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Chapter twenty-six

Self-Inflicted

Kira

C onstruction was never a job I thought I could do. My father had done it once in a while to put food on the table, because it was skilled labor, and the pay was nice, but for myself? No. I had the luxury of being an artist and occasional barista.

Even fake construction was arduous work.

To help with our cover, we had even dug up part of the pavement.

We had a real cement truck, and would re-pave a part of the small road that led to the Durante mansion.

There were fewer than a dozen of us on this side of the road.

The task itself, with our flak vests beneath heavy jackets, beneath reflective road vests, was difficult, since our weapons were strapped beneath layers of clothes.

The weather was crisp, so at least that made it somewhat believable.

Several orange cones and signs warned oncoming traffic to turn away and detour to the right. It would lead them to a road that looped to the other side, and would join up with the crew on the other end, making them bypass the small drive that headed up a winding route to the Durante compound.

“They’re in place,” Blink said over a two-way radio.

If all went well, it would only be a matter of hours before things were settled.

I looked around, a strange sensation niggling at the back of my mind. It was the unmistakable feeling that things were about to go absolutely ape-shit crazy.

There were fewer than a dozen in each crew we had, and about twenty more soldiers who were ready to respond to any emergency, hidden up the road in armored SUVs. Our job was to sit and wait.

I swallowed, feeling that strange and nagging pain in my hand, like something was about to go wrong with Eoghan.

I took a deep breath, letting it out through my nose, as it steamed in the frigid air.

The sound of a heavy engine pricked at my ears, and I turned my head to see a large truck, hauling a shipping container, coming our way. The horn blared, and Blink walked to the middle of the road, his radio in hand, and an orange construction hat on his head.

The truck stopped, and the driver leaned out. “Get out of the way!”

What the hell was going on?

“Go around!” Blink said in his best, though very fake, American accent, as he pointed the way of the detour sign. Someone else went up to the orange rectangular sign and pointed at it as if the driver were blind or dumb.

“I’m going that way!” the driver said, getting back into his seat and loudly blaring the horn.

A car that came up behind him decided to skirt down the shoulder of the road to get to the detour.

“Listen, prick, I’m going that way, so your people better get out of the way,” the driver called again.

The traffic that was backed up behind the truck began easing around him, taking the first car’s lead until the traffic cleared.

“No,” Blink said, then, frustratedly, “Go around.”

“I’m warning you, I’m going through!”

The truck lurched forward, and in a flash, I reached for the pistol at my ankle and fired, taking out the front wheel, which deflated like a withering balloon.

The driver was absolutely incensed, he looked down at his tire, and looked at me.

Blink was red-faced, furious, and I was worried that he would do something insane. He slowly strode forward, his eyes on the driver, who popped open his door and was about to march right at me. The unmistakable pistol on his hip flashed from beneath his flannel shirt.

“You little bitch!” he snarled.

He was about to reach for it when Blink snatched his hand out like a snake on the sting, punching him in the throat.

A strange, rhythmic metallic sound beat in my ears, like a warning of something terrible to come.

The man choked, stepped back, and reached for his gun. I fired again, this time it landed in his hand. But it didn’t stop there.

The bullet went through, a bloody circle appearing like stigmata, and struck him in the stomach.

He looked down, confused, before his eyes went up to me.

Blink grabbed him, and before he had a chance to fall where he stood, he dragged the still stumbling driver to the front of the truck, out of view of any oncoming traffic.

I must be going insane, as the small rhythmic tapping continued in my brain. Like the clinking of chains, following the sound of a metronome.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” I said, not sure if I had acted too rashly. I ran to Blink, who was staunching the bleeding, though it was clear the man would not live.

“You did fine,” he said, before he nodded to the road. “Keep an eye out.”

He turned his head and called out, “Amadol!”

The man, Jose Amadol, jogged over, looking at the scene with interest.

“Get the SUV so we can get the body out of here,” Blink said. “If anyone asks, the man abandoned his truck to go get help for the tire.”

Amadol looked puzzled. “What’s that noise?”

“What?” Blink asked, then shook his head, yelling in frustration, “Go get the truck!”

Amadol left, and came back a short while later with a few others to load the corpse into the truck while someone else poured dirt over the small bloody pool.

Still, that tapping continued.

Really, what the hell was that noise?

“I can hear it,” I said to Amadol. “Like a banging sound?”

“Right?” Amadol said, his brow knit in confusion. “I’m going to look in the back.”

“I’ll look in the cabin.”

Blink was giving orders, relaying information to Yuliya, probably already conspiring a cover-up, and post-mortem.

I jumped into the cabin, climbing over his seat into the back, where there were sleeping quarters. I dumped the pillows and blankets, then looked beneath the bed, where there was storage, but the sound of banging was more muted here.

It wasn’t until I stepped back out and saw Amadol hunched over, curled as though he was about to puke, that I realized it was from the inside.

I ran to him, yelling, “Are you okay?”

“Mmm-hmm,” he said, pointing to the open doors of the shipping container. “I found the sound.”

I looked up into the darkness of the opening, which was only cracked.

I pulled at the door just a little further to let the sunlight in when I saw the unmistakable shapes of eyes peering from blackness.

I took a deep breath, shocked, but regretted it immediately when the stale scent of urine, feces, and sweat assaulted my nose.

I stepped back, my hands grasping at something to help me stay upright, but there was nothing.

“Blink,” I said in a long, whining voice.

“What?” he snapped, agitated.

“I… need you to come here.”

I didn’t know exactly how to tell him that the truck was full of nothing but emaciated, frightened souls, peering out from behind the bars of kennel cages.