Chapter Ten
HOPE
“Wilson, wait. Listen to me. Don’t do this. Stop,” my captor says into a cellphone. While his voice sounds panicked, he is actually standing calm and rolling his eyes.
Wilson? There it is. My confirmation of Wilson Delaney’s involvement in whatever’s going on here. He warned me about getting involved with him. That he was trouble. And now I must hold strong in the belief he’ll rescue me.
It’s all I’ve got left.
“Don’t know what you see in this guy,” the blond man says, tucking his cellphone in his pocket. “He’s like a bag of wet sand. Heavy and strong, but dumb as dirt.”
We’re standing in a delivery warehouse for various chain stores across Decatur. The blond man brought me here from my home, and we are standing silently in anticipation of whatever comes next.
The warehouse is fully stocked. The blond man sits down on a pallet of sweet snacks, cutting away at the thick plastic surrounding it with his fingernails.
“What is this?” I ask. Curiosity gets the best of me. “What’s going on?”
I’ve been scared since we left my house, but the tall man with ash-blonde hair hasn’t given me much reason to fear for my life. Hell, he hasn’t even taken his pistol out of his shoulder holster, since we got to the warehouse.
“Come again?” he says, finally finishing with his tireless effort to crack the plastic wrapping around the baked goods.
From an inner pocket of his black coat, he draws a slender pocket knife or the handle of one. With a flick of a small button on the side, a blade shoots from the tip and he uses it to cut into the cardboard.
“What’s going on here?” I ask again. It feels stupid asking it a second time.
It’s none of my business, I suppose. Even if I’m directly involved in it. Whatever Wilson’s gotten up to in his life, is his story to tell. My curiosity about him shouldn’t be answered by a man wrestling a box for chocolate brownies.
“What’s going on is we’re waiting,” he says, slicing a hole through the cardboard. He jams his hand between the slit, pulling out a twelve-pack of confections. “Fina-fucking-ly.”
He removes one of the treats, tears open the plastic wrapper and jams the whole thing into his mouth.
“You want one?” His voice is muffled by the brownie.
“No, thank you.”
He chews, grunts and breathes heavily while he munches down the treat.
“I understand this has got to be incredibly strange for you. Yesterday you believed Wilson Delaney was your teacher. Today, you believed him to be your lover. Now you find out he’s got himself caught in a web,” the blond man says, using the nail of his pinky to dig out a chunk of the brownie from his teeth.
“I wouldn’t have used you if I didn’t think it would work. But you heard him…”
I didn’t, but I can guess what he said on the phone call.
“He’s coming down here to save you.”
“But why? What has he—”
“No, no,” he raises a finger in the air and shakes it side to side to silence me.
We fall back into silence for a while, although it doesn’t last long before he starts singing Oops.
I Did It Again by Britney Spears. A pang of terror strikes my core.
The first time with Wilson, I let it slide as some strange coincidence.
This time, I can’t. They were both at the Velveteen the day I danced to that song.
“You know, I should actually give you a commendation for your excellent service in the field,” he says, after the horrible rendition of Britney. “Many have tried and many have failed to bring Wilson Delaney to his knees.”
“But why?” I ask. I need to make sense of this. I need to understand what’s going on here and how it affects me.
“Ah, well, I might as well tell you, right? You’re not gonna be doing much talking to him after tonight,” he says. “Wilson Delaney is a lot of things, but what he’s best at is smuggling guns out of the US and into war tor—”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before a loud bang comes from outside. Then another, and a third follows. Gunshots? A burst of machine-gun fire erupts after the first three shots, and a brief silence, then, there’s a fourth and final bang.
“Sorry to cut story time short, Doll-face,” the blond man says.
He tucks his hand into his coat, drawing the same sleek, silver pistol he held in my house from it. He pushes himself off of the pallet of treats and steps towards me.
“I’m going to point this gun at you when he walks through the door. I’m going to hold it to your head and use you as leverage. If you play along, you’ll get to walk out of here alive. If you don’t, well, there’s a shipment of brownies that won’t be seeing the stores.”
I nod.
He grabs me in a mostly loose grip, pressing the barrel of the pistol against my temple.
This whole situation feels surreal. Captured and used to taunt Wilson, but with no real danger involved?
It doesn’t make sense, so I don’t believe a word he says.
I’ve consumed enough media in my life to know he’s just using kind words to get me to do his bidding.
As soon as he’s got Wilson, he’s going to dispose of me…
“Hope?” Wilson shouts my name from somewhere in the warehouse.
“Say, ‘I’m in here’,” he instructs.
I do, but I don’t say it, I scream it. No matter how caring my captor pretends to be, he’s still holding a gun to my head.
“Good girl,” he whispers into my ear.
There’s no sound of scrambling, though I’d appreciate hearing it. No heavy footsteps thunder towards the packed warehouse, nor do I hear the frightful shouting of the man whom I bedded not twelve hours ago.
There’s silence. It settles over the warehouse like a heavy fog.
Alex barely struggles to hold me, because I don’t put up a fight.
He clutches my neck in the crook of his elbow, but like the dead-fish grip he has on the pistol, he’s barely holding me in place.
In some bizarre way, this whole thing feels off.
As if Wilson had his way with me, before getting a few buddies around to break things off before we went any further.
I’m dangerous, he said, but not really.
I know my imaginings are wrong, and I know my situation is definitely serious, given the way Alex’s men left my dad bloody-nosed and broken. I can’t help but find the humor in it. If I don’t laugh, I’ll probably cry, and what good will that do me?
“Okay, Treacle-tart. It’s time to put on your big girl pants,” Alex whispers into my ear. The silence finally breaks with the sound of Wilson approaching.
“Put on some waterworks for me, will ya? Give Willy a show he’ll never forget. Let’s hit this thing home so we can both get on with our lives.”
I don’t reply, nor do I cry. It goes unnoticed by Alex, as Wilson Delaney bursts through a small door onto a raised ledge in the distance, pistol in hand. He waves it in various directions until it lands squarely on my chest.
His face shows a stern calmness that reminds me of the night I flirted with Tom Marshall. He’s pissed, but he’s keeping his emotions in check.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Wilson asks. “Hope, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Willy, old chum, good to see you again,” Alex says. It’s the first time Wilson’s eyes truly face him, but his composure doesn’t break.
“Alex? What?” Wilson takes a few steps off the ledge and approaches Alex and me. The name doesn’t suit him, though I don’t know which really would. “Why?”
“Are you really bothered by the who’s, what’s and why’s of it all? Suppose you would be.”
Wilson waves the gun around, trying to find a lock on his target. Alex shuffles behind me, using me as cover.
“It was all you,” Wilson says as if he has just realized something. “The guns, the bad blood with Manny Ramirez, those pricks at my house… the whole shebang.”
“It was me. ‘Gotta say, I thought you’d come in here a touch more beaten up. Don’t hire yokels to do a man’s job, am I right?” Alex chuckles.
“Why?”
“You’ve served your purpose and run a strong ship, but it’s time for a new captain,” Alex says.
Wilson walks closer to us until he’s only a few feet away. The threat of guns isn’t scaring him, but I suppose he’s got his own in hand. I suspect there’s more to his and Alex’s relationship than just gunning one another down without some explanation about whatever the hell is going on.
“What’s the end game?” Wilson’s voice is cold as ice.
“I hear Manny Ramirez has a mighty high price on your head. A cool ten million bones if I bring you in alive. Decent seed capital for the new face of the weapons smuggling, don’t you think?”
I don’t have to see Alex’s face to know he’s smiling.
“Hell, I might even make a good friend in Manny by turning on my oldest ally. It’ll be damn fine for business.”
Wilson goes quiet for a moment. While Alex speaks, there’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it twitch on his face that reveals the sadness behind the betrayal.
“You’re the reason I’ve been stuck in this fucking town?” Wilson says. “Sure as shit some good’s come out of it with Hope, but the good Lord knows it’s going to be nice walking through the hot sands of Miami Beach in a couple of days.”
“How do you figure?” Alex asks, snapping his wrist sideways to point the gun at Wilson. “The way I see it, I’m holding all the cards. How about you chuck your gun to the side, huh?”
Wilson obliges. He throws the gun somewhere between the crates of supplies scattered around the warehouse. He presses the knuckles of his fists into his jaw, cracking his neck from side to side.
Damn, he looks hot. Even now, with nothing and no one in his corner, I still feel he’s got the upper hand.
Maybe, it’s because I can help him.
“You had the whole world in the palm of your hands, and look at you now,” Alex says. “Strung out for some bitch—”
Before Alex has time to finish his mockery of me, I move.
With the loose grip of his forearm around my throat, I have enough room to throw my weight against his gun-wielding hand.
It’s not much of an assault, and he grabs my hair, yanking my head backward and sending me flying.
I stumble into a pallet of goods, but not before I see Wilson’s enormous frame tackling Alex to the ground.
The gun slips from Alex’s hand, and I land on top of it, as Wilson starts delivering blow after blow.
Alex does his best to fight back, lifting his hands to cover his head, and swinging viciously at any opportunity he gets.
Alex lands a few hits on Wilson in the kidneys and ribs, winding him only momentarily.
“You son of a bitch,” Wilson shouts, continuing his strikes. He accepts the walloping Alex delivers, but the blows mostly go unfelt. White-hot rage and adrenaline keep Wilson in the fight.
I’m lying on the ground, not a few feet from the men. Alex is doing his best to wrestle Wilson off the top of him, but his strength is waning. The more Wilson drives brutal punches into his jaw, the less fight Alex has left.
“Wilson,” I try to catch his attention. It goes unnoticed. “Wilson, stop! You’re going to kill him.” This time I shout it.
Wilson presses two flat palms around Alex’s throat, restricting his airflow.
“Trust me, Hope, this is the best way,” Wilson says. “This piece of shit doesn’t deserve the air he breathes.”
“No, Wilson, stop,” I say, launching to my feet. “Don’t kill him. We can use him.”
“Use him?” Wilson turns to me over his shoulder. I can’t tell if he’s released Alex’s throat or not. He doesn’t focus on me long before his full attention goes back to Alex.
While the two men were speaking, I did my best to follow along and piece together whatever was going on.
Wilson’s found himself in a dangerous situation with whoever this Manny Ramirez is.
The best way to clear his name with Manny is by using Alex as the truth.
Otherwise, Wilson will be stuck looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life.
“If you kill him, there’s no one to corroborate your side of the story,” I say. “Keep him alive, for now, to clear your name with Manny Ramirez.”
I raise the gun to point it at Alex over Wilson’s shoulder.
“You said it yourself, you can’t make it in this world without making a few enemies and using them as stepping stones,” I say.
As much as I enjoyed tempting Wilson during our nightly classes, I did listen to everything he said.
I hung on every goddammed word. “This is your chance to turn a stepping stone into a valuable asset.”
“Huh! I like that,” Wilson says, as he finally releases Alex’s throat and gets to his feet. He takes the pistol from my hands and fixes it squarely on his enemy’s chest.
Alex is lying on the floor, writhing in agony from the beating he’d taken. Even in the dimly lit warehouse, I can see a puddle of blood forming around him from a broken nose and knocked-out teeth.
“So, the student becomes the teacher. Isn’t it a little clichéd?” Wilson asks. He forces a chuckle out, I suppose to calm my nerves, but the seriousness never leaves his face.
“I had one hell of a fine professor. Taught me some good life lessons,” I say smugly.
“Then let’s get this piece of shit out of here and finish this bad blood,” Wilson’s tone turns hard again.
And that’s what we do.
We bind Alex’s hands with the duct tape that’s sitting on one of the pallets, grab his phone from his pocket, search him for guns, and throw him into the back of Wilson’s trunk.
On the road, Wilson calls Manny Ramirez, and after a brief conversation, it turns out that Manny’s in town, waiting for Wilson’s head to be delivered.
“I’ve got something much better for you, Mr. Ramirez,” Wilson says, giving him a location to meet on the bank of the Tennessee River. “Then, I’m sure we can get back to business as usual in a matter of days.”
“I’ll be there in an hour. You better not be fucking with me,” says Manny Ramirez before killing the call. “I’ve had enough run-around games for one lifetime.”