Blood to Dust

Our eyes click, the air between us super charged—light a match and the whole place would explode. A wide smirk spreads across his wrinkly face.

“It’ll be a beautiful death. Gaudy, dazzling and inventive. A bit like you, come to think of it.”

I gulp, chancing a glare at Seb and the muscle men. They stand behind Godfrey cross-armed, their masochistic glee barely contained by their tough charade.

“But first things first—accommodation.” His tone turns cheery and he straightens his stance, clapping his hands together. “Prescott Burlington-Smyth had me locked up in prison for a few good years. . .and now she’s going to have a taste of her own bitter medicine. She’s about to learn a lesson about time. How awfully slow it moves inside four, thick walls of nothing. Bring me Beat and Ink. Now.”

Two men charge into the warehouse in perfect timing. Godfrey always was one for punctuality. One is a chubby, short man in a ski mask and blue coveralls. The other is a tall, built guy. He’s wearing black, ripped skinny jeans like a second skin, with a book rolled into his back pocket, military boots—unlaced—and a matching black hoodie. His straight dark hair is modernly slicked back, a Guy Fawkes mask covering his face. You can see from his form, posture, and the lazy way he carries his muscled body, that behind the mask is a man who sees more pussy than a pack of Tampax.

Godfrey saunters behind an office desk and falls onto a chair, resting his cane behind the table. Seb hands him my Nike bag as the masked men slouch on two plastic stools in front of their king, ignoring me completely. The chubby one in the ski mask straddles the back of his chair. Years of living in the back alley of life made me fluent in body language, and what his body says is perfectly clear—he’s scared. Black hoodie guy, on the other hand, stretches his legs forward, the ridges of his bunching biceps and triceps visible even through the thick fabric of his clothes as he hooks his arms behind the back of his chair. Relaxed. Comfortable. Peaceful.

Well, he is the size of a tank. I need to be careful with this one. One punch from him and I’d be liquefied.

“See Little Miss Goldilocks over there? She’s my job for you.” Godfrey cocks his head my way as he unzips the bag. He takes out the drugs I was about to sell. The Glock, Taser, pepper-spray, fake passport and one hundred dollar bills wrapped together and stuffed into a sock. He also takes out the plane ticket to Des Moines dated for a month from now, placing everything on the desk like incriminating evidence. Lifting his crusty old eyes back to me, he pulls his lips downwards, faking a devastated frown.

“Shame, really. So close to escaping your fate. . .yet oh-so far.”

If Godfrey thinks I am going anywhere without his blood all over my hands first, he is suffering from Alzheimer’s on top of his new physical disabilities.

No. I wanted to stick around until the very end, kill him, Sebastian and Camden, generate some money and find my brother.

Preston.

Where the hell are you, Preston? It’s not like you to disappear without a word.

Beat and Ink turn to look at me for the first time. Their masks mean I can’t read what they’re feeling, but I sure know what they’re seeing.

And they’re not seeing a typical drug dealer who spent the last five years selling coke and crack in the bowels of Stockton.

My long, honey-blonde waves, perfectly trimmed and impeccably shiny, are now matted to my bloody forehead and neck, big hazel eyes running in their sockets as they inspect them back. I’m wearing a designer, gray mini-wool dress that compliments my curvy body. Soft wide thighs and narrow waist. I look like the perfect victim. Scared. Beautiful. Innocent. . .

Though, I’m anything but the latter.

Ink goes back to staring at the drug lord. But Guy Fawkes—or Beat, as Godfrey refers to him—throws another glance my way before folding his log-wide arms over his pecs.

“The fuck, God?” he snarls.

They nicknamed him God? Is he leaving me with brain-damaged people?

“The fuck is you not asking any questions, Beat my lad. I expect you to keep her in the basement until Camden arrives next month,” Godfrey orders dryly. “And if you want your balls left intact, she better not run away.”

Beat shakes his head, chuckling on the brink of laughter. At least someone finds humor in my dire situation.

“I’m not down with this shit.” His leg bounces under the table. It’s so long and muscular, it sends the table shaking every time it hits it. “Thought you needed help with blow and weed, not kidnapping and trafficking.”

Ink coughs, shifting unnervingly in his seat. “Yo, man,” he says, leaning into Beat’s shoulder with a whisper. “It’s Godfrey.”