Chapter Thirteen
Phoenix
I’m completely disoriented when I wake. I hadn’t even been aware I was sleeping and I have no idea how long I’d been asleep for. I just know that I’m now awake and the thing that woke me is multiple very loud voices coming from one of the other rooms outside the locked bedroom Jackson and I are stuck in.
When my eyes focus, I find myself staring at the peacefully sleeping face of Jackson, mere inches away from me. Jesus, we must’ve both fallen asleep while we’d been gorging ourselves on the sight of each other and rambling on about whatever inconsequential shit popped in our heads.
I didn’t tell Jackson about my finger. About the way Blond Guy so ruthlessly and coldly casually chopped the tip of it off.
I’m not really sure why. I’m not ashamed of the injury. I’m not even embarrassed about the way I screamed and passed out because of it.
I just... I don’t know why I kept the information to myself. Maybe... Maybe I didn’t want Jackson feeling any sort of guilt over the fact that I was injured and there was nothing he could’ve done to prevent it. Logically, there’s no reason for him to feel guilty. I certainly don’t blame him or hold any sort of resentment or anger that he was locked away in an entirely separate room when it happened. But logic often has very little to do with guilt. Fuck knows I’d feel a heaping pile of guilt if the situations had been reversed and Jackson was the one who’d gotten hurt while I’d done nothing to protect him.
At any rate, the news of my mangled finger is something I shouldn’t have any difficulty keeping to myself for the time being. Even though all Could’ve Been a Model did was slather some antibiotic goop on it and slap a bandage on it, it actually isn’t bothering me too much. It aches, sure. But only with a throbbing faint soreness, like a toothache. In my finger. Which means there’s plenty of time to tell Jackson about it once he’s out of his box and we’re on our way to safety. When he’ll hopefully have plenty of other things to concern himself about other than one little, measly, violently shortened finger.
The voices are getting quite loud now. I’m not sure how in the world Jackson is still sleeping with what sounds like a very heated argument going on just a door or two away from where we are. I take one more fond and avidly greedy glance at him, then reluctantly disengage my right hand from his—we’d somehow managed to fall asleep with our hands still pressed together—and roll over away from him.
I cautiously approach the closed door, expecting any one of the kidnappers to burst in at any moment. And while my exposure to that burningly cold, calmly measured voice has been limited, I definitely recognize the barely constrained fury in Blond Guy’s voice. Even with a door between me and it, I have to muster my limited courage to keep from fleeing across the room, away from that voice, to hide behind the dubious concealment of Jackson’s box.
“Am I to understand…Silva still has yet to show?”
What’s this? Curious, and desperate over the thought that I might be about to overhear news of some sort of trouble in kidnapping paradise, I lightly rest the side of my face against the scratchy wooden surface of the door and try to stifle the sound of my own breathing so I don’t miss anything else my kidnappers have to say.
“And you just now thought to bring this news to my attention?”
Oh, yes. Blond Guy is definitely not pleased. I’m half happy that he’s not happy and half terrified that he’ll somehow take his displeasure out on me or Jackson.
“Hadn’t really thought it was anything to be concerned about, Mueller,” a voice that sounds like Tattooed American Guy replies. “Not until far too many hours had passed. Too many hours that couldn’t be accounted for with just his task of distracting and laying red herrings for the cops that were sniffing around our old home base that is.”
“The minute, the minute , Silva failed to show by the designated time, I should’ve immediately been told," Blond Guy snaps. “That is not the sort of professionalism I—"
“We are professionals, Mueller. This is not the first time we’ve all worked together," Could’ve Been a Model interrupts. I have to give the woman credit—she has bigger balls than I do. Blond Guy sounds about two seconds away from whipping out his knife again and using it on one of them this time. “We trusted that Silva was doing what he was supposed to be doing. The fact he’s not here now…”
“For his sake, he’d better have been picked up by the police. They’re about the only thing that’ll be standing between him and a permanent retirement—six feet under—from his erstwhile employment.”
The sound of several pairs of footsteps loudly clomping around—one of which sounds as if it’s coming this way—has me scurrying away from the door before I can be found pressed up against it and listening in on their conversation. So, I miss most of what Blond Guy says next, although I do manage to catch a few words, like “contacts”, “monitor account”, and “find Silva”.
“Phoenix?”
Normally, I’d be happy to hear Jackson—now, clearly awake—saying my name. But not right now. Not when there are several agitated kidnappers just in the other room and one of them is most definitely headed our way. Accompanied by the rasping scrape of a key being inserted into whatever lock was securing our door, I shush him.
“Shh. Quiet, sweetheart. Can you… It might be better if you pretend to still be asleep,” I suggest. “Can you do that for me?”
Jackson sounds confused. Not that I can blame him. But he quickly agrees without asking any unnecessary questions. Jesus, I wish I had the time to do more than scramble over to the far corner of the room and fling myself down onto the floor, curling up in a small ball, as Jackson pleads with a worried voice, “Be careful, okay?”
But all I can spare to reassure him is a hurried, “I will. Promise.”
I’m not sure if I’m relieved that it’s Could’ve Been a Model that enters our room or not. On the one hand, she did treat the injury I got from Blond Guy. But that might’ve only been because Blond Guy had ordered her to do so. She certainly didn’t exude any sort of friendliness or sympathy otherwise.
Yeah, not at all friendly or sympathetic; a conclusion that’s only reinforced by the disdainful sneer she aims my direction once her eyes find where I’ve taken up position.
“Makes my heart sing to see a selfish, spoiled co?o like you reduced to...a sniveling, cowering dog.“ Her tone is all smug satisfaction seeing me huddling on a cracked, filthy floor. I don’t know what she just called me, but I don’t doubt that it’s an insult.
At least, to my great relief, she doesn’t seem to pay Jackson or his box any sort of attention. I’m not sure if she’s assuming that he’s asleep or unconscious, or if she figures there’s nothing he can do against her from within the secured confinement of his box. I’m good with either, as long as it means she continues to leave him alone.
I’d already recorded the video they wanted with Tattooed American Guy and emailed it to my dad, and she doesn’t have anything, like food or medical supplies, with her, so I’m a bit curious why she’s even in here. Although as she slams the door shut behind her and begins to pace and wave her arms around, it seems like she might just be in this room so that she could loudly and irately rant about her dissatisfaction over how my kidnapping is progressing.
“...cannot believe that rat-ass coward Silva scuttled off that way. Just ducking out on us? On our partnership? Although, let’s face it, he was only ever brought on to do all the on-the-ground, grunt work. And then...then... That emotionless, stick-in-his-ass Mueller has the balls, the ice cube balls , to dare insinuate that it’s somehow our fault that fucking Silva pulled a disappearing act? Such bullshit!”
Ouch. It has to hurt, how hard Could’ve Been a Model punches the wall. The wall might look as though a stiff sneeze could blow it over, but it is still a goddamn actual fucking wall. But she doesn’t even flinch, not the way I do, when she twists her torso and throws a sudden, solid right cross to the wall beside the door.
Jackson is doing a good job listening to me and keeping quiet, but even he can’t stem the whimper of surprise and worry that escapes him. I heard it, even with the several feet I’ve left between me and his box. But Could’ve Been a Model is too much on a roll with her vociferous complaining for her ears to have caught Jackson’s reaction.
“And Silva’s leaving isn’t even the first issue this whole clusterfuck of an operation has had,” she continues. “With all the shit luck and unanticipated delays... Now, the police are swarming like the vermin they are all over the neighborhood where our supposedly safe and secure headquarters was situated. Not to mention, I have no idea what the fuck Mueller was thinking with this whole...” To my dismay, Could’ve Been a Model turns to face Jackson’s box and waves at it while saying, “I don’t know why he was ever part of the plan at all. That was all Mueller’s idea. ‘Keep the rich boy happy,’ he says. ‘Give him a friend to keep him calm and cooperate.’ Stupid, complicated, and unnecessary bullshit, I tell you. Just bullshit.”
I’m not happy to have her attention swing to me, not with as angry and crazed as the look in her eyes is as she turns to me. But I am relieved that her attention has shifted off my Jackson.
“And now he has us messing around with making videos and sending follow-up emails, like we’re fucking arranging for a playdate...”
The fact that she’s in this room with us and speaking in English so I can understand everything she’s saying... If that hadn’t been enough to tell me that she wants me to dump all of her anger on me, her next words would’ve clued me in.
“Would you like to know how things would’ve been different if I’d been the one in charge of this shitshow that Mueller still somehow thinks is a kidnapping operation?” There’s nowhere else for me to go, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to merge my body with the wall behind me as Could’ve Been a Model takes several slow, deliberate steps toward me.
Looming over me, seeming larger than she actually is, she reaches out but, thankfully, her hand stops just short before touching me. Nonsensically, I can’t help but think that the touch of her skin would somehow be magically deadly, like a poisonous viper.
“First, I would’ve sent a more… physical message to your parents to inform them of their mistake in not paying closer attention to our initial ransom demands. It’s easier than you may think to send an ear, or a toe, or…a what-have-you through the mail. All you have to do is package it up in some reused Amazon box and fill out that the contents contain novelty party decorations on the customs shipping form. And secondly…“ A cruel, bloodless smile stretches the lush, full lips on her incongruously perfect and stunningly attractive face. “I never would’ve allowed the inclusion of the pointless deadweight over there,” she states, obviously referring to my Jackson. And while I take exception to her description of him, it seems in my best interests to not vocalize it. “But if I’d let Mueller have his way the way he did, I most certainly would’ve eliminated that same unnecessary idiot as swiftly and expediently as possible the very instance he was no longer needed. I don’t care that you somehow convinced Mueller that a little extra money”—sure, let’s go with the idea that $2 million, or some $500,000 once split four ways, which is the amount I negotiated for Jackson’s ransom, is only a pittance—“ was worth the hassle of keeping that bit of human trash around. As far as I’m concerned, the man in that box over there should be nothing but a bit of meat feeding whatever stray dogs that stumble across his body.”
The terror I feel when I see her casually reach into a pocket and pull out a gun… It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Nothing has ever come close to it, not even the fear I’d experienced when Brazilian Guy had held a gun to my own head. Because, somehow, I know…I know that gun isn’t for me. I’m still worth a hefty-ass payday, delayed as it may be, and there’s not as much chance that Could’ve Been a Model is going to risk upsetting that payoff by putting a gunshot hole or two in me. But Jackson… She’s already shown that she has no compunction about eliminating him.
I’m therefore not at all surprised when she calmly states, “But it’s not too late to rectify that situation. I can just as easily dump a random dead body in the closest refuse pile to this location as I could’ve to the last. One thing I will say for Mueller, no matter what city we set up shop in, he does know how to pick which neighborhoods are full of people who won’t give a shit, or open their traps to the cops, if they happen to see somebody dumping something of the…corpse variety.”
I don’t think I think at all as she turns her back on me and begins advancing with her drawn weapon toward Jackson’s box. I just move.
“Not a fucking chance, bitch,” I mutter as I launch myself out of my crouched position in the corner.
Any football playing experience I have is from phys ed class, well over a decade ago, at the elite private high school I attended. But fuck if I didn’t execute an impressive flat-out tackle on that fucking bitch threatening my Jackson.
Yells and grunts fill the air as I land heavily on top of her, along with a loud, cracking thwack as her head collides with the corner of Jackson’s wooden box.
“Phoenix! What’s going on? Phoenix?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t spare even a second to reassure Jackson that I’m fine. Especially as I don’t want to lie to him and I’m not entirely sure that I am fine. Not yet anyway.
I sure as hell hadn’t formulated any sort of plan, other than doing whatever it took to prevent her from shooting my Jackson. So, now that she’s down, I’m quickly scrambling to figure out what the fuck I should do now.
I’m still sprawled out on top of her and I can feel the movement of her breaths, so I know she didn’t hit her head hard enough to kill her. Luckily, though, whacking her head against the solid corner of the box seems to have incapacitated her. At least, for now. No telling how long that would last or just how down for the count she is. Indeed, even as I have that thought, a low, pained groan comes tumbling out of her.
Shit, fuck, damn.
It occurs to me that I should probably figure out where the hell her gun landed when I took her down. I really don’t want her getting her hands back on the fucking gun.
My eyes quickly scan the floor near where Could’ve Been a Model and I ended up and I spot the black metal of the weapon lying a foot or so past the stretch of her right arm. Should I remain on top of her to try to prevent her from getting up, or move to get my own hands on the gun?
The decision gets easier when she heaves and starts to roll beneath me. We’re much the same size and Could’ve Been a Model looks like she works out and is as physically fit as I am, so it probably wouldn’t take much effort for her to dislodge me from on top of her.
I fling my body to the right, in the direction of the gun.
Meanwhile, Jackson’s voice is continuing to call my name and beg me to tell him what’s going on. No doubt he can hear me and Could’ve Been a Model flailing and fumbling around, but this side of the box is more solid than the one with the hole he and I had looked at each other through last night and doesn’t have any good spots for him to look through to find out for himself what’s happening.
“Phoenix! Phoenix! God, what’s going on? Are you okay? Talk to me, Phoenix!”
My fingertips graze the gun’s grip when I feel strong fingers pinching and grabbing near my waist.
“Oh no, you don’t, you stupid fucking co?o,” she cries. And now, she’s the one clambering on top of me.
I can’t let her gain control of the situation. I just can’t. It would definitely prove to be fatal for Jackson and, with as pissed off as she is now, quite probably for me as well.
Wrenching my left leg free from the weight of her body, I pull it up and then kick out as hard as I can. Lying face down on the floor, I can’t see what part of her anatomy I make contact with, but whatever I hit, it hurts her enough to cause her to shriek with pain and her hands to fall away from grabbing at me. I kick at her one, two more times, and then…
Now what?
I could go to reach for the gun again, but that gives Could’ve Been a Model the chance to recover from her surprise and pain and launch another attack at me. And while it sounded like Blond Guy and Tattooed American Guy were on their way out, I have no way of knowing whether or not one or both of them are somewhere just outside this bedroom. The sounds of our struggle and Jackson’s yelling haven’t brought them running in, but if they are somewhere else inside this apartment, or even just nearby, could I really chance firing off a gunshot?
A split-second decision has me clambering onto my hands and knees, turning around, and flinging myself back on top of Could’ve Been a Model, who is laying on the floor, her arms cradled across her stomach.
There’s a trickle of blood smeared across her forehead, presumably from her head colliding with the side of Jackson’s box. Some hitherto unknown portion of my brain latches onto that sign of injury and prompts me to ball my right hand into a fist and send it driving hard into the wound.
“Bastardo! Stop! Stop!”
I ignore her screamed insult that, even with little to no knowledge of Spanish, I have little difficulty translating into English. I’m also not about to comply with her demands to stop hitting her. It’s not really my normal habit to go around hitting people and I’ve been thoroughly culturally indoctrinated with the idea that a man should never hit a woman, but goddamn it, this is fucking life and death right now. If not my own, then definitely Jackson’s.
So, I hit her again. And again.
Until my hand is liberally streaked with her blood and her yelling is nothing more than muttered nonsensical babbling. I pause my strikes, keeping my fist raised and at the ready just in case I need to send it flying at her head again, and take in the way her eyes are unfocussed and her body seems lax beneath me while her head lolls listlessly.
I could stop. It doesn’t appear as though Could’ve Been a Model is going to be a threat to me or Jackson again any time in the near future. But…
Can I really take that chance?
What if she’s just faking?
What if she recovers quicker than I anticipate?
What if… Jesus, I’m not even sure what my next moves should be, now that I’ve physically incapacitated one of our kidnappers, right after she stated her intention to kill Jackson and dump his body. Can I really just leave things how they are now? With her in a state where she could still pose a threat before I have the opportunity to figure out what to do and how to keep Jackson and myself safe?
I’m not a monster.
I’m not like my kidnappers. The three men and one woman who’ve played around with my life—with Jackson’s life—with seemingly no human consideration.
I’m not like Could’ve Been a Model, who seemed completely unperturbed about the idea of taking somebody’s life.
I’m not.
I’m not a monster.
But when it’s us or her… It’s surprisingly easy for me to bring my hands up to her neck and wrap them around it.
I’ve completely forgotten all about my injured finger with all the adrenaline flowing through my veins. But squeezing, squeezing, squeezing my hands around her neck sends a shooting flare of pain lancing down from my finger, through my left hand, and on up into my arm.
“Jesus motherfucking Christ.” The profanity spews out of me as I snatch my left hand away from her neck.
Shit. I can’t…I can’t let a little pain—or, fuck it, a lot of pain—hold me back from doing this. I can’t.
My breath huffs out of me in shallow pants as I quickly run through my options.
“Phoenix? What’s going on? Please. I need to know. Phoenix?”
I try to sound as convincing as possible as I lie, “Everything’s fine, sweetheart. I promise.” Before Jackson can ask me any more questions we don’t have time for, I adopt a cheerful tone as I tell him, “Guess what? I think… Give me a little more time, and I think we’re going to get out of here. Okay?”
“Out? What are you… Phoenix? What’s going on? I know Rodriguez was in the room with us and I heard everything she said. What’s… Where’s Rodriguez? What did you do, Phoenix?”
My hands aren’t going to be enough. I don’t trust myself to be able to ignore the pain in my left long enough, or for the strength in the injured hand to hold out long enough, to finish with what I need to. Laying my left forearm across the vulnerable area of the base of Could’ve Been a Model’s throat, I then grip onto my left wrist with my right hand and put all the force of that arm behind pressing down on her neck.
“Just…a little. More. Time. Babe. Patience, m’kay?” The strain of choking the life out of someone makes my words a bit labored, but I still do my best to reassure Jackson. If he could spare me just a few more minutes of trust that I’m doing my best to save us…
I try to count the thundering beats of my heart to judge just how long I’ve been pressing down on her neck. I need to make sure… If I let up too soon… Fuck, if she was pissed at me before, that’s nothing to how pissed she’ll be if she recovers because I don’t actually kill her.
I press and press my forearm into her neck. Until there’s not a single, solitary twitch or flutter of her of eyelids. Until there’s no more up and down motion of her chest as she breathes. Until her body is limp and lifeless underneath me.
And then I press down for a minute or two…or five…more.
When I’m all but absolutely, positively certain that I’ve successfully killed her, I cautiously let up and slowly pull my arm back.
And I wait. Watchful. Distrustful. Ready to relaunch my attack and go back to choking her if she makes any sort of movement whatsoever. For any hint of oxygen being sucked back into her lungs. Any sign at all that there’s still life flowing through her veins.
But…nothing. There’s nothing.
She’s…dead. She’s dead.
I killed her.
It’s done.
She’s dead.