Page 4

Diesel

Hours pass with nothing but the hum of the road, the sound of muffled conversation between Victor Moretti and his men, and the suffocating scent of a bag that smells like it once held kibbles and anchovies being stuck over my head. For as hellish as it is, I’d still take this over my worst night and that night in Karachi any day.

Eventually, we reach Boise. I’m dragged out of the vehicle, and the second my feet touch the pavement, I can feel it.

Just to be sure, I sniff. Even through the bag over my head, I can tell.

“We’re at a strip club,” I say.

“How the fuck did you know that?” Says the guard, shoving me along.

Words form on my tongue; an explanation distilled down dumb enough that maybe this asshole might understand it; about the penetrating smell that all strip clubs have that extends even to their parking lot; about the sound — the dizzying whirl of genres and styles, from Def Leppard, Warrant, Nelly, Snoop Dogg, Billy Ray Cyrus, and Prince — that pulses like a stripper’s hips on the stage; about the feeling that tingles across my skin and tells me my wallet’s about to get a little lighter.

“You ever see that show ‘Sherlock?’ With the weird British guy in it?” Hunter says.

“All the actors that play him are British. Sherlock Holmes is British,” the guard replies.

“Yeah, but just because the character is British, it doesn’t mean the actor playing him has to be British. Actors can act and do accents,” says another guard. “Did you know that in ‘Die Hard’ the guy who plays Hans Gruber is actually British?”

“You’re fucking kidding me. Really? Fuck, his accent sounded so real.”

Hunter clears his throat. “Diesel’s like that, except with strip clubs.”

“He’s a strip club terrorist?”

“No,” I say.

Hunter raises his voice over mine. “He’s been called that before. But that’s beside the fucking point. The point is, if you put this guy within five hundred yards of a strip club, and if the wind’s right, he can tell you how many dancers are performing, their nicknames, how busy it is, what food they have in the buffet, what drink specials they got, and how much it costs to get back into the champagne room. It’s impressive, and also sad as hell.”

“Thanks, brother. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I say.

“Enough bullshit,” says an unfamiliar voice. It has the sharp edge of command and the two guards shoving us along go suddenly quiet. “Put them in the back room and tie them up. I’ll be along to take care of them once I check in with the boss.”

“Oh, you’re taking us to the back room?” I say. “You going to give us a special lap dance? If that’s what you’re planning, you should know I don’t have much cash on me. But if you let me loose, I’m happy to use the ATM you have in your strip club — and even pay the super high fees — as long as you promise to really twerk for me. Because you sound like a guy who knows how to make his cheeks clap.”

The man doesn’t give me an answer — just a fist in my stomach and another in the face.

Dizzy, silenced, they drag me down a gravel-lined alley and through a door that opens on rusty hinges, then down a long hallway, where a short round of beating precedes being tied to a chair. After, there’s silence, except for my breathing, Hunter’s breathing, and the bass of “Nookie” by Limp Bizkit, which confirms the fact that there is no difference between a strip club in Boise during the daytime and literal hell.

Except the strippers in hell are hotter. Well, everyone is. Because it’s fucking hell.

“You still there, Hunter?” I say once I’ve taken as much as I can of the silence and the thumping music to be sure that we’re alone.

“Still here, buddy,” he replies. “Wish I wasn’t, though.”

“You know how this has to go, right?”

“We distract them, hold them off, wait for an opening, and attack? Fuck, Diesel, do you think I’ve forgotten everything we learned?”

“That’s not what I mean, brother.”

“You saying I should give in? Just roll over and sign over my brother’s business to the same man who murdered him? Fuck no.”

“Man, civilian life, having a family. It’s really made you fucking blind, you know that?”

“What the fuck you talking about, Diesel?”

I shift in my chair, incline my head toward the sound of his voice. I want to make sure that he hears me over Fred Durst’s dumb lyrics. Hunter’s got more than a dirty hood over his head that’s keeping him blind to the truth of our situation, and he needs to have his eyes opened.

“They’re going to torture us.”

“Duh.”

“Fucking right. Except, this time is different. Do you remember when we were in southern Helmand province and, maybe, sort of, definitely, crossed over into Balochistan even though we weren’t supposed to? And then I got caught, and you and the rest of our squad had to bail me out?”

“That’s putting it lightly. Yeah, I remember.”

“It’s my turn to do that for you. Time to pay you back.”

“What do you mean?”

I frown. How the fuck can he not see it? Maybe it’s because this family thing is new to him, maybe it’s because we were trained to never leave a man behind, to never let someone on our team suffer when there’s a chance that, if we fight like fucking hell, we can prevent it.

But that was before.

Before Hunter fell in love, before he adopted a kid.

That changes you.

Makes you weaker.

“Whatever they plan to do to us, you have to let me be the one to bear it. You have an ol’ lady and a son waiting back in Ironwood Falls for you. And you can’t hold your son if they’ve cut your hands off. So, when they send someone in to torture us, you’re going to hear me say some shit, and you’re going to have to let me take the consequences, OK?”

“You think I’m going to just sit back and let you take it? Just listen while you’re getting tortured?”

“You have to. Your family needs you, Hunter. Now, if you feel fucking guilty about it, fine, name your next kid after me. I’ll accept that honor. But whatever you do, keep your fucking mouth shut and until we get an opening to escape. You got that?”

“You want me to name one of my kids after you? I mean, Ethan isn’t a bad name, but what if Emily and I have a girl?”

I shake my head. “Not Ethan. I want you to use my road name.”

“I’m not naming my next child ‘Diesel.’ That starts a bad fucking trend. Because the one after that, I’ll have to name ‘Unleaded,’ and then what? It’s fucking ‘Mid-grade’ and ‘Premium?’”

“All excellent names. And a small price to pay to keep your hands attached to your body.”

“You can’t see it right now, but I’m using my hands to flip you off.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you.”

The sound of the door handle jiggling shuts us up. The door creaks open and then slams shut.

“What the fuck were you two talking about, huh?” Says the newcomer. “Talking about which of you is going to beg for mercy first? Which of you is going to squeal like a little fucking pig and beg to give my boss what he wants?”

I sniff the air. “What the fuck is that smell? Were you crawling under stalls in the men’s room? You sound like the type to yell ‘Who wants a blumpkin?’ every time you go into the bathroom.”

“Shut your fucking mouth.” The words precede a punch that hits me right in the stomach. It’s a mediocre blow, but a good sign — things are starting off on the right foot. I need to keep this asshole’s attention on me and away from Hunter.

“Actually, that isn’t what we were talking about. We were trying to guess what song you were conceived to, because, well, I’ve heard that the music that’s playing during the act of conception can pass something on to the fetus. With a guy like you, well, first I thought it might’ve been something by Smashmouth. But, now that I’ve heard you talk and felt how you throw a punch, I’m gonna revise my guess and say you were feebly ejaculated into your mother’s rotten pussy during an Applebee’s commercial. Of course, maybe it wasn’t music at all. Maybe it was just the muffled weeping of whatever man your mother coerced into fucking her as he realized his life had just hit fucking bottom.”

I’m shut up again by another fist to the stomach.

I laugh. “Touch a nerve, huh?”

The man's breath is hot and rank against my face as he leans in close. "You think you're funny, don't you? You think your little jokes are going to save you?"

"No, but they're helping me pass the time until I figure out how to get out of these ropes and shove my foot so far up your ass you'll be tasting the sole of my shoe for weeks."

Another punch lands, this time to my jaw. I taste blood and spit it out, aiming toward his voice.

"You're going to regret that," he snarls.

"Probably not as much as your mother regrets not swallowing the night you were conceived."

I hear the whistle of something cutting through the air a split second before pain explodes across my ribs. The impact knocks the wind out of me and I wheeze, struggling to catch my breath.

"Still feeling clever?" the man taunts.

"Always," I gasp. "It's part of my charm."

The next blow catches me on the side of the head, making my ears ring. I shake it off, forcing myself to focus. I need to keep this asshole's attention on me.

"Is that the best you can do?" I taunt. "My grandmother hits harder than that, and she's been dead for ten years."

A series of rapid blows rain down on me — face, chest, stomach. I grunt and groan, but don't cry out. I’ve accomplished my mission — his focus is locked on me — and now, all I need to do is hold on until Hunter and I can figure a way out of here.

The beating goes on for a long time.

At one point, I pass out, and the man beating me must move on to Hunter, because I wake up to the sound of blows landing and it fills me with a surge of adrenaline. I shout. “Is that all you’ve got? Maybe you should go ask one of the strippers for pointers on how to really make a man feel something."

The bag gets ripped off my head, and I blink in the sudden harsh light. The man looming over me is exactly what I expected — a meathead with more muscles than brains, face twisted in a snarl.

"There you are, ugly," I say with a bloody grin. "I was starting to think you were too scared to show your face. Of course, I don’t fucking blame you."

He grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. "You think this is a game? You think you can just mouth off and nothing will happen?"

I spit blood in his face, and it hits him right in the eye. He release his grip on me just enough for me to quickly turn my head and sink my teeth into the meat of his forearm. I bite down, hard, until flesh splits and he screams.

Staggering backward, he stumbles into Hunter, then back further and hits the wall, his bleeding arm held tight to his chest and his free hand clutching his eye. “Fuck. Oh fuck, I’ll fucking kill you for that.”

After a long moment, he regains his composure. Spit and blood drips from his left eye, and just blood from his forearm.

He glares at me.

I blow him a kiss.

Finally, he shakes his head and storms toward the door. “Sit tight. When I get back, I’m going to make you wish you never had a fucking mouth to begin with.”

The door slams shut.

I spit out a mouthful of blood and turn to Hunter. "You okay, brother?"

"I'm fine," he says, voice tight with pain. "But this isn't right, Diesel. You can't keep taking all the hits."

"I told you, I have to. Your family needs you whole."

"And what about you? Don't you think you deserve a life after all this?"

I laugh, wincing as it sends a spike of pain through my ribs. "My life is this shit, man. Always has been, always will be. I'm built for it."

"That's bullshit and you know it," Hunter argues. "You're not some machine, Diesel. You're human, just like the rest of us."

"Maybe," I concede. "But I'm the human without anyone waiting for him. So I'm the one who takes the beating."

"Diesel, please—"

The door suddenly swings open, cutting off whatever Hunter was about to say. I turn my head, expecting to see our torturer back for round two. Instead, I'm staring at the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

She's slender, with delicate tone in her arms and legs that tell me she must be some kind of dancer, then I realize, she has to be a fucking dancer, because this is a fucking strip club. She has long chestnut hair and hazel eyes that shine with warmth. She's wearing a sparkly gold bikini top and skimpy jean shorts that leave little to the imagination. In her hands, she's carrying a champagne bottle nestled in a bucket of ice.

For a moment, we just stare at each other.

Then she screams.