There’s a moment when their eyes meet behind the masks, locked in a silent battle. It’s a moment too long, and it will cost them a lot—because I realize that these two are far from friends. Works in my advantage.
“Trafficking?” Godfrey looks both startled and offended, playing with the zipper of my bag. “The only traffic she’ll see is a few passing cars on her way to your house. This girl is not crossing borders. She’s crossing forms, from living to dead. Just keep her in one piece and underground until my son’s arrival. Doesn’t take much more than a few brain cells and working limbs to do that.”
Beat tips his head back, slipping his massive tan palms under his mask and rubs his face in frustration. He glances my way again, and I ball into myself, trying to look like a lost lamb. Ink nods vehemently to Godfrey’s every word like he is reading from the Bible. He’ll do whatever the hell Godfrey tells him to, like the majority of the human population. But the mammoth Beat guy. . .he’s got some backbone.
“No.” Beat stabs a finger on the desk, dragging it from end to end. “This is where I draw the fucking line. I’ll pack a bag and pay you three months upfront for the rent. Count me out. This doesn’t sit right with me.”
Beat stands up to his full height, which is approximately the stature of an average-sized building.
“Oh, don’t play the bloody saint now, Beat.” Godfrey shoots up, hammering him back to his chair, spitting a yell. “You’ve killed before. You can babysit a little blonde girl for a few weeks. No one’s asking you to slit her throat. That’s for us to do.”
Lookie here. One of my mysterious captors is also a killer. Fun times. I’m so happy I met Camden. So happy our fathers were in business, and we ended up hooking up. So happy I’m now tied to a chair in a warehouse, about to be thrown into some psycho killer’s basement. Fun, fun, fun.
“I’m not doing it.” The dark, tall guy states with conviction, his tone eerily peaceful. “Find another sorry ass to drag into your shit-show. I ain’t hurting the girl.”
“We’re doing it,” Ink snaps, nodding to Godfrey and resting a hand on Beat’s shoulder. He is staring at the big guy, but talking to his boss. “We don’t want any trouble, God.”
Beat has none of it. When he stands up again, his chair flies to the floor with a bang that makes the whole room gasp. He storms toward the door before Godfrey’s voice makes him halt mid-step.
“The Aryan brothers are close.” The old man leans forward on his desk, his arms straining to hold him upright without the walking stick. “They’re still on the lookout for you, and all it takes is one”—Godfrey grabs my Glock and points it at Beat, squeezing one eye shut—“little. . .”
He releases the safety with a soft, deadly click, his finger applying pressure on the trigger. “Push.”
His hand moves up and he fires a bullet a few inches shy of Beat’s head. Nausea slams into me and the room spins as I drift in and out of consciousness. I can still hear Godfrey’s voice hovering like dark clouds over restless skies.
Beat hasn’t moved an inch.
“Pshh. Little Prescott meant business when she got armed. Loaded, are we?” He blows air into the barrel mockingly and continues. “Trust me, son, you don’t want to cross your loyal, truest friend. I might decide to lead them straight to your door if you do.”
Color me intrigued and on death row. This Beat guy is full of surprises. I’m going to be a hot target next to this guy. God, I have to find a way to ditch these two clowns. I’ll figure it out when they take me.
“It’s not up to us.” Ink shoots up from his seat, clasping Beat’s arm. “It’s your goddamn life, man. She’s just a nameless chick.”
Just a nameless chick. He has no idea how close he hit home. I used to be a sister, a daughter, a girlfriend and a friend. A poet, a dreamer and an honor student. But now. . .now I’m alone, left to fend for myself, with no one to look out for me. Some would say I’m taking my situation too lightly. I’m not. I’m looking at it from the outside, providing sarcastic commentary. Why? Because looking at my situation through a stranger’s eyes is all I can do to survive. After what I’ve been through, allowing myself to become intimate with this thing called a soul is practically a death wish. No. I’m stuffing reality, jamming it under mundane thoughts, and looking at the whole thing like it’s a terrible B-movie.
“Just follow the orders, pawn,” Godfrey instructs, his eyes returning to mine. He is stroking my gun, looking like he is using every ounce of self-control in his frail body not to shoot a hole in my forehead. “Camden arrives in California in thirty days. He has a wedding to attend in London first. We cannot miss it. After all, it’s his.”