Sweet Collateral

“Can you shoot?” he asks.

I shake my head, and a small smile graces his lips before he moves behind me. His body presses tightly against my back, and this time I do lean into him. The gun feels heavy in my hand, and I’m anxious about the prospect of ending this man’s life. Rafael’s steady breaths calm me, his chest rising and falling against my back.

“I’ll help you.” The warmth of his breath caresses my neck, and I shiver. He slowly slides his hands down my arms, grasping my wrists before he lifts them. His entire frame encases mine as I focus on the man in front of me, the man who tried to send me to my death. For once I do not have to accept it. For once, I have the power.

“Flip the safety off,” Rafael slides his thumb over a small switch on the side of the gun. “Close one eye and aim.” I do as he says, closing one eye and aiming the gun at the man’s head. I pause for a moment, seeing his face, the determined set of his jaw contrasting with the fear in his eyes. Yes. I want his fear.

“And simply pull the trigger.” Rafael’s hands move over mine, holding the gun steady. In an instant, the man in front of me becomes every man who has ever hurt me, touched me, abused me. The rage that permanently simmers deep beneath my forced indifference rises, gripping me in a red haze. I hate them all, and I want his blood. Without any more hesitation, I allow Rafael to guide my aim and squeeze the trigger. The gun explodes in my hand, raw power bursting forth. A hole appears in the man’s forehead as his head snaps back and he slumps in the chains. Blood spatters over the concrete floor, and for a second I just stand there listening to it trickle down a drain. I just killed a man. In a fraction of a second, I held power over life and death. And I feel no remorse. A strange sense of peace washes over me as though the blood running down the drain is taking with it all the pain and helplessness of the teenage girl I once was. Many men have hurt and used me over the years, and I’ve never been able to do anything about it. There was no punishment for their acts, no justice to be found, and I expected none because my entire life was an injustice. Maybe it still is. But finally, I’ve found some form of retribution, and it’s a heady feeling. I don’t want to place my trust in Rafael, but how can I not when he hands me gifts such as this? I would never have done this on my own, but it’s like he knows what I need better than I do.

Rafael’s hands move away from mine, and I turn to face him. He takes the gun from me, sliding it into the back of his pants again.

“Welcome to the cartel, avecita.” He drags one knuckle down my cheek with a gentleness that’s so at odds with everything he is. His gaze drops to my mouth and my heart does a strange little skip. I’m not sure if it’s fear or something else. Those dark eyes of his linger a beat longer before he snatches his hand away as though I’ve burned him. And then he walks out of the room without a backward glance. I take one last look at the dead man and follow Rafael. I just took a man’s life, and I don’t feel a thing. Does that make me a monster? If I am, it’s because they made me one.

13

Rafael

I stand below the overpass, the hum of traffic a constant above us. Samuel is beside me, his arms folded over his chest as we watch the two guys in front of us heave on a rope, winching a body into the air by its ankles—the last of the Eight. The eight men Dominges hired. I’m sending a message to him. I’m Rafael D’Cruze, and this is what fucking happens when you cross me. The streetlights above cast an orange glow over the bloodied bodies, making the scene all the more grizzly. I’m not usually one for theatrics but Dominges just declared war. I glance at the body on the far right, gently swaying in the warm breeze, the neat bullet hole in his forehead. I can still feel the set of Anna’s body against mine, so full of determination. I expected her to be horrified, to cry or maybe run out of that bloodstained basement, but no. She embraced it, took that gun from my hands with barely a trace of hesitation. Something inside her rose to meet the challenge, and I can’t help but feel a sense of pride in the little Russian. That rage I so often see in her eyes pushed to the surface, like invisible fingers luring her to pull the trigger.