Desperate to Touch

They don’t say anything. Not a fucking word as I scream out. The heavy arm holding my arms down around my front grabbed me the second my feet hit the steel grid outside Laura’s window.

Laura. The thought of her tightens my throat, a raw scratching feeling at the back of it. Trying to breathe, the gag slips back more.

“She’s all right.” I hear a voice behind me that makes me pause. Not the man holding me, not the man in front of me with the gun to my head.

It’s taken a while, but my eyes adjust slowly. Too slowly. My vision spins for a moment, the dizziness caused from the lack of air.

Breathe. Just breathe.

My fists unclench and I do my best to be smart. To figure out who they are. Dark eyes and white skin peek out from the black mask of the guy to my left. The one with the .22 caliber. He’s the only one I can see.

I can’t speak behind the gag, but I desperately want to. All I can do is wait. To see what they’ve come for. My heart races and my body’s nearly numb waiting, each muscle coiled and ready to strike.

I can hardly feel the pain of the bullet wound, but the blood is seeping into my clothes. It’s wet too fast. Too much blood. I’m bleeding out.

Footsteps come closer behind me. Calmly. Three to four men at least. Masked and prepared to be here. It could be Fletcher’s old crew but the chill in my spine, the lifelessness of the eyes I can see…

Marcus.

It was never Fletcher. It was always him.

Goosebumps dance down my flesh as bile rises up. “Laura’s fine. I can’t say the same for you.” The eerily calm voice lacks menace. Lacks any emotion at all.

“We have orders,” the man holding me finally speaks and I don’t recognize his voice. But it’s followed, too quickly, by another sound I recognize. One I’ve heard countless times.

Click.