The Brit

“He sent me a text.” I move forward, putting myself in between the front seats and showing them my screen. “I’m worried.”

Brad returns his attention to the freeway.

“He’s not been right,” I go on. “Lost in thought, saying things like he might not ever see me again.”

“Like what?”

“He told me he needs me to be strong for him. Why would he say that? Why does he need that? The last time he behaved like that, he pulled a psycho on Ernie. Has he told you what he’s doing?”

Brad’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror as the car picks up speed, and I sit back, my unease increasing tenfold. Now, the more I think about Danny’s need for me to be strong, the more I’m wondering why. And Brad’s silence isn’t helping. Does he know? Or is his mind racing like mine?

The rest of the journey is quiet. It’s only when we pull off the freeway that I realize where we’re heading. The boatyard. But when we reach the turning for the track, Brad passes it, continuing down the road. I notice Ringo look down the dirt lane that leads to the boatyard. “Saw nothing,” he says.

“We’ll take the back road anyway.” A few more miles down the road, Brad slows and takes a right, and we immediately start jumping around, the Merc struggling with the huge potholes and rocks in the road. “Anything?” Brad asks.

“Can’t see through the fucking bushes,” Ringo mutters, his face up close to the window.

Brad slows to a stop, and they both get out the car, not bothering to close the doors. I remain in my seat for a few seconds, until the instruction I need finally falls into my head. I jump out, too, following and leaving the door open so not to create any sound. I jog after them, so damn tense.

“Get in the car, Rose,” Brad hisses over his shoulder.

“No.”

“Do it.”

“No way.”

“Fuck me, no wonder he’s so stressed lately.”

“Shit,” Ringo curses, putting his arm out to stop me in my tracks. He starts looking around, as does Brad, both their guns appearing from behind their jackets.

I withdraw, scanning the space too. Then I see what’s got them all twitchy. “Oh my God,” I breathe, feeling Ringo reach for me and pull me close. His hand comes over my mouth, as if he senses my impending scream of panic.

“There’s another.” Brad motions with his gun toward a nearby tree where a body is slumped against the trunk, his throat cut. My eyes widen, breathing becoming increasingly difficult, not only because of the hand over my mouth. I recognize him. He delivered a picture of my boy to my room and a punch to my kidneys not too long ago.

I reach up, trying to yank Ringo’s hand away. “Keep quiet,” he warns, letting me win.

I swing around to face him. “They’re Nox’s men,” I pant, spotting yet another body only a few feet away. It’s a fucking graveyard.

“Not that one,” Ringo says, pointing his gun to a bush that’s decorated with a man’s brain, his body propped up against the dense foliage. “That one’s Russian.”

Russians? What are the Russians doing here? Nox hates the Russians.

I feel dread and fear arrest me. Everywhere I turn, another dead body is staring at me. I cover my own mouth, backing up until I slam into a chest and jump out of my skin.

“Easy,” Brad whispers, holding me up. I could fall to the ground, my earlier grit when I held Danny’s men at gunpoint vanishing. He takes my hand and starts to guide me through the trees, Ringo leading, both of them alert and tense. More bodies. More blood. More carnage. Tears prick at the backs off my eyes, my worst nightmare becoming more real with every step I take. We seem to trek for miles, my strength waning, and when we emerge from the bushes onto the road that leads to the boatyard, it’s like a mass grave. I choke on nothing, scanning the faces of all the men we weave through, my eyes studying each face carefully. I don’t know what I’ll do if Danny’s face is among the dead.

My cheeks wet, I blindly stagger along with Brad, tripping over small rocks as I go. Every beat of my heart hurts, to the point I wish it would just stop beating altogether. All these men. There are dozens, and Danny was alone, damn him. What was he fucking thinking?

“Rose,” Brad says, tugging me in front of him and resting his hands on my shoulders. “Look.”

I lift my eyes from the scattered bodies around me, and what I find has me falling back, needing Brad’s chest to support me. A low, broken sob escapes me. Danny’s up ahead, his back to me. He’s shaking someone’s hand. I don’t know who. I don’t care. He’s alive. I make to break from Brad’s hold, a newfound strength injecting life into me. I just need to get to him.