Chapter 3 Sad Little Boy
THREE
SAD LITTLE BOY
LYLA
Welp, I didn’t expect this.
With my eyes still closed, I try to get my bearings without drawing attention. All right, I’m in a chair, arms tied in the back. Not the worst position, to be honest. Shuffling reaches my ears so someone must be in the room with me.
Okay, Lyla. What was the last thing you remember?
We were about to pull up to the jail, the assholes stopped the bus, got out, huddled, and discussed something. Shotgun Guy gestured widely, but then they all shook hands. Shotgun Guy came back on the bus, and by the throbbing in my head, he must have knocked me out with the butt of his rifle.
Sweet. All right. But where am I?
“The big man’s not gonna like this,” a familiar male voice mutters.
I can make out the press of the button as something clicks into motion. Suddenly the room fills with the opening chords of “Susie Q.”
What is it with psychos and CCR?
Wait.
What does he mean the big man isn’t going to like this?
I swear, if I’m not in front of da Vinci right now, I’m going to—
Suddenly I can feel the ends of my hair being played with while another hand brushes the strays away from my damp skin. I keep my head loose, lolling it forward, pretending to be lost in the oblivion of unconsciousness.
One thing at a time, Lyla. Get free, subdue whoever is touching me, figure out where I am, and then get back on track. Cool.
Calloused fingers grip my chin, shifting my head up.
“Time to wake up, sugar.” A thumb strokes the curve of my jaw. “We’ve got a lot to do . . . and not a lot of time to do it.”
The music plays on, guitar thrumming, the guttural vocals echoing against the walls.
Steady, girl. You’ll get your chance. You just need to—
All thoughts leave my mind as a warm tongue drags up the side of my face. My body jerks, my eyes blow open.
This motherfu—
Shotgun Guy’s grip tightens on my chin. “Shh.” He slaps a strip of duct tape over my mouth before I can make a sound, smoothing it down.
“There we go.” His voice drops to a purr. “That’s a good girl.”
I thrash, trying to yank my head away.
“Let’s get to know each other before all the fun begins, yeah?” He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Just pretend this is a first date.”
First date, my ass.
He leans back into his chair, watching. Waiting.
I jerk my arms, muscles straining against the ropes. Again. And again. The sound of fibers creaking under pressure fills the air, giving me a moment to assess the room.
No windows. The only light is coming from a lantern next to the metal door. Four cement walls. So we must be in the isolation wing. A boom box is on the floor next to the lone worktable, which is covered with various blades and tools.
And no da Vinci.
Great. I love that for me.
“You can keep trying,” he taps my knife against his thigh, “but it’s no use.” His grin widens, sharp and taunting. “Many before you tried. Many fought. Many cried.” He drags a finger across his throat. “Guess how that ended?”
Oh, right. I should be frightened right now.
My chest rises and falls too fast, creating the sound of muffled whimpers seeping through the duct tape. My movements turning desperate. Oh no! I’m a scared little woman. Please don’t hurt me, mister. Pfft.
He motions toward me with the tip of the knife.
“Name’s Lars,” he says, voice dripping with false warmth.
He twirls the blade between his fingers, letting the light catch the metal.
“I’ll be your torturer for the day. Please keep all hands and arms inside the ride at all times.
Feel free to scream, cry, and beg for mercy, but do keep in mind .
. .” He pauses, leaning down so his breath ghosts along the side of my neck.
“We are severely understaffed and won’t be able to promptly address your complaints. ”
Do not roll your eyes. Do not roll your eyes. Do. Not. Roll. Your. Eyes.
“I’m going to make you beg,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping over the worktable.
No, honey. I’m going to make you beg.
My eye catches on a rusty filleting knife.
His eyes turn back to me, raking over my body.
Gross.
“We’re going to take our time.” His voice thickens with hunger. “Because I deserve this. This world—this beautiful, broken world—was made for people like me. And people like you?” He tilts his head. “You exist to serve us. That’s your only purpose now.”
He stands and walks over to the table, his back to me.
Rookie mistake.
“You should count yourself lucky.” He chuckles as his hand hovers over a bowie knife and a hacksaw.
“If I’d given you to da Vinci, you would have pleaded for me.
He’s a true artist of pain.” He trails his fingers over the hacksaw.
“He doesn’t just kill—he creates. Every scream, every drop of blood, orchestrated. A masterpiece of agony.”
Oh trust me, Lars, I know exactly who he is.
I whimper, covering up the sound of my movements and the quiet pop of my thumb.
The rope falls from my wrists.
His hand grips the saw. “And you? You would’ve been his greatest work yet. Trust me, sugar, you wouldn’t have survived an hour.”
He turns around and freezes when he sees me standing right in front of him. His eyes widen as I pull the duct tape off my mouth.
“Boo.” I smile and before he can react I snatch the filleting knife from the table and drive it up through his jaw, lodging it deep into the roof of his mouth.
A scream tears from Lars’s throat but dies before it can escape, choked by the blade.
He drops to his knees. Blood bubbles past his lips and flows down the hilt onto my hand. His hands fly to his jaw, to the foreign metal stabbing through flesh, but before he can even attempt to pull it out, I twist the handle.
A fresh bolt of agony detonates behind his eyes. His vision darkens at the edges, body spasming, hands clawing at my grip, desperate to pry me away, but I hold true. My fingers tangle in his hair, wrenching his head back, forcing him to look at me and see my satisfaction.
My mouth curves. I lean in close so that our noses touch. “Stop. Talking.”
Then I rip the knife free.
A guttural roar bursts from his shredded mouth, a fresh spray of blood splattering down his chin and across his hands as he clutches at the wound.
Before he can get up, I yank his head forward, slamming it against the table.
His limbs go limp, heavy, useless. My boots smear the puddles of blood on the floor.
My breath ghosts over his ear. “Nighty-night, sweetheart.”
I slam his head against the table one more time, knocking him unconscious.
I glare at the crumpled heap of filth sprawled on the floor, his unconscious body slack, his face half-buried in his own blood.
Well, I feel much better.
I pop my left thumb back into place and rub the joint. I’m lucky he didn’t tie the ropes so tight that I couldn’t slip my hand out. A fun little trick I picked up at the academy.
Deep breath, Lyla. Focus. Need to rearrange the order of the plan. But real quick—
I kneel, my fingers curling around his ankle. He’s nothing but dead weight as I drag him across the floor. His limp body thuds against the stained concrete, a sick, rhythmic sound that feeds my fury. Each impact is a small burst of satisfaction.
A smirk tugs at my lips.
I tighten my grip, yanking him harder, watching his head loll to the side. I hoist him up and slam his ass into the chair, his weight settling with a sickly squelch.
Let’s see how smug you are when you wake up, asshole.
I yank the ropes tight, each knot cinching down, unyielding, cruel.
His wrists, his ankles, his chest—bound so tight his circulation will give before I leave.
For good measure, I grab the roll of duct tape.
A sharp, satisfying rip. The sound alone makes my lips twitch.
I wrap it around his mouth, yanking it behind his head, locking it in place. His face tilts at an unnatural angle.
I step back, arms crossed, studying my work.
Not bad.
One glance at my watch. One hour down. Thirty minutes to go.
Okay. This is doable. I was hoping to take out da Vinci first and then get the hostages, but that won’t work now. All right, switch the order and hope to God this works better.
Fingers crossed.
I stride forward.
Crack. My palm smacks across his face, sharp and loud, in the silence.
“Hey!”
No response.
Crack. Harder this time. “Wake up, dipshit.”
A twitch. A flutter. His eyes flutter open—glassy, unfocused, lost.
Then recognition.
Then fury.
He thrashes, muscles jerking, the chair creaking beneath his weight. A trapped animal, rabid and useless.
Muffled screams pour from behind the tape, his rage a pathetic, garbled mess.
I chuckle, low and dark, leaning in until my face hovers just inches from his. “You can try,” I taunt, throwing his own smug words back at him, “but it’s no use.”
His eyes snap to mine, blazing.
I grip his jaw, fingers digging into bruised, bloodied skin. Hard enough to make him squirm, to remind him exactly who’s in control. “What a sad little boy you are,” I murmur, my voice laced with contempt. His body tenses, muscles bunching like a coiled spring. But he can’t do shit. Not anymore.
I lean in, my lips brushing his ear, my breath a whisper of heat. “Men like you,” I murmur, “never take it well when a woman proves she’s better.”
His muffled roar vibrates against the tape, furious and pathetic.
“I’ve been watching you,” I continue, voice smooth, lethal. “Your gang. Your routines. Your weaknesses. Every mistake. Every blind spot. This wasn’t luck.”
His thrashing pauses. The cornered rat finally recognizes the trap.
“This,” I say, razor-sharp, final, “has been coming for a long time. You didn’t catch me.” I lean back, watching the truth dawn in his wild, desperate eyes. “I caught you.”
I release his jaw, stepping back, letting the weight of my words sink into his bones. “Before all this, I’d have put scum like you behind bars.” A wicked smile breaks across my face. “But there’s no law anymore.”
His breathing stutters.
I grin, feral, unyielding. “So I’ve invited some hungry friends.” I flick his nose as his face drains of color.
“And they’re just dying to meet you.”
He thrashes harder, the chair rattling against the floor, but there’s no escape.
“I’d love to stay,” I murmur, voice dripping with mock regret. “Watch them tear you apart piece by piece. See how long you last before you stop screaming.” I tilt my head, studying his sweat-slicked face. His wild, bloodshot eyes plead with me. “But I’ve got a date with your boss.”
His muffled scream rips through the gag. Desperation pours off him, thick and frantic. He bucks against the chair, the wood groaning under his weight, his wrists straining against the ropes.
“Wish me luck, sugar.”
His body shudders violently. Panic claws at the air between us, but I’m already turning away, already making my way to the table where his little collection of horrors gleams beneath the dim lantern light.
My drop-point knife sits among them. Hello, beautiful. I grab it, securing the sheath to my thigh.
Then my gaze flicks across the rest. Knives. Blades of every shape and size, each one kissed by rust and old blood. I pocket six and then my eyes catch on the real prize.
His shotgun.
Polished wood. Oiled steel. A true beauty. I pick it up, flipping it open. Two shells. Not enough. I scan the room. Come on, come on . . . bingo. A small bag near the workbench, tossed aside like an afterthought. I kneel, unzip it, and grin. Two whole boxes of shells.
Praise all that is holy.
Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I move to the cell door, pressing my back against the cool metal as I ease it open just enough to peek into the hallway.
Candles line the hall, their light shining weakly, painting the stained walls and cracked floor with nervous shadows.
Empty.
My pulse ticks faster, every second stretching thin, each breath a countdown. Time isn’t on my side. If I hesitate, I lose my shot.
Behind me, his muffled screams reach a fever pitch even muffled under the tape.
I glance over my shoulder to see his entire body trembling, veins bulging in his neck, eyes wide with sheer, unfiltered terror. A dark stain spreads across his pants, fear soaking through the fabric.
I cock my head, clicking my tongue in mock sympathy.
“Poor baby.”
His panic intensifies, head shaking frantically, muffled wails breaking into choking sobs.
I toss him a lazy salute.
“Try not to scream too loud,” I murmur, stepping into the hall, leaving the door wide open.