Page 31 of For Life
“Shit, shit, fuck.”
The shooter hadn’t been anyone I recognized, and I'd seen pictures of Ivana and her known associates. I almost hoped Matlock would confront me so I could shoot the bastard. When I heard grunts and shuffling feet I attempted the corner again. A few more pops were quickly followed but wood splintering. My sister was going to kill me.
The shooter had gotten closer, so I retreated to the far side of the cabin, and when I looked again Ant was being dragged off. The two men who held him were getting kicked as Ant tried to escape, squirming in the air with hands tied and the two carrying Ant with serious speed. I couldn’t shoot without the risk of shooting them too.
Ant was captured.
If I had been doing what I was supposed to and protecting them, and not daydreaming about dating Ant, they wouldn’t be getting carted off by unknown goons. The guy with the gun on me ran backward until he saw I was running after, then sprinted up the drive. I chased, wishing I’d thrown on shoes at the rocks and pine needles tore at my bare feet.
“No, stop! Maxx!”
Ant cried out for me and I saw them as I rounded the bend to the main road. They were shoving Ant into the backsheet and had stopped covering their mouth. Before Ant could say anything else, they slammed the doors and peeled out while the third guy was still hopping in.
Taking a chance, I kept running and aimed for a back tire. My gunshot was much louder than theirs, and missed its mark when they fishtailed on the paved road at the same time.
“Ant!”
My cry echoed against the trees, and I stopped running. For the first time that week I wished a neighbor was nearby. The SUV had no plates, and I was a long way from any officers.
I only gave myself a minute to catch my breath before returning to my bike. I could use an emergency tire flat canister I always kept around, but I’d have to waste precious time waiting at a tire shop before heading down the mountain. One thing I could do was pack our things, like Ant’s ID and kink supplies, so no one would find them.
While I waited at the only mechanic I could find with my tire in stock within a hundred miles, I called in favors. I contacted Roman. He could use those tech skills again. I called Felix and Maksim to start looking into where Ant might be. I called a buddy in organized crime, in case she had heard anything. And I had to figure out who my friends were, because I needed another gun on my side.
Chapter twenty
ANT
MYHEADFELTHEAVYand there was a bitter taste in my mouth to match the stale air of god knew where I was. I could hear a television and people laughing at a distance, but nothing distinct. And maybe a foghorn? I could be back in San Francisco, if they were with one of the crime families after me. Wherever I was, it was humid and dark, and my clothes were stuck to me with sweat.
The throbbing in my temple had me reluctant to open my eyes. Trying not to move too much—not hard with my wrists tied behind my back—I cracked one lid to check my surroundings. I had woken up in a cage. Beyond that it looked like any dreary warehouse loft in the bay. A lot like what Shepherd’s place looked like before it was communal apartments.
Whether from being tired or blunt force trauma, I fell asleep again. Water being poured on my head woke me with a start, as someone kicked my shin and barked at me to wake up.
“Thanks for the morning shower.”
My snark was induced by grogginess, but as I took in the three men who’d shoved me in a car the day before, and conked me on the head when I asked questions, I regretted my words. The driver, who hadn’t loved being bitten when he covered my mouth as he grabbed me from behind at the creek, smacked me across the face and sneered at me. The other two stood back and crossed their arms in a show of force. Without their guns and my hands literally tied… I still would have been intimidated.
“Tough guy thinks he’s funny, huh?”
This was the one who’d restrained me and done most of the carrying to their car. I didn’t care that I would get smacked again, I couldn’t resist correcting him.
“Not a guy.”
The driver hit me again, but first he grabbed a handful of my shirt and aimed a fist at my gut. I tensed it at the last second, hopefully avoiding internal injury. It still fucking hurt.
“You killed my cousin,” the last guy who got in the car spit in my face, “tell us who you’re working for, you stupid boy.”
“Whoa, whoah, whoa,” I leaned back since I couldn’t lift my hands in protest, “I didn’t kill anyone, let alone your cousin!”
They ignored me and I got a few more slaps and punches before they tossed me back on the hard floor and closed the cage.
“You need some time to think about it, but we will ask again.”
They treated me like I was mafia or a snitch, and I thought maybe that one sounded Russian? The men left me there with one last, purposeful spit in my direction. I didn’t rate a bed or bathroom break, it seemed. I wasn’t going to hope for food anytime soon. As the sun rose higher though the papered-over windows, I saw that there was a kitchen near my holding cell, and a bucket inside it. That must be my bathroom. I struggled to get my wet sweatpants down to use it, crouching quickly in case they came back.
“Oh, I see,not a guy,” one of the men coming back startled me enough to pee on myself. He tossed toilet paper at me, “You sit like a girl. We will call you sissy girl from now on.”
In his laughter and mocking I heard an accent more strongly. This guy, at least, was Russian. Saying I killed his cousin, he was either Italian or pretending to be related to the man I saw shot to get a rise out of me. It was confusing, and I wasn’t sure why they hadn’t just killedme. None of them seemed to be in charge, so they must be waiting on someone else for instructions.