Chapter 67
Slade
Six million, seven hundred and ninety-three thousand dollars.
That’s the current auction bid.
These sick, heinous assholes are getting off on watching me follow Randolph’s orders.
I don’t know where Len and her team are. Or the FBI. Or Bane. Or why they haven’t intervened yet.
A huge part of me is trying to panic, thinking that Bane is dead, along with the rest of them. But I kill that emotion and bury it with the others.
It’s up to me to get Pix and me out of this.
And I will.
Pix’s coughs are weaker. She’s lying flat on her back, unable to effectively cough up the water I’ve made her inhale.
“Let’s switch tactics, pet,” Randolph says, and I repress the hate that wants to break free of its confines and rush forth. “Get the larger knife from the pocket of the bag.”
With my heart thundering loudly, I comply. I pause, though, when I look inside the bag. The handcuff keys are sitting right there beside the knife.
Grabbing both, I stand back up and keep my eyes on Pix.
She’s an alarming shade of pale.
“She’s going to drown with that soaked gag in her mouth,” I say flatly, without a speck of emotion.
Randolph tuts, but he undoes the gag. “Can’t have that, can we? At least…not yet.” Relief fills me as Pix coughs more deeply and turns her head to spit up some of the water. “Did Antwane tell you anything about his plans?”
“No.”
I wait with bated breath, hoping he’ll finally confess so this can end.
“There were others before you. In this game between him and me, he always tried to beat me. Constantly trying to best me.” There’s a sneer in his voice. “Claiming his method of training the pets, our lethal dogs”—he chuckles—“was better than mine.”
I shake, but remain motionless and emotionless. I’ve never been so thankful for my ability to repress my emotions than in this moment.
“Can you believe that, pet?” Randolph grips my chin, turning my head to make me look at him. He studies my face—stoic and expressionless. “He claimed you’d be his greatest accomplishment. He was so certain he’d break you, yet you fought him until you broke free and killed him.”
Flashes of Antwane’s death—of me stabbing and slashing him over and over again—fill my head.
The screams and images of the Numbers don’t come, though. It's as if the Numbers are no longer here to torment me, but to stand with me as I end the ones who had a role in our torment.
Randolph closes my hand around the handle of the knife, and the handle jabs the handcuff key into my palm. “Kill her.”
“How does the international network work?”
He steps closer and hisses into my ear, “You’re making me look bad. Weak.”
Another voice cuts into my ear via my comms. It’s not Len or Bane, but Ryn. “Keep him talking, Slade. We’re breaching soon.”
But I don’t want the authorities to swoop in and take Randolph into custody. To let him keep breathing. He’s rich and powerful, connected. He’ll likely not face a minute of jail time, and he needs to be put down.
Then I hear Bane’s voice. “I’m almost there, baby. Do whatever you need to do.”
Relief fills me that he isn’t dead, even though I can hear the pain in his voice.
I will do whatever I need to do, but doing so in front of the laptop streaming my ‘training session,’ plus over Len’s team broadcasting this won’t end well for me.
But I had noticed during my quick scan of the back office, where we got the jug of water, that it didn’t have any cameras. It will be the perfect place to end Randolph.
I just need him to take me there. He won’t like me challenging him in front of those participating in the auction, so I turn my head, our noses almost touching.
“Fuck you,” I say quietly, with enough emotion leaking into those two words to have him rearing back.
“That’s not how this works,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Then show me,” I challenge.
His nostrils flare in anger because, to him, I’m nothing but a dog to train, and he’s used to getting everything he wants. Then he schools his face and turns to the laptop. “I need a moment to talk with our pet.”
While he continues to speak to those on the auction, giving enough details to hang him and them in the process, I position my body so the movements are blocked from view.
Laying the knife on the table, I quickly unlock one of Pix’s cuffed hands and put the key on the table.
It’s all I dare to do; Pix will have to unlock her other hand and untie her ankles.
Our eyes meet—she knows what I’m about to attempt.
She mouths, ‘You can do this, sister.’
Picking up the knife again, I turn my back on her and face Randolph. He takes the knife from me and grips my upper arm, hauling me to the office.
Once we’re inside, I face him.
When I’m through with you, Randolph, you won’t be recognizable.