Page 134 of Rev

The man at my back spits on the ground, as a gesture. “You weren’t here, José. Your punk ass was still down in fuckin’ Columbia. You don’t know shit.This?” He shakes me, but not exactly roughly. “This is amistake. A big-ass mistake, and notoneof us is gonna walk away from it.”

José snorts derisively. “He’s one dude. There’s fuckin’, what, twenty of us? He ain’t the fuckin’ bogeyman, Tony.”

Tony just laughs, and it’s bitter. “Again, you weren’t here. You don’t know.”

“Twenty on one? We got guns, and he ain’t supposed to kill.” José laughs right back. “I think we can handle one dude.”

“You don’t know,” Tony repeats, stubbornly. He mutters in my ear. “Quit struggling. You’re just bait. Go along quiet, worst thing’ll happen is you get bored.”

I spit blood. “You’re baiting the wrong guy, Tony.”

He nudges me into a walk, still muttering for my ears only. “I know your boy. We weren’t tight, but I know him. I didn’t sign up for this shit. Can’t let you go or nothin’, but if you quit fuckin’ fightin’ my ass, I can protect you to some degree.”

I let him walk me, and the other two spread out, close by but letting me walk since I’ve quit fighting like a cornered badger.

Tony keeps hold of my arm, but his grip is mostly gentle. Ahead, José is stomping angrily. Twists a key in the elevator button bank. I’m in the back right corner, Tony on my left, his body now partially hiding mine from José and the other two. All four wear simple black suits with red button-downs, no tie. Each has a holster at their shoulder with big black handguns. They’re all Latino, or at least Hispanic. Only José and Tony have spoken, and they do so in clear, lightly accented English. The other two give no indication they even hear anything being said.

The elevator ride up is long, and silent. Someone smells like BO.

My scalp hurts, and now my ribs and face do, too.

Rev is coming. I know he is.

* * *

Tony was right aboutone thing: being kidnapped and held hostage is boring.

We’re in a penthouse suite, at the very top of a hotel on the Strip. Plate glass floor-to-ceiling windows show the city, lit up golden, headlights and taillights moving in a constant stream. The room I’m in is huge. Twenty-foot-high ceilings, massive, thick French doors leading to the foyer and the elevator and emergency staircase. A seating area with a fake fireplace done in elaborate white marble, another set of double doors, closed, I assume the bedroom on the other side. Tony is in the room with me, lounging on the couch, watching a Spanish-language soccer game. He’s chain-smoking cigarettes, sipping beer from a sweating bottle.

I’m tied to a chair. The chair is thick wood, heavy. My wrists are pulled behind the chair and zip-tied together, and my ankles are zip-tied to the chair legs. I can’t say I love it, but under the circumstances, I’ll take bound and bored over any of the possible alternatives.

At least Tony was considerate enough—or maybe just had enough foresight to save himself the hassle—of letting me pee before they tied me to the chair.

It’s cold. I’m wearing my work clothes: super short black tennis skirt, black tank top, combat boots. It’s so cold my teeth are chattering.

I don’t say anything.

My jaw throbs, and I still taste blood. My lip is swollen, fat and puffy. The liver punch still throbs painfully, and if I take too deep a breath my lungs hitch, the pain too sharp to keep inhaling.

José vanished. The other two are just outside the door.

I watch soccer, listen to the announcer jabbering in Spanish.

At some point, despite my fear and pain, I doze off.

* * *

I’m woken by gunfire.

It’s faint, distant, below us.

There’s a shout.

The gunfire abruptly stops.

A taut moment of silence, lasting for the space of maybe a dozen breaths, and then there’s more gunfire. Automatics, a sharp, rattling series ofcrack-crack-cracking. Again, the gunfire abruptly cuts off.

This happens for several minutes—gunfire, and silence in alternating sequence.