Grievous

  What better time than right now to get the ball rolling?

  I stroll right on up to the front door. The bouncers see me, recognizing me, suddenly all on edge, but they don’t do a damn thing as I waltz past them and head inside. Music echoes through the place, masking other noises, although none of it is detectable outside of the building.

  Soundproofing is quite genius, given his business.

  If I didn’t hate the guy so much, out of principle, I’d probably like him. He’s crafty. I might have to start borrowing a bit from his bag of tricks.

  As soon as I’m inside, right through the doors, hulking bodies surround me—five guys, guns drawn, aimed at my head like they’d get a kick out of being splattered with my brains tonight.

  I raise my hands, still clutching the grenade. They could try to take it from me, try to disarm me... hell, they could even go ahead and shoot me in the face... but they’d have four seconds to save themselves before we all got blown to pieces.

  They take a few steps back, but nobody lowers their weapons, like guns are going to help them in this situation. Rock, paper, scissors, motherfuckers... you better take your pick and hope like hell you win.

  “I just want to say hello to your boss,” I say, “and then me and Betty-Boom here will be on our way.”

  For some reason, they don’t look like they believe me. It kind of hurts my feelings.

  Just kidding.

  I wouldn’t trust me, either.

  A bark of angry Russian echoes nearby before Aristov rounds a nearby corner. He’s fuming, so irate that he almost doesn’t notice me, but when he does, he stops dead in his tracks. His eyes flicker around, assessing, before he simply nods his head toward his office, telling his guys, “Let him in.”

  I step past them. They don’t look happy about it, but nobody tries to stop me as I walk over to Aristov’s office, following him inside. He spews out more Russian to two guys lurking in there, who immediately vacate the room, closing the door behind them, so it’s just me and him.

  He heads for the vodka. “So it is true, then, that you deal in heavy weapons?”

  “As true as the rumors of you kidnapping and raping women.”

  Instead of being offended, he laughs at that, strolling over to sit down on one of his couches, eyeing me as he sips his liquor. Doesn’t escape my notice that he hasn’t offered me a drink today.

  I think he might be feeling some type of way about our friendship.

  “Well, that is a shame, Mister Scar, because those rumors are not true at all.”

  “That’s funny,” I say, even though it’s not fucking funny at all, “because I stumbled upon a little home movie you made that contradicts that, Aristotle.”

  He stares at me, all amusement gone. “And where, may I ask, did you acquire such a film?”

  “A certain police detective had it in his possession.”

  There’s that flash of rage I was hoping for.

  He drinks in silence, guzzling the liquor as he gets his thoughts in order. In the wrong hands, or maybe the right ones, that video could be a serious problem for him. Even Jameson would give his left nut to get his hands on it, to use it to take down the Russians, but I’m not really big on letting the justice system do my dirty work.

  I happen to like getting my hands dirty.

  That’s why Detective Fuckface had it, why he kept it hidden. He might’ve been working for the Russians, but in the event Aristov turned on him, he needed his own little grenade to make his problems go away.

  “What is it you want from me?” Aristov asks. “If you are looking for the million dollars I promised, I am afraid I do not have it here. But being as I am a man of my word, I am happy to arrange a time for you to pick it up.”

  “You think I want your money?”

  “Why else would you have given me the address of where I could find her?”

  I stare at him when he asks that. I want to think he’s toying with me, that he’s just trying to fuck with my mind, but his expression is dead serious, almost curious, like he’s genuinely wondering why I would’ve done such a thing. Problem number seven hundred and seventy-six in my life right now: I didn’t do it. I didn’t give him a goddamn thing, but for some reason he thinks I did, which means whoever did it made it look like I’d given her up. Son of a bitch.

  “Of course, it is possible you just grew sick of the suka,” Aristov continues with a shrug. “Since it seems you saw the video of her sweet sixteen, maybe you just did not want to touch her anymore, but all the same, I am grateful.”

  I’m not sure how to respond to that.

  I kind of want to break his fucking jaw for half of the words he’s spoken these past few minutes.

  “Does she know how you found her?” I ask. “Did you tell her it was me?”

  He nods. “She did not believe me, of course. The stupid girl never believes what I tell her. I showed her the message so maybe she would believe her own eyes. It upset her, but she is fine now. I have ways of making her get over things.”

  “I bet you do,” I say, my gaze flickering around the room, settling on a door along the side—one I’m assuming leads to the basement. “Any chance I can see her, give her a proper goodbye?”

  He laughs, sipping his vodka. “I think you have given her quite enough, Mister Scar, but I will send her your regards.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek.

  Man, I want to kill him...

  “Now, if we are done here, I have other business to take care of,” he says, standing up. “Seems I have a friend I need to talk to about a video in his possession.”

  “Seems you do,” I say, not bothering to point out that he doesn’t have the video anymore. I do. I turn to leave, still clutching the grenade, and pause long enough to say, “By the way, I think I will be claiming my reward. A million, cash, for her.”

  He doesn’t look happy, because that’s a lot of damn money, but he nods. “I will be in touch to make arrangements.”

  “Good,” I say. “I look forward to it.”

  “Wait, Mister Scar,” he says before I can walk out. “The grenade...”

  I look at it in my hand before glancing at him. “What about it?”

  “Do you think you could get me some of those?”

  I laugh, because he’s serious with that question. “Maybe once I’m sure it’s not me you’re going to be using them on.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I leave.

  Nobody stops me.

  I don’t want to go, but at the same time, tonight isn’t the night to rock the boat any further. I need to wrap my head around things before I do something I might regret.

  I don’t regret things often, but blowing us all up might be an exception.

  The guys are still waiting in the car right down from the club, the engine running, both just staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. Like they didn’t expect to see me alive. I get in the passenger seat, securing the grenade before waving. “Now we can go.”

  Seven starts driving. The atmosphere in the car is tense, wrought with unspoken words, but it doesn’t last long with Three in the backseat.

  “So... nothing went BOOM,” Three says. “Didn’t hear any BANG-BANG, either.”

  “It was mostly just a bunch of blah blah blah,” I say. “Nobody’s dying tonight.”

  I think.

  “Pity,” Three says. “I know Lexie will be happy to be free of that asshole.”

  “You seem awfully concerned about a woman whose name you couldn’t even remember not long ago,” I point out.

  “Yeah, well, you know how it goes,” he says. “I drew a blank. But I can’t help that I’ve got a soft spot and Lexie just happens to touch it.”

  “They make a pill for that now,” I say. “Makes you harden the fuck up.”

  He laughs. “I’ll be sure to bring that up to my doctor.”

  Thankfully, Three stops chattering, the conversation dwindling back to silence. The drive to Queens feels like it takes
forever, traffic light but my thoughts heavy, Aristov’s words bouncing around in the torture chamber I call my mind.

  By the time I see my house again, I’m wound tight.

  The last thing I want to do is deal with people right now, but my brother is home, in the living room with his girlfriend, cuddling on my couch. At least she’s not singing this time, I think, as I pause in the foyer, glancing in at them. Three leaves, while Seven follows me, like he might be afraid to leave me alone.

  My brother’s eyes study me, looking all around me, like he’s hoping to see Scarlet. Disappointment flickers across his face when he realizes she’s not here, but he doesn’t express the sentiment out loud. Melody just lays there, her face pale and splotchy. She looks like she’s been crying. Not sure I’ve ever seen her without her face painted before.

  Something tells me she’s not handling this well.

  “If you need me, I’ll be in my library,” I say, not awaiting any response before walking away.

  Seven follows but lingers in the doorway as I stroll over to the bookshelf along the wall, carefully setting the grenade down. I reach into my waistband next, pulling out my gun, setting it down on top of the metal case.

  “You got my phone, Seven?” I ask, patting my empty pockets before I turn to him, holding out my hand. I know he’s got it. He usually does.

  If it’s not in my possession, it’s in his.

  Pulling the small black burner from his pocket, he approaches me, handing it right over. I lean back against the bookshelf, scrolling through the phone, finding no texts at all. As much as I’m not a talker, I’m even less of a texter, not a fan of leaving evidence of my words around. No paper trails. But being as we’re living in the age of technology, sometimes texts come in or go out, credit card balances and other bullshit. Unavoidable. Which means those messages got erased somewhere along the way—and not by accident, I’m guessing.

  Look, I’m not exactly Nancy Drew here, but I can do basic math. Two plus two equals four, three is the square root of nine, and only one person has access to this phone as much as I do.

  So while there might be room for reasonable doubt, this isn’t the court of law. If not me, then who? If it’s true, must be the person I entrust it to.

  Slipping the phone in my pocket, I reach over, snatching up my gun. Before Seven can react, I’ve got it pressed against his chest, right around his heart. He tenses, eyes as wide as they’ll go. He looks horrified but not exactly surprised.

  “Boss,” he says quietly, leaving it at that, not bothering to ask what this might be about. He fucking knows.

  “I was reminded of something tonight,” I say. “Something that I damn near forgot.”

  “What?”

  “Even your shadow leaves you in the dark.”

  My finger is on the trigger. It would be so easy to pull. Part of me wants to do it. Blow a hole in his fucking chest and watch him bleed out on my floor.

  But I hear my brother’s voice in the living room, just down the hall, talking to his girlfriend, who already seems to be traumatized by this all.

  Not that her mental state is a priority of mine, but having her play witness to a murder will probably break her beyond repair, and being as my brother seems to be fond of the girl, I’m trying to avoid that.

  “Did you seriously think I wouldn’t find out?” I ask. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  He slowly shakes his head. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually.”

  No denial.

  No bullshit.

  Just a straight up confession.

  “So why would you do this?”

  “Because,” he says, “Aristov was coming for my family, he’d been to my house, he’d talked to my wife, but you... I knew you’d just come for me. I had to protect them.”

  I almost laugh when he says that. Almost. Would I kill his wife? Probably not. His kids? Doubtful. There’s no point to it. I’d get nothing out of it. But the simple fact that he’d go behind my back like this makes me want to slit all of their fucking throats just to spite him.

  “Get out of my house,” I say. “You don’t get to be a martyr. Not on my watch. So go home to your wife, to your precious family, and go to sleep tonight knowing there’s a little girl out there somewhere, missing her mother... a mother who is chained up in a basement... because you’re a fucking coward.”

  He takes a step back but hesitates, mouth opening and closing, like he wants to say something.

  Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.

  “Get out!” I yell. “Now!”

  He turns, his steps brisk, knowing I won’t tell him again. I can hear him leave, slamming the front door, and I just stand there, clutching the gun, staring at the space he occupied.

  If he’s smart, I’ll never see him again.

  Silence.

  That’s what I’m met with, standing in the old warehouse in Brooklyn, surrounded by my guys.

  Well, the guys I’ve got left, anyway.

  Silence.

  “So, wait, hold up,” Three says after a moment, the first to open his mouth. Of course. “Bruno was Judas? Seriously? Our Bruno?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but... Bruno?”

  I turn away from him, glancing into the crate in front of me at the shipment of assault rifles. I know how he’s feeling. I’ve been feeling it since last night. Blindsided.

  I let the guy get too close to me.

  I depended on him for far too much.

  “I just... wow,” Three says, still the only one with anything to say. “This sucks.”

  The others finally chime in, mumbling in agreement.

  “No, for real, it really sucks,” Three says. “I mean, with Bruno gone, who’s going to be bringing the snacks?”

  A bit of laughter echoes through the warehouse.

  “You’re a dumbass, Declan,” Five says. “That’s what’s bothering you? Who you’re going to turn to when you get the munchies in the afternoon?”

  “Fuck off,” Three says. “It’s a valid concern.”

  “It’s carrot sticks and granola bars,” Five points out. “If it makes your bitch ass feel better, I’ve got a knob you can slob on. Treat it like a lollipop.”

  I shake my head, reaching into the crate and pulling out the sleek new AR-15 as they bicker back and forth. I’ve stopped listening. Same ol’ bullshit. I’m grateful for it, the background noise. They fight like brothers but they’d kill for each other, and that’s all that really matters.

  “So, wait, hold up,” Three says again, raising his voice. “Boss, what did you do about Bruno? I mean, should I be sending his wife flowers or something?”

  “Maybe you can shack up with her next,” Five suggests. “She can pack you your own snacks.”

  “Huh, that idea’s not half-bad,” Three says. “She’s kind of hot, you know, for an old chick.”

  “She’s barely forty, Deac.”

  “I’m only twenty-one, dipshit, which means she’s older than my mother.”

  “You’d still fuck her...”

  “Yeah, well, probably.”

  “If you fellas are done,” I say, holding the weapon out for someone to take it, “we can get on with business.”

  Five grabs the gun.

  “For real, boss.” Three steps over, pausing beside me. “Bruno?”

  I pick up another gun, shoving it at Three. “Hate to break it to you, but his wife already raised two sons... she doesn’t need another little boy to take care of.”

  The guys make noises, poking fun, as Three rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

  “Besides,” I say, passing guns out to the others, “you ought to save the flowers for another day, like for when her husband is actually dead.”

  They all look at me with surprise.

  Again, Three’s the only one to chime in. “Whoa, you kept him breathing?”

  “For now.”

  “But not forever?”

  “That’s reall
y up to him, isn’t it?” I ask before motioning around the warehouse. “Clear the rest of this shit out, move it somewhere... I don’t care... just get it out of here. When you’re done, burn the place, leave no trace of any of us, just in case.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The little girl was tired. So very tired. She wasn’t sleepy, though. No, she was the kind of tired that felt like sadness without all the tears.

  Her body hurt.

  The outside hurt, because her shoulder still felt funny and she had bruises all over from falling off the roof, and the inside hurt, because everything was all wrong and nothing felt okay anymore.

  She went back to hiding again, even though it wasn’t a game, because she didn’t want to see any of those people. They all lied, and were mean, and they wouldn’t let her go home, no matter how nicely she asked.

  So she hid for hours, for days. The Tin Man acted like she’d turned invisible, like he didn’t care if she was there, which was weird, since he’d added alarms and locks to all the windows so they wouldn’t open again. The Cowardly Lion still hung around. He sometimes looked for her. He’d search under beds and inside closets, but he never said a word, just staring at her before going away again.

  Weeks went on that way, weeks of isolation, of silence. Sometimes the little girl would whisper words to herself, would tell herself stories when she was alone in the dark, just to be sure that her voice still worked. Sandwiches would appear on the desk in her bedroom, or sometimes in brown bags outside wherever she was hiding. It started out as stuff like fish and bologna, but eventually, it turned into peanut butter and grape jelly.

  She didn’t want to eat anything from them, but she was so hungry, and those were her favorite, so sometimes, she couldn’t help herself.

  The little girl didn’t know what day it was now, or how long it had been, as she lay curled up on the floor of the kitchen pantry, staring at the light filtering in from beneath the closed doors. Voices carried through, some that she hadn’t heard before. They didn’t have an accent like the flying monkeys. These were just visitors.