Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
All I could think about was killing.
Murderous rage building inside me as we cleaned the bullet wound in Tatiana’s shoulder. At the sight of track marks on her hands and arms. The days of barfing and nausea, shakes and sweating. Of her begging me for more.
I’d finally had enough. Fuck her need to be strong, and fuck her suffering.
Fuck the vomit and diarrhea, the shaking, the sweating, the torturous agony. She looked like she was dying and I couldn’t handle it anymore.
I’d brought in a specialist who gave her a heavy sedative, then gave her something to flush her system of any remaining heroin.
Now, he said all I could do was wait.
And so I did.
Waited and seethed. Staring down at her as she slept like a motherfucking queen. Because, despite everything, all I could see was how fucking strong she was, and red red red at my need to kill the asshole that put her through this.
I hadn't slept since she'd called, except for a few hours on the floor next to her bed. Now that she was sleeping soundly, I had to get out.
My hands were shaking with my own craving; I’d sent a text to Rochon yesterday and he’d promptly hand-delivered a parcel this morning. And now, I was itching to open it.
After reaffirming that she would sleep through the coming night, I left her with Phee, the nurse.
In my bedroom, I opened the curtains, rubbing my hand over my face, exhausted as I stared out across the desert landscape. This was one of a few homes I owned, most of them close to the city. People didn’t know about this one, only my closest friends, and I came here only when I needed to get away from everything.
Rochon’s envelope was on the brown, leather sofa—feet away from me.
I tried not to think about it, tried to focus on the orange moon hovering over the desert landscape or the two coyotes lurking outside my property. Wondered if Avery would actually help us. I planned and schemed what I was going to do to the person responsible for Tatiana.
And that only made me think about the envelope.
Slumping in the soft supple leather sofa, I poured a liberal amount of whiskey, drank it, then poured another. Now I sipped, staring into the electric fireplace, rubbing my thumb across the tumbler glass.
Fuck it. I opened the envelope.
As usual, there was a report drawn up, with the name, photos, and everything you could ever want to know about a person, including this particular person's daily schedule and address. Except, this time, there was an additional envelope.
It was sealed, the word ‘ please’ scrawled on the outside in crayon.
My heart clenched.
I dumped out the contents: a handwritten letter, four crumpled dollar bills, and twenty-three cents.
I stared down at them, heart pounding, an uncontrollable shiver climbing up my spine.
Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I unfolded the letter. The handwriting was from two young girls, their signatures at the bottom, and the ink was splotched by tears. It took everything inside me not to crumple the paper in anger, but to force myself to read every single word.
Standing, I began to pace, the fire crackling in the background, and the note a crumpled ball in my fist.
I could do it tonight but I needed to get control over my emotions. I would have to, or I would make a mistake.
Making a decision, I pulled out my phone, transferring a hundred thousand into Rochon's account, who would take care of things in the aftermath. Then I threw the rest of the papers into my fireplace.
Once it was ash, I locked my office door, then checked in on Tatiana. Phee was standing over her, changing out her IV.
I leaned against the door frame, watching them as I finished my drink.
Phee was gentle as she adjusted Tatiana's body to make her more comfortable. Then she went to the bottom of the bed and pulled out a sock covered foot.
Even with her body having gone through hell in the past few days, Tatiana was still a vision to behold. With no makeup on, dressed in one of my oversized shirts and sweatpants, her hair splayed out against the pillow, she was still the only woman who would ever own my heart.
I checked over the room, making sure the thick blue curtains were drawn and the temperature was okay. The air smelled of peppermint as Phee peeled off a sock, patted oil on it, and began to rub.
"She'll be fine," Phee said, "no need to hover over us like a clucking hen chicken.”
My grunt was my only answer.
“Sweetheart,” she looked up at me. “The girl can sense you, even in her sleep. Let her rest. Besides," she crooked an eyebrow, "you look like shit. You need to rest yourself.” My scowl grew deeper but she made a waving motion with her hands. “Off you go now. I can't do my job with you standing there like the grim reaper. I'll wake you if anything happens."
I stared her down for a long moment but she only put a hand on her generous hip, staring back at me.
I chuckled. This woman had balls that grown, made men didn't have.
"You're cute."
“And you're condescending." She winked, “Now go on, go get some sleep."
Shaking my head at her cheekiness, I turned, throwing a final glance at Tatiana before I shut the door behind me. Except, instead of climbing into my own bed, I took the elevator to the bottom floor, then made my way to the kitchen pantry.
I hit the knob hidden between the sugar and the flour I never used. A panel popped out, revealing a handle. I swung open the large shelf, revealing my safe room.
The walls were filled with guns, cash, and extra passports. I grabbed a black, leather bag and filled it with what I might need. Then, after grabbing one last thing from the fridge, I left.
Forty minutes later, I was sitting outside a small, brown brick house.
A yellow lab dog, tied with a short chain, lay on the front porch, sleeping. The yard was filled with weeds and small cacti. There was only the flickering light of a TV to indicate that there was any life in the house.
I settled in my seat and waited.
Time passed slowly, and I watched a homeless man up the street push a large cart, filled to the brim with large, black plastic bags. He talked to himself, occasionally gesturing. Later on, a stray grey cat scurried across the street, stopping to sniff what looked like a clump of dog poop.
Two hours later, the flickering light stopped. After a few minutes, a light to the left corner room came on.
According to Rochon, and he was never wrong, the guy had a wife and two girls. The girls were eight and four. Their room was in the back of the house.
After about ten minutes, the light went off. I counted to sixty in my mind, then, grabbing my bag, silently slid out of my car.
I approached the dog first, who scooted backwards, a low growl in his throat.
I pulled out a steak from my bag and, after unwrapping it, threw it at the dog.
He eagerly jumped towards it, but the chain was too short. I crept forward, grabbing the meat again, walking slowly towards the dog.
His eyes were glued to the steak and I tentatively reached out. Without hesitation, he pulled it from my fingers and began to gobble it down.
I squat, waiting patiently for him to finish. When he was done, he looked up at me, his soft brown eyes eager and his tail wagging.
I pat his head, whispering, "good boy." A pink tongue came out, licking my fingers.
After giving him some love and attention, something he probably rarely got, I kissed the top of his head, then stepped towards the front door. The dog whimpered a little but otherwise let me pass.
The door was unlocked.
I frowned. This asshole didn't give a shit about his family's safety. Given the neighborhood he lived in, he should have every window and door locked. Even now, I could hear the sound of a car alarm going off.
The front of the house was dark and I didn’t spend much time going through the sparse living room and kitchen, making sure there wouldn’t be any surprises. I made my way down the hall, stepping over empty beer cans, my eyes moving over the black marks on the tile, the hole punched through the wall.
There was one bathroom: empty.
Two rooms remained. The door to the bedroom to my left squeaked as I opened it.
There was nothing but a mattress and an old dresser in the room. No pictures on the walls, no knickknacks on the dresser, nothing to make the place feel homey except for dirty clothes tossed on the floor.
A woman, the wife, lay in the bed, wrapped up in a blue blanket. She faced the wall, her brown hair bunched in a loose ponytail. From the doorway, I could see the bruises on her neck.
I watched her carefully, trying to decide what to do with her.
I had mixed feelings about women who didn't protect their kids.
Deciding to leave her alone, I silently shut the door, then turned around, facing the girls’ room.
A surge of anger coursed through me. My whole body was alert, my fingers tingling, my back ramrod straight. I squeezed my fist tighter, grounding myself by noting the feel of the leather handle. Then I took in a breath, counted to four, then let it out.
Tampering down my rage, I forced all emotion out of my body.
It didn’t take long.
I placed my bag on the ground; I wouldn’t need much tonight. Then I turned the knob and stepped inside.
There were two beds. A single one that sat, facing the doorway. A girl of about four sat on the single bed, her back pressed to the wall. Her hair was in pigtails, one of them crooked, and she wore pink pajamas. A stuffed cat was clasped in her fingers, her little chest moving in and out like a fluttering, panicked bird as she stared across the room.
The other bed was full sized, and it was hidden in the darkest corner of the room. I could only make out moving shadows in that one.
The eyes of the four year old moved to me, widening. I put my finger to my lips and she glanced from me to the other bed, not speaking. I pulled out their handwritten letter and, unfolding it, held it up to her.
Her eyes grew as wide as saucers. She only stared at it for a long moment. I didn’t move; I would never take control away from little girls who had felt powerless most their lives.
After a long moment, she nodded, her pigtails brushing against the back wall.
Shit . The back of my eyes burned.
The courage of little girls like this, growing up way before they should.
Fuck ! I wanted to scream and rage and break everything in this goddamn house, then burn it to the ground.
Instead, I forced myself to be calm, then, sliding the paper in my pocket, I pulled out my gun.
I moved slowly and silently into the room, going first to the single bed. I held out my hand, and waited.
After a long, hesitating moment, the four year old reached forward. Her little fingers shook as she clasped my hand.
I squeezed it reassuringly as she slowly, quietly, slid from the bed. Together, we walked across to the other side of the room where the father still hadn’t noticed us. The guy was probably too drunk.
Not that it would’ve mattered.
As we approached the other bed, I put the barrel of my gun to the father's head and clicked off the safety. "Don't fucking move.”
The man froze, his large body suddenly still.
The four year old by my side reached forward, taking her sister's hand, clutching it tight, whispering, “It’s gonna be okay.”
This would be the last night they would ever worry about that asshole again.