Page 13

Samantha

Right after Diesel leaves, I turn to Hunter. I know I have a better chance of convincing him to see reason. Not because Hunter doesn’t scare me, but because I know I have a better chance of persuading anyone on earth than I do of Diesel’s mind.

“Why don’t you just let me go? Diesel’s gone. Just put that gun away and let me go. I won’t tell anyone where you are.”

“Not happening.”

“Why not? You have no incentive to keep me any longer. No reason.”

“No way. Just drop it.”

“Why?” I say, suddenly feeling like I’m five years old and arguing with one of my parents. I stand and take a step toward the door, but Hunter makes a clicking noise with his tongue and gestures with the gun, so I sit back down with my arms crossed.

“It’s better this way. Trust me.”

“Why should I trust you? You’re pointing a gun at me.”

“Because I know what I’m doing. Just like Diesel. We’ve been here before. But you… well, you’re in way over your head.”

“You’ve been here before? You mean Boise or being kidnapped?”

“Boise? No, can’t say I’ve made its acquaintance before this recent experience. Can’t say I want to do so again, either.” He scrunches up his semi-bruised face and I want to smack him for insulting my hometown. “But we’ve been kidnapped before. Both at home and abroad, though I can’t tell you about the abroad stuff without breaking some laws that I swore I’d uphold.”

“Since when do you care about breaking laws?”

“Some I don’t. For example, if I got Dominic Rossi alone, well, laws wouldn’t apply. But the stuff Diesel and I did in the military, well, we swore an oath and laid down blood for that, and I ain’t breaking that.”

“OK, so what? Just because you’ve been kidnapped and been through this before doesn’t give you the right to keep me kidnapped. Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“We really are helping you. Please, try to understand that.” There’s warmth in his voice that is so at odds with the fact that he’s holding me at gunpoint in a room that would be rejected from the set of the Saw movies for being too grungy that I get whiplash. “I hope you can see that.”

“There’s nothing you could say that would make me believe you and Diesel aren’t just a pair of armed and heavily beaten assholes.”

Hunter laughs. “Not saying we aren’t. But people can have multiple dimensions, and I’m sure you know that. Some of those dimensions are good, some bad, but the bad doesn’t cancel out the good now, does it?”

“Maybe.” My voice wavers so much saying that word that I can’t even keep up the pretense of a lie. If I didn’t believe people could change, I wouldn’t be doing my job, and I wouldn’t have any faith in my brother. I refuse to give up on either of those things. “I mean, yes, I believe. So what?”

“So I want you to do me a favor, OK? Look at my face. Beneath the handsomeness, and if you can get beyond the general awe I’m expecting you to feel over how damn good looking I am, you’ll notice that I’m not that beat up.”

I look. Then squint. “What scale are we using?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was little, there was this one time my dad brought home these really nice steaks from work. He was so excited, because they were an expensive gift from this new client. As soon as he got home, he looked so happy that we told him he should cook one up for himself first and relax and have a beer. He went all out — seasoned it with salt and pepper, cooked it in the cast iron pan while basting it with herb-infused butter. But when he went to eat it, well, he found out that he wasn’t so good at cooking. He said it tasted like buttery rubber. It made him so mad that he got out the meat tenderizer and he spent almost an hour smashing the three remaining steaks. Your face looks like those steaks when he got done with them.”

Hunter brings a hand up to his face, touches it gingerly, and then looks in the mirror. “Does not.”

“Why would I even lie about that?”

“Plenty of reasons. I doubt you’re that predisposed to like us right now. But that’s beside the point. The actual point is I should look a lot worse. But Diesel stepped in. Do you know why those assholes were keeping us prisoner and beating the shit out of us?”

“Unpaid strip club bills?”

He laughs. “Good guess. If it were just Diesel, I’d say you’re probably right. But it’s sicker than that. They killed my brother because he refused to use his trucking company to haul their drugs. His company, his drivers, his trucks — they all have a good reputation, both with law enforcement and with the border stations. These motherfuckers want to use everything my brother built and my brother’s good name to spread their filth around. When they approached him, my brother told them to go fuck themselves. He got himself and his wife killed for that. I inherited his company. Then Victor and his boys came looking for me, and here we are.”

I blink. “So why do they care about Diesel?”

“He was there. When I got picked up, we were out with my ol’ lady and my son. He helped me make a distraction so they could get away, and then he came along for moral support.”

“Moral support?” I say, trying to envision just how the heck that works. It doesn’t. Because it’s Diesel. “What do you mean? Was he going to cheer you on and tell you how strong you are when it was your turn to be tortured?”

“More like he was taking the beating for me. Because he knows I just recently adopted my son, just recently met my ol’ lady, and I’m no use to my family if I get sent back to them in pieces.”

Silently, I stare at Hunter. It's hard to reconcile the image of a man who would willingly sacrifice himself for his best friend with the kidnapping asshole who shares a name with a petroleum product.

But then again, nothing about this situation makes sense.

"So Diesel was protecting you?" I ask, my voice softer now.

Hunter nods, his eyes distant. "Yeah. He's always been like that. Loyal to a fault. Even when we were in the military together, he'd throw himself into danger if it meant keeping the rest of us safe. Back at Club Sin, I tried to stop him, but..."

“But what?”

“But it wouldn’t have mattered. I couldn’t have stopped him. Because he knows how hard it is to live this life when you have loved ones waiting for you at home. How much more dangerous it is. He had them, too, once.”

Once.

That word hits me like a bolt of lightning, and though I want to ask Hunter what he means, there’s a look on his face that says any questions would not be well received.

“Maybe that changes things. Maybe,” I say. Guilt gnaws at me. After a moment, I clear my throat, eager to move on from the idea that I might have to be nicer to Diesel, despite the fact that he’s made a point of being a gun-toting asshole. If being an asshole is his cover, and he’s playing the part like a natural. “What happens next?”

Before he can answer, Hunter cocks his head to the side as if listening to something. He stands up, gun aimed at the door, and then I hear what has him on his feet — the sound of approaching motorcycles.

Hunter’s voice takes on a dark tone. “Samantha, I will not lie to you. The odds are that those are Moretti’s guys, and the only way they’d know we’re here is if they got to Diesel first. So you need to listen to me right now: get ready to run.”

But I can’t move. The fear is overwhelming, it’s not just for my safety. Not anymore. Suddenly, I'm terrified for Diesel too.

What if they've caught him? What if he's hurt, or worse? The thought makes my stomach churn. How did I go from seeing him as a dangerous kidnapper to someone I'm worried about? It doesn't make sense, but in this moment, I can't deny the concern I feel.

The roar of engines cuts off abruptly, and a suffocating silence fills our room.

Hunter stands rigid, gun trained on the door, his face a mask of grim death.

Then, the door handle turns.

Time seems to slow as the door swings open; I brace myself for the worst — Moretti’s men will burst in, Hunter will die, and I’ll get dragged away, kicking and screaming, to Club Sin, where I’ll wish I was dead.

But instead of a nightmare, I see a familiar face: Diesel.

He's alive and grinning, looking no worse for wear than when he left, and holding a full grocery bag in one hand and the gun in the other. Relief floods through me. And something else, too. An emotion so so intense it's almost painful.

Without thinking, I leap up from my seat and run to him.

But as I get closer, his face changes.

From cocky triumph to surprise.

And then anger.

Furious anger

As I’m steps away, he drops the groceries and points the gun right at my head, stopping me in my tracks. His furious eyes bore into me and his voice burns with ferocity.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”