Old Habits

Everyone I loved was going to die. Kip, Mom and Dad, Riley, Fuchsia. Hell, even Gabe.

  Everyone. All dead.

  I had effectively caused the deaths of each and every person I had ever cared about in my life. All because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut out of fear Gabe was going to get a couple of his fingers cut off.

  Geet probably wouldn’t have gone through with it anyway.

  Who was I trying to kid; of course he would have gone through with it. With glee.

  The SUV I had been packed into only moments after being untied from an armchair while my best (and only) friend was tortured next to me was speeding down the interstate, northeast of the city, less than an hour away from Shelby, Illinois. Geet, and Scarface knew exactly which bridge I was talking about, but wanted to bring me along as a form of collateral, just in case they found out I had lied.

  Gabe, however, was still tied to his chair and likely unconscious; they knew he wasn’t going anywhere. But had they left me there with him, even tied up, there was a chance I wouldn’t be there when they got back, with or without the money.

  “What happens when we get there and the money is exactly where I told you it would be?” I asked, trying to sound confident.

  “If the money is buried under the bridge, then we’ll take you back to Chicago, and you’ll continue working for Harrison as planned,” Geet answered.

  “And Gabe?” I asked.

  “He’ll be dealt with.”

  “Killed?”

  “Well, I can’t make that call, but Harrison has killed for far less.”

  I decided to try to appeal to any humanity Geet held inside himself. “He’s your brother,” I said.

  “Gabriel and I haven’t been brothers for a very long time,” Geet said matter-of-factly. “Betrayal runs deep in the Malvado family, and Gabe is always the first to dig a knife into someone’s back.”

  “Et tu, Brute,” I sighed.

  “Continue being smug, Mr. Brewer, and you’ll see exactly how far it gets you in situations like this,” he warned.

  I found it hard to believe, even for a thug and likely murderer, Geet could be so cold. I tried to imagine throwing Kip’s life away so easily, but even the thought of him being in danger made me want to puke.

  “You won’t hurt my family?” I asked, not sure where the words had come from or under what circumstances they pertained to.

  “If the money is under the bridge, they’ll be fine. If the money is not under the bridge, they die.”

  Scarface let out a muffled laugh, and Geet glared at him.

  I glanced over Geet’s shoulder and saw he was driving the speed limit, though it felt as if he was going over one hundred miles per hour. The city outside my window had faded into countryside, and the modest farm houses and barns we drove past seemed to fly by at lightning speed.

  I decided talking to Geet and Scarface was only going to raise my anxiety, so I segued to staring out the window for the remainder of the car ride. And what seemed like only minutes later, Geet was signaling to exit the interstate at Shelby, and I knew the time of reckoning was near.

  I’d lied.

  They were about to find out.

  Maybe they already knew and were just toying with me.

  We drove past the Shelby bus station, and I could see the towering factory in the distance. The only thing separating us from the factory was about a mile of road and a bridge.

  The bridge.

  Geet steered the car off the road before we hit the bridge and killed the engine. He and Scarface exited the SUV, each making his way to either back seat door, making any attempt at escape practically impossible for me.

  Scarface opened the door closest to the river and motioned for me to exit the vehicle. The entire area was pitch black except for the dim light glowing from the factory across the bridge and the city lights of Shelby a few miles in the other direction. I was surprised Scarface hadn’t held onto me as I got out of the SUV, but if I tried to run, where exactly would I have gone anyway?

  “Where is it?” Geet asked as we walked down the incline towards the water. The sound coming from the river seemed much louder at night than it had when Gabe and I had been there before.

  “Over there.” I pointed towards the shoreline, just to the right of the bridge.

  Geet gave my shoulder a push, nonverbally telling me to lead the way. When we reached the edge of the water, I was relieved to see the shore was more sand than rocks. It would have been pretty hard to explain how Gabe had buried the money under a pile of rocks.

  Of course, I was just delaying the inevitable. Geet and Scarface were going to find out I had been lying within minutes, and then my life, as well as the lives of those I loved, was as good as finished.

  Scarface left us and returned to the SUV as if he had forgotten something. I looked to Geet for an answer, but he only stared back, quiet and emotionless.

  “What if the money isn’t there? What if Gabe moved it?” I asked calmly.

  “I already told you; if the money is not exactly where you say it is, then people are going to die,” Geet sighed.

  “What about me? Would you kill me first or wait until after you’ve killed all my friends and family?”

  “You know, the way you’re talking makes me think you already know what’s going to happen tonight.”

  I stood silently as Scarface returned from the SUV with an older looking, rusty shovel. He held it out for me to take. They were going to make me dig the hole.

  “And just for the record, we would take you with us. We would go to each and every house of the people you love, and we’d make you watch as we killed them. Then we’d kill you. Any other questions?” Geet asked.

  “No,” I said quietly.

  “Then dig,” Scarface commanded. He hadn’t spoken much, and it surprised me he would give the “dig” command as opposed to Geet.

  I took the shovel into my hands and stared at it, not sure what to do next. There was nothing to dig for. The money wasn’t there. If I did dig, I was only prolonging the inevitable.

  I gripped the shovel tighter, shaking in fear, anxious.

  “It’s only five thousand dollars,” I pleaded.

  “Dig,” Geet growled.

  “When the money isn’t there, this can be the start to your grave,” Scarface laughed.

  “Or yours,” I said under my breath.

  Without hesitation, I lifted the shovel and slammed it into the side of Scarface’s head, sending him reeling to the ground in a shout of both surprise and agony. He rolled onto his back, bringing his hands to his face as Geet lunged towards me, intent on subduing me before I could get another blow in on either Scarface or himself.

  I dodged, causing Geet to lose his footing and trip over Scarface’s sprawled body. He hit the ground hard, and I went in for another blow, not caring who I actually hit with the shovel.

  I brought the blade end of the shovel down, connecting with Geet’s chest as he let out a howl. He attempted to get back on his feet, but I slammed the shovel into his left kneecap, sending him back to the ground with an “oof.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Geet screamed.

  Scarface had rolled over and was now on his hands and knees, clearly disoriented. The blow to his face had nearly knocked him out, but he was persistent.

  I hit him again, throwing him onto his stomach where he coughed and choked on the dust his body had blown up from the ground.

  In a moment of panic, I raised the shovel over my head, ready to deliver a potentially deadly blow as Geet grinned up at me from the ground. I expected him to raise his arms or attempt to roll away, anything to protect himself, but he didn’t.

  “Do it,” he laughed.

  I stopped, panting and sweating.

  “Do it,” he said again. “You’re turning into Gabe: pure evil. Kill me now and you surpass him.” His voice was raspy and pain-filled.

  My memory flashed to the night Gabe had nearly beaten
one of our clients, Alex Kiefer, to death with a baseball bat. I had been horrified. Gabe had been pleased with his work.

  In Geet’s place I could see Alex lying on the ground, blood matting his thick red hair, eyes already swollen shut from the beating Gabe had delivered.

  I dropped the shovel, and it clanged against the hard ground as I took a step away from the two men I had just nearly killed.

  “What’s wrong? You’re not the devil you thought you were?”

  I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, but turned to run instead. I knew if I didn’t finish the job, it wouldn’t be long before both Geet and Scarface would catch up to me and make me pay, but I couldn’t bring myself to actually kill someone, even in self-defense.

  I climbed up the hill and onto the road, stopping momentarily to make sure Geet hadn’t left the keys in the ignition of the SUV. He hadn’t, of course, so I decided to keep running, adrenaline pumping through my veins.

  I ran down the road, towards the faint lights of Shelby, trying to calculate how long it would take me to go the three miles to the town. I was in shape, but three miles was a long run for someone who had just beaten two men with a shovel.

  I was already almost out of breath.

  My heart pounded. Sweat poured down my face, back, and legs. My muscled burned.

  ‘You’re a goner,’ I thought as I passed a signed that read SHELBY: ONE MILE. ‘No. No. you’re almost there. Be positive.’

  Ten minutes later, I was entering the Shelby city limits, but had no idea where to go or what to do next. My first thought was to find the police station, but I quickly realized this was a terrible idea, as I would definitely be arrested, and Geet and Scarface would almost definitely be able to get away before being captured.

  And if they were captured, Harrison would almost certainly be able to get them out of any kind of trouble they would be in. My assumption was Harrison had lawyers who made more on the hour than my parents made in a year.

  The first business I saw was a small diner on the corner of two very unfriendly looking streets. The building could have been abandoned for all I knew, but a bright blue OPEN sign blinked in the window, meaning this was my best hope.

  I busted through the door and into the diner before even trying to gain my composure, causing all four of the patrons and the waitress to stop what they were doing and stare in complete shock at me.

  I saw an older couple in the far corner of the diner, the man with a forkful of roast beef frozen about three inches from his mouth, a younger, haggard-looking woman with her hand covering her mouth in shock, a thirty-something man in a tie who stood from his chair as if he was going to have to fight me, and the waitress, clad in a black button down shirt and white apron, her mouth agape.

  The waitress was the first to react.

  “Oh lord,” she gasped, looking me up and down. She was about forty and seemed as if this was the only job she had ever know. “What happened to you, sweetie?”

  I took a second to look at myself in the fluorescent light, noticing my sweat and bloodstained shirt and jeans. Dirt covered my hands.

  “I need the bathroom,” I gasped, thinking my best option would be to use my cell phone to make a call while hiding in a locked stall.

  “Sit down right over here, sweetie. I’m going to call the cops right away.” The waitress motioned for me to take a seat at the bar near the man in the tie who was still standing on guard.

  “I need the bathroom,” I said again, adding, “now.”

  She sat the pot of coffee she had been holding on the counter and pointed toward the back of the diner where I saw a beige door with an old-looking printed sign reading “LAVATORY” about halfway up.

  Without hesitation, I ran for the bathroom and was happy to see it consisted of a single room containing a toilet, a urinal, and a sink; I would not have to worry about one of the diner patrons barging in on me for the next few minutes. After sliding the lock across the door, I backed into a corner and slowly moved my body into a squatting position, bringing my hands to my face, trying not to concentrate too hard on how severely screwed I truly was.

  I pulled the cell phone Harrison had given me from my pocket and immediately began dialing a very familiar number. Though I hadn’t needed to call it in over a year, the number was still as fresh in my mind as ever.

  The phone rang on the other end of the line.

  Someone—I’m assuming the waitress—knocked on the bathroom door, asking me if I was alright. I replied with an exasperated “Yes,” hoping she would go away.

  The phone rang again in my ear again.

  Mid-ring, I heard a small click and a woman’s shaky voice filled the receiver.

  “Hello?” my mother said.

  I froze. How could I talk to her? After everything I had put her through, what was I supposed to say? How was I supposed to tell her she, my dad, and Kip were all in immediate danger?

  “Who is this?” she asked.

  I didn’t speak. I couldn’t speak.

  “Look, you sick bastard, if this is who took my son, you talk to me right now! You tell me who you are and what you want!”

  I nearly dropped the phone in shock.

  “We don’t have much money, but we can get whatever you want. Please, we’ve already lost one son. If you have Kip, just tell us what you want, and we’ll make sure you get it. No cops. We just want our son back!”

  I hung up without saying a word and immediately began dialing another number. It was a long shot, but if I could get in touch with the right person, I might be able to end all of this, and save my brother.

  The phone rang five times before someone answered.

  “They have my brother,” I said, not waiting for the person on the other end to speak. “I need your help.”

  (Closed Eyes Still Look Forward)