, I pull up a new message and type like my life depends on it.
I NEED YOU TO HELP ME GET JAMES OUT OF ENGLAND.
Tatiana-Victorovna, please, accept my apology for what I did, and for not contacting you sooner. I need your help. James is being held prisoner by the Los Zetas because he took me from Charlie, and Charlie is going to kill him. I can get James to either an airport or a shipping port. Will you collect him and keep him safe? I’m willing to pay whatever price your favor costs.
Sincerely, Blaire.
Pressing send, I rest on a step, hunched over with elbows on my knees, passively tapping my nails on the mobile screen. I strategize a plan B for if Tatiana refuses her aid in fear of enraging Charlie—it is a possibility. She handed me over to Charlie without a blip of hesitation, I suspect knowing she’d reap his Godly wrath if she didn’t.
I’ll need to run with James, raid Maksim’s place in Dartford for funds—since Charlie gave mine back to Tatiana—and travel to the safe house in Ireland. No one knows of its existence—Maksim made damn sure when he bought the place. We’ll be safe there. Once the dust has settled, I’ll return to Charlie and have it out with him over the rumor that he planned on murdering my brother. He’ll be mad as hell that I’ve killed his men, but if he loves me as he says he does, he’ll get over it. I would forgive him of virtually anything, so he should forgive me of the same.
I nod a few times, confident of tonight. In my head, my plans seem bulletproof.
But I myself know things can go wrong.
I strategize a plan C, just in case, but it’s not so easy to stomach. If I can’t get James to safety through Tatiana or running—if we’re cornered—I need collateral. Luna is an easy target. A gun to her head will ensure James’ and my getaway. I wouldn’t kill her, not unless I absolutely had to because I know Charlie and I would be over.
That’s one thing I wouldn’t expect him to forgive me of, murdering his sister-in-law.
Sighing, I cuddle my head in cocooned arms, hating where my mind is going. But I must consider every possible scheme, and plan C is just a reserve. I don’t want to execute it. I don’t want to kill Luna—even if she does deserve punishment for keeping my brother’s state of affairs from me.
The thread holding my stomach together splits when a new message vibrates and blinks on my mobile screen.
Re: I NEED YOU TO HELP ME GET JAMES OUT OF ENGLAND.
Get James to the Port of Dover. My men will be there in five hours to collect him. I trust you will not speak of my involvement to help you.
The price for this favor? I want to see you in person, soon. We have things to discuss. And I mean it when I say, soon, my girl. James will remain with us until you come home.
Regards, Tatiana-Victorovna
My head darts up from my mobile at the sound of deep murmurs cutting through the house. It’s Charlie’s men, communicating that we’ve been attacked. I snatch the gun from the back of my joggers and stand to aim, eyes widening to examine the shadows. Five Los Zetas clad in black combat suits prowl through the kitchen doors. They’re handling heavy rifles, red lasers pointing in every direction.
“Find Blaire first and get her to safety,” one says in their language, “then find Luna.”
They spread out on gestures, and I come down the staircase squeezing the trigger, bursts of orange lighting up the hall.
P-taff!
P-taff!
P-taff!
P-taff!
Four of them fall like dominos. The last man stands gaping at me, eyes bulging with shock. His lips part to speak but nothing comes out as I saunter up to him, gun leveled at his head. His red laser gleams across my eyes when we come toe to toe.
“Blaire?” he finally wheezes my name, and the lump in his throat bops up and down.
I nod, holding his silence for a moment.
“What are you doing?” he asks, starting to lower his gun but then lifts it back into position. “Why did you kill our men?”
“You should put down your gun”—I motion with my weapon where I want him to throw it—“you won’t shoot.”
He chuckles in disbelief. “You don’t know us very well if you think we wouldn’t shoot.”
I gesture about the hall, at every corner. “The house is rigged with CCTV cameras. If you even try to shoot me, your Señor will know what you have done.”
His expression tightens as he hisses in Spanish, “You will kill me if I put my gun down. I’m no idiota!”
“You’re going to die tonight whichever way you look at it.” I shrug. “Say some last words if you wish—perhaps to your family, if you have one?”
He gasps, grimacing at me. “How cold are you? How can you kill us when we’re here to protect you?” His eyes stream across his men as he spits untold Spanish curses. “They had children! They had families!” He steps up to me, so close I can smell the spice of cologne on his skin. “How could you do this?”
I sigh, tossing my gun aside. It’s rendered useless anyhow. I’m out of bullets.
My posture appears slack as I roll my shoulders, shutting my eyes in a moment of reserve. Just kill him.
“Blaire, what are you doing? Por favor, think about this before you—”
I flip to kick his rifle out of his grasp and flip again to kick his head back, sending him flying across the entrance hall. He crashes into the wall with a grunt, and I walk up to him. On my way, I bend to grab his rifle from the floor.
“Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo...” he says, our father, who are in heaven...
He’s praying? I nearly laugh. He’s a murderer—just like I am—and he thinks praying will pardon his dark deeds?
“What are you asking God for?” I wonder aloud, looming over him with a heavy frown of curiosity. “Do you truly believe someone is up there”—I thumb-gesture at the ceiling—“waiting to pardon us of our sins?”
“My wife believes,” he speaks through clenched teeth, sitting up on his elbows, “my children believe. One day, you will know.”
I search his hard face for fear and sadness, noting it’s there, glittering under pathetic tears. Just like it always is when one knows they’re going to die.
“If you have any final words,” I say, “express them now.”
“Señor Charlie is going to kill you for what you’re doing!” he shouts, his powerful body tensing to get it out. “We are his brothers,” he warns, narrowing a finger at me, “know you won’t get away with this.”
“Charlie plans on killing my brother”—I press the barrel of the rifle on his throat and shove to buckle his elbows, so he lies flat on the floor under my rule—“my actions are just cause.”
“If that is what helps you sleep at night,” he chokes without bothering to deny they have James captive, wrapping his fingers around the barrel to hold the gun in position, “keep telling yourself that. But know, what we do in life always catches up to us, Blaire. Guilt catches up to us.”
His words don’t move me. In fact, nothing moves me. I feel empty and lost in myself. I feel like the old Blaire, and I’m not sure I like it.
But, I have no other choice than to be her. She will save James.
I whack to elbow the handle, shoving the barrel through his throat, then I pull it out and throw it through the open kitchen doors. His cheeks bloat as he gargles for air, hands flaying at the wound.
“Because you are dying,” I say, crouching at his side, “I will tell you something about your God that they don’t want us to know.”
Blood oozes out of his mouth as he splutters profanities, staining his teeth red. “You know...nothing of God...hijo de puta! You’re the...the Devil!”
“There is no God and there is no Devil,” I say under my breath, reaching out to trace his unshaven face with a single finger, avoiding the touch of blood, “there is only heaven and hell: a place of paradise and another place of endless torment. And you and me?” Leaning down, I whisper in his ear, “We’re going to hell.”
———
After lugging all the bodies under the staircase, stacking them up in a hefty pile, I click open the front doors and poke out my head to be sure the coast is clear.
I clock movement far down the driveway, three Los Zetas pacing back and forth in front of the gates. It’s the rain that makes them stand out, hitting their bodies and spraying outward, catching the ghostly light from the lanterns lining the front yard.
Sneaking out of the house, I jog down the porch steps and duck near a prickly bush, waiting, waiting, and waiting for them to move out of sight. Icy rain pours from a blackened sky, soaking my face and through the clothes I’m wearing. Mind over matter, I tell myself, resisting the urge to shiver out of control.
When the guards disappear, I sprint across the driveway and leap for a bushy wall behind all of Charlie’s cars. I groan as I grip the jagged edge, straining and gritting my teeth to pull myself up, grunting for a last bout of strength to hook one leg over the edge. When I’m on the top, I sit there staring out over acres and acres of misty, overgrown fields. They surround Charlie’s estate, lined in clustering trees. A small house lies in the distance, some sort of rolled-log cabin.
I arch a hand over my eyes, shielding them from the rain.
The cabin is circled by four choppers and a group of black SUVs. An orange light burns in the window with smoke searing out of the chimney in a wild dance against the rain.
That must be the guardhouse. There is nothing else around for miles beyond what my eyes can register.
I don’t see any Los Zetas guards, so I shimmy to the edge of the wall, both legs dangling, and I jump. I land on my feet with a moan and roll in to the waterlogged grass to break my fall, immediately unfolding myself to stand. I jog for the guardhouse under a hefty, grumbling sky about to break with thunder, lightning clashing in a flash of silver, rapidly illuminating the field. The ankles of my joggers soak through, and my trainers squelch with every step, weighing me down.
Male screams echo out of the cabin, and I rush to crouch in the grass, on high alert and ready for trouble. Another scream tears through the hammering rain, followed by a bluster of curses.
I think it’s Robert. That means Charlie is occupied, but I still need to move fast. I’m not certain how long it takes him to torture someone to death.
Still searching for the guardhouse cell’s hatch, I hunker through soggy lengths of grass sticking to my face, elbows seeped in clotted mud. Luna said the cell’s hatch is back here behind the cabin, about one-hundred yards out. It leads underground. One way in. One way out. But back there—as she expressed—could be anywhere. The fields are as far as they are wide, and the rainy night doesn’t make seeing easy.
My pace slows when I spot two large figures dressed in black, standing a few feet apart with their backs to me. Guards.
I get up to crouch behind a chopped wood pile and peer around for an empty patch in the ground, peeking up and down, left to right. Then I see it: a perfect square splashing in rain. That must be the hatch.
I stand holding my breath and stalk up behind the largest man, wiping my hair back out of my face so I can see properly. I reach up on either side of his face, clamp down on his jaw, and twist to snap his neck with lower body strength.
“No!” the other guy shouts under the clashing thunder, as his friend slams face down on the ground “¿Qué estás hacienda?” What are you doing?
Fast as light, I yank a knife from the dead guy’s holster belt and swipe up with a loud, “Aargh!” slicing the other’s throat. Blood squirts across my face, the metallic flavor coating my lips. In that instance, a heave leaps to my throat, and I nearly vomit.
The man buckles to his knees, panic-grabbing to stop the bleeding, and my hands thrash to wipe off the blood before I puke. He begs me to help him, gargling to say something about being here to keep me safe.
“Your role here is irrelevant,” I state, smearing my hands down my joggers, one clasped around the knife. “You shouldn’t have held James captive.”
Before he can answer, I shove the knife in his temple, whacking the handle to ensure it goes right through. He spasms, and breaks into a seizure, crashing back on his ass. I snatch a bunch of keys from his belt and squelch over to the patch in the grass—but powerful arms cuff around me from behind.
“What do you think you’re doing, Señorita?” a deep voice rasps in my ear, grunting against my resistance.
I scream for vigor, kicking up my legs, my heart soaring as he gets me in a chokehold. One of his hands cups the back of my head while his other arm crushes my windpipe.
Acting without thinking, I drop the keys. I buckle to one knee and use his hold on my neck to flip him over my shoulder, shrieking for strength. He smacks the wet grass, scrambling to his feet. But I’m on him straddling his body, jabbing with the knife like a wild animal. His face and neck gush with blood, hands flailing out of control as his system goes into shock.
My eyes immediately whizz about the field, surveying for more Los Zetas, but I lose focus as a sharp pain shoots through my stomach. I double over to spew on the grass. The need comes up so hard and so fast I can’t stop it. It burns my throat and the back of my nose, spluttering everywhere, and my eyes bulge to the point of nearly popping out of my skull.
In pain, I slip off the dead Los Zetas guy and hunch there on all fours heaving from the depth of me, cuddling my belly with one arm. It’s like a jagged knife twisting at my insides, deep in my lower abdomen.
Assuming it’s the blood—assuming I have no tolerance for it anymore—I crawl away from the dead. I smear my face in the wet grass to taste its freshness, to take a beat and compose myself. I must remember what I’m doing. Freeing James. Time is of the essence. I cannot let pain be my defeat.
Come on, Blaire.
I fight to my feet, straightening one knee at a time. A rush goes through my head, whirling for a few seconds. I knead my temples, breathing in my nose and out of my mouth, heaving on the taste of vomit. The cramping subsides enough to function, and I swipe the keys from the sodden grass before slogging over to the hatch. I reach for the oval handle and yank it up, groaning because it’s so heavy. It leads down a curving, concrete stairwell soaking through with rainfall, a row of tiny lights stretching across the pebbled walls, barely visible.
I stuff the keys in my pocket, step inside the stairwell out of the rain, and pull the hatch shut, causing the sound of it closing to resonate downward. Using both hands, I touch the damp, bumpy walls for guidance, sneaking further and further underground. It stinks of something musty, like stale water and bitter, rich cigars. At the bottom, I duck under a low bearing ceiling and stand upright in an oval room of cells. They’re each separated by a thick brick wall, and the doors are made up of rusty bars. I can’t see past the shadows to count how many cells there are. The lights are too dull, buzzing and flickering like Morse code. I can’t hear anything, either. Not even the Albanian daughters. Where are they?
“Blaire?” James’ deep, Russian voice pierces the eerie silence, coming from directly across the room.
A circle of light clears the shadows, revealing a tall figure looming behind the bars—who shouts, “Iisus Khristos, it is you!”