Page 71 of Jazz
“You know where he’ll be.”
I nodded, grabbing Fury’s spare bike keys from the hook just inside the kitchen door.
By the time I was down the stairs again, my spare helmet in my hands, and an old black bike suit over the jeans I’d thrown on to replace the horrendous pyjamas someone, Mam I hoped, had dressed me in, she was standing in the hallway waiting for me. Her broad frame blocked my escape route.
“Out of my way, Mam.”
“Jazz, wait.”
“No. Get out of my way.”
She held something up, silver catching in the lights.
“Your bike keys.”
“My bike?”
“It’s in the garage out back. Fury fixed it for you. There’s a couple of scratches, but it’s virtually brand new.”
I stopped my charge from the house, a ball swelling in my throat.
“He knew we’d get you back. He wanted your bike up and working so you could get straight back on it when they got you.”
My eyes prickled, and I chewed hard on my lip.
“Thanks,” I whispered, hooking the keys from her.
“Jazz?” she called out as I spun on my heel and headed for the back door. “Please don’t steal Fury’s bike. It was your Dad’s.”
“I know, Mam. I was only going to borrow it. Don’t need to now though.”
She nodded, the movement of her head under the hallway lights catching on the tears. I smiled weakly, knowing that I what I was about to do would make her cry even harder.
Fuck if I didn’t feel like absolute shit.
Chapter Thirty Six
Pain seared in the ball of my shoulders, sockets stretched raw as the weight of my body dragged on them. Heavy. Excruciating. Like my arms were being ripped from my body. It jolted me awake, my eyes searching the dark, unable to focus. Not a shadow, not a patch of light, just pure black. My head swam. My jaw ached, radiating outwards like a slow reaching ripple.
And, fuck, I was cold. I was naked. Stark bollock naked. A shiver wracked my body, and I rocked, my weight balancedon my knees. The ground was cold against my knees, seeping into my bones, crawling into my skin like frostbite, biting, until I couldn’t tell if I was shivering or just breaking apart. My head hung low, my chin near my chest, every breath ghosting out in a cloud around me.
Somewhere above, the world kept moving. Muffled bass lines, the thump of boots on floorboards, laughter, distant, drunk, alive. The music made the silence worse, like life was happening just a few feet above my head and I’d already been buried. The air was thick with the smell of old beer and damp wood, the tang of metal from the pipes running overhead. I could taste it, bitter on my tongue, mixing with the copper of blood.
I struggled onto my feet, taking the weight off my shoulders. Grey light filtered in from little rectangular windows that sat high in the walls. I tested the ropes once. Twice. Useless. They creaked, held firm. My wrists burned from where they’d chafed against my skin.
Minutes went by. Hours. I couldn’t fucking tell. But I was really fucking cold, and my body was shaking so hard I thought I was having a fit. The light in the room changed. It grew lighter, casting shadows into the blackness.
Metal kegs were piled to one side. Another load lined up against a wall, wires weaving their way down to them. And now there was a soft hiss, a faint rattle of couplings. One. Two. Three. More. Pints. Above me, someone was pouring pints. It was like they knew I was down here, just hanging around, taunting me with the sound of alcohol while I literally froze my balls off.
More time passed. My back ached from standing. My whole body ached from shivering. I was going to get frostbite. Probably going to start at the end of my fucking dick too. Peoplemoved upstairs. On and off all day, yet no one came down here. The floorboards creaked, and there were voices. But no one came. I’d tried to count the number, but I couldn’t get a good hit, the voices too muffled this far underneath them.
My mind wandered to Jazz. When I’d seen that gun pointing at her head, my entire world slowed, like someone had switched it to slow motion, and I was moving through treacle. I didn’t know who he was or what side he was on. And then, for a moment, when Jazz spoke to him, and they knew each other, I felt a sense of relief. Just for a few seconds. Her head snapped back when he shot her. I hadn’t seen the gun he’d pulled from somewhere on his thigh. Not until she fell backwards. I froze. And stared. Doing nothing. Watching as her eyes closed. My stomach plummeting down a black hole. Mindlessly, I searched for blood. The slightest trickle ran down her neck, and even then, I couldn’t move.
“She’s asleep. Not dead.” He’d rumbled, not a hint of regret in his voice; it was as cold as the blue-green of his eyes.
And then the butt of the gun came crashing down towards me.
A door creaked. Movement. I stood up, straightening my back, straining my eyes in the shadows. Footsteps. Multiple footsteps getting closer. Lights snapped on around me. Sudden blinding brightness. And now the damp cellar felt like an interrogation room, and if what I knew about Indie and his vice president was true, they had lots of experience interrogating people.