Final Debt

This entire trip had been one big fuck up. However, I would trade ever feeling whole again, every good thing I’d ever done, if I could rewind time and stop Cut from breaking Nila’s arm.

Marquise grinned. “Your grandmother has paid me far more for my loyalty.” Crossing his arms, he glared. “Stop talking. I won’t let you go for any amount.”

“What about a title? An estate of your own? Shares in our companies?” I spat the lingering taste from my tongue thanks to the awful gag. “Everyone has a price. Name it.”

Marquise inspected his ragged fingernails as if he was a fucking king on his throne. “I’ll get all of that if I remain true to Bonnie.” He sniffed. “So shut the fuck up.”

I exhaled heavily. For now, he wouldn’t budge, but he would. I just had to find his weakness. Everyone could be bought. We’d learned that prime example through years of bribery and control.

My mind returned to Nila and Cut, keeping count of time and distance slowly separating us.

I have to get free.

A shrill tune ripped around the cave.

Marquise slouched and pulled out his phone. He stabbed the screen, holding it to his ear. “Yes?”

Silence as he listed to instructions.

“Still on the floor and tied up. Yes, will do. Got it.”

He hung up, a sinister smile spreading his lips. “Looks like you should get comfortable, Hawk. Got orders not to let you up until the Prez is on a plane. And then…he wants me to give you an extra special surprise.”

Of course…

I didn’t expect Cut to let me survive—not after trying to kill me. He might have a sick fascination with making me survive in a world where Nila didn’t exist, but he understood the moment I was free, the moment I had a chance, he would be dead.

It was only a matter of time if he let me live.

He won’t let me live…

I clenched my jaw. “What’s the surprise?”

I already know.

Pain and then death.

Cut wasn’t overly original.

Marquise clenched his fists, showing scabbed knuckles and ropy forearms. “You’ll see.”

CUT GRIPPED MY unbroken arm tighter, hauling me faster through the airport.

He’d manhandled me and corralled me ever since we’d left Jethro in the mine and flew by Jeep to a small doctor’s surgery on the outskirts of Gaborone.

While the African doctor nodded and smiled and arranged my arm for x-rays, Cut had washed his face and changed his clothes, discarding the dirt-smudged jeans and white shirt in favour of black slacks and shirt.

The doctor didn’t remove my cast, and he didn’t show me the x-rays once the decrepit machine had whirred and snapped grainy pictures of what Cut had done to me.

Once the large black and white images were tucked safely into his briefcase, Cut allowed me five minutes to wash as best I could in the surgery’s small bathroom. The blood from Daniel and the car accident siphoned down the plug hole, revealing scratches and bruises in their colourful glory.

I had no makeup to cover the marks and no choice but to change into whatever clothing Cut had grabbed from my suitcase on the way out from Almasi Kipanga.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t selected any of the clothing I’d artistically amended, leaving me without scalpels or knitting needles, leaving me vulnerable.

The one good thing about the doctor’s surgery was the sweet-eyed man gave me a homemade honey muesli bar—either noticing the way I ogled his sandwich sitting on his desk as he x-rayed me or the wobbles of weakness as Cut dragged me outside.

I didn’t think much of his practice, considering he didn’t check if my arm was set correctly, or there was nothing majorly damaged inside, but I inhaled the food offering before Cut could snatch it away.

With Cut’s timeline, he envisioned my head in a basket within a few days. Who cared if my arm was set wrong? It wouldn’t be needed much longer.

That’s what you fear.

But it isn’t what will happen.

I curled my fingers, testing the pain level of the break. My grip was weak, and it burned to move, but I still had mobility. My fingers still worked, which I was thankful for. I couldn’t stomach the thought of never being able to sew again or hold intricate needles and lace.

Cut had stolen so much—he couldn’t steal my entire livelihood and skill, too.

“Hurry up.” Cut pulled harder.

I staggered beside him, breathing hard as every footstep jarred my aching arm. The pain resonated beneath muscle and skin, a hot discomfort stripping me of energy.

The moment we’d arrived at the airport, Cut had abandoned the Jeep in a long-term car park and only bothered to carry his briefcase. At the time, I wondered if we’d be questioned for suspicious behaviour travelling long-haul with no luggage. But I’d rolled my eyes and hid my snort.

This was Cut Hawk.

This part of Africa belonged to him—no doubt the airport security would belong to him, too.

“For God’s sake, Weaver.” Cut slowed, forcing my half-trotting, half-lagging footsteps to fall in line with his. “We’ll miss the plane.”

Fresh throbs brought scratchy tears to my eyes.

“I want to miss the plane. I want to go back for Jethro.”

The entire travel I couldn’t stop thinking of Kite. Of him bleeding and feverish tied to a chair. Of him having no choice but to watch as I was taken.

The muesli bar I’d eaten roiled in my stomach. “You’ll keep him alive…won’t you? You’ll keep your promise not to hurt him.”