28. Jackie
28
JACKIE
T he grief is there, gnawing at me, relentless in its hunger. It’s not just the loss of Marco—it’s the weight of everything. The responsibility of a family that’s fractured. The rising tide of war. The constant threat of betrayal. I can’t seem to breathe through it. But even through all of that, there’s a fury that burns beneath it all—a seething rage that threatens to consume me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. The minutes feel like hours, and the hours stretch into a blur of silent pain and crushing grief. The room I’m in is suffocating, a claustrophobic reminder of how quickly everything changes. I can still feel Marco’s presence in my bones, like a weight that presses down on me, choking me. His laughter, his fierce loyalty, his unwavering commitment to keeping me safe—all of it gone, stolen by a chaos I have no control over.
His blood is on my hands, his death my burden to carry for what remains of my life. The grief and despair is overwhelming, and I can’t stop the tears that continue to fall, the overwhelming sense of loss. How many people do I have to lose before I expire under the crushing weight of my own futile pain?
The door creaks open, and two men come into the room. One stays by the door, his hand on the frame, as the other walks towards me, tips my head, and shoves a bottle in my mouth. I revolt against the abrupt action, thrashing my head to release the bottle. But the man, who can’t be more than his mid-20’s, grabs my cheeks and sticks the bottle in my mouth again.
“It’s water,” he says. “It’s the only mercy you’ll get before bossman gets back, so take it.”
He tips the bottle again, and I feel like my mouth is being waterboarded as the liquid slices down my parched throat like a gushing river. It flows faster than I can swallow, and I end up spitting out the majority before I choke on it. The man jumps out of the way to avoid the spray of water that leaps across the room.
“Come on Rio,” the man at the door complains. “Don’t be a dick.”
“Shut up, squirt. I’m trying to be nice here.”
“Being a monster when doing something nice cancels out your good deed, cuzzy,” the boy at the door says. I focus on him, the young, gangly boy with pockmarks on his face, in preppy clothes which make him look as out of place here as a fish out of water.
“She awake?” A third man sneers, as he walks into the room. He’s a stocky guy, built like a brick wall, but there’s no intelligence behind his eyes. Just greed and impatience. He seems to be older than the other two, his leering gaze flickering over me with interest. “Finally!” he hisses.
“We’re not supposed to hurt her,” the boy at the door reminds them, looking between the two men with concern.
“Who says anything about hurting her?” the newcomer smiles wickedly at him. “Showing her a good time is not hurting her.”
Load the gun and kill me now. I don’t want this crude animal slobbering all over me. I’d rather die first.
“Boss said to make her comfortable,” the man whose name is Rio says, chuckling. “We’re showing her our hospitality.”
“I’m sure that’s not what he meant.” I find myself wondering how a young, well-spoken man like Preppy got involved with these two.
“What's the plan now?” I ask, my voice colder than I feel. It’s the only way I can keep some semblance of control. If I show them weakness, they’ll start to believe they have the upper hand. Which they do, because I’m the one that’s tied to a chair, but I don’t need to harp on that.
The newcomer and Rio exchange glances, and I see the wheels turning in their small minds. They’ve obviously been tossing up some ideas.
The newcomer looks at me, his eyes narrowing. “I’d like to know what makes you so valuable to bossman?”
Rio and the newcomer heap all their attention on me as they wait expectantly for my answer. Preppy’s hands grip the door frame tighter until his knuckles are white but says nothing.
“Bossman as in Daniel Russo?” I ask. “Well, you’d have to ask him that, because last I heard, he was on my payroll, and now he’s decided to kidnap me.” There’s no harm in showing them who the real boss is here.
“So, he’s hoping to make a pretty penny off his own boss?” The newcomer raises his brows in surprise, and I can see the wheels turning in his mind again. What’s a good ransom story without a good double cross?
“I don’t know. You ask him.”
“So how much is boss lady worth, then?” The newcomer asks, coming closer to me. He leans in until we’re at eye level, then shoots me a greedy, wicked smile.
“A lot more than he’s paying you, I can tell you that.”
“So maybe your family could sweeten the pot for us, huh? Instead of paying Russo, they pay us, and everybody lives happily ever after.”
“Good luck with that,” I say, my voice bitter. “I’m the only one with access to the purse strings. You’re wasting your time. Unless…”
I let my suggestion hang between us, giving them something to think about. They don’t need to know that Russo is not after ransom money. He would never tell them what he’s after, but what they don’t know could very well work to my advantage.
The newcomer licks his lips, seems to consider the possibilities of a windfall. Rio glares at me, but there’s uncertainty in his eyes. He doesn’t understand how deep this mess goes.
“Come on, man,” he says to the newcomer, pushing him away from me. “This wasn’t part of the plan. Let’s just do our job, get paid and get out of here.”
“Plans evolve,” newcomer says, looking over at Rio thoughtfully. “He’s not paying us nearly enough to babysit this chica.”
“Stick to the plan, Tony. We don’t need any more trouble.”
Newcomer finally has a name. They stare each other down before they turn away and leave me alone. Preppy doesn’t close the door as he joins them.
I hear their voices arguing in the other room, their conversation coming in fractured spurts.
They mention a ransom. Tony reminds them that they are getting paid pennies. I hear Rio saying something about enough money to leave the city and get a fresh start. Preppy tells them he doesn’t want any part of their bullshit, and he’s sorry that he ever signed up for it. Rio calms him down, reminds him why they’re doing this, although I don’t get the explanation.
It’s all noise to me now as they talk over each other, their voices no more than a throbbing ache in the deepest corners of my mind. I blink toward the ceiling, the only way I know that will help me to dry my eyes without the benefit of hands and tissue. I compose my mind, compose my breathing. I have to stay in control here; even though I’m tied to a chair, now in the care of Daniel fucking Russo, I’m still alive, and if I have to fight to my last breath, then that’s what I’ll do.
I listen carefully to their conversation, but it’s dwindled to low murmurs and I can’t make out anything more until I hear a door closing and only silence surrounds me.
A few minutes pass before Preppy comes to the door, his eyes wide and uncertain. His hands shake as he holds a rifle loosely in front of him. Preppy is the wild card amongst the three – the one who has obviously been manipulated into being here. The one who doesn’t want to be here and is way out of his depth. Which makes him my best bet, although I’m not too sure how safe that bet is with his shaking hand and a gun nestled in it.
Preppy doesn’t have the hardened look of the others, the cold calculation. The kid stands awkwardly in the doorway, shifting on his feet like he’s not sure what to do. I stare at him for a moment, watching the nervous way his eyes dart around. He’s just... scared.
He steps into the room and stands in a corner, his eyes never leaving me, as though he’s trying extra hard to make sure I don’t miraculously disappear.
I give him my best impression of a calm, collected smile. It’s the same smile that hides the real power beneath it. The smile that says, I’m in control, even when I’m not.
“You don’t want to be here anymore than I do,” I muse.
He doesn’t respond. But I see the hesitation in his eyes. He’s not like the others. He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t understand their rules.
“College kid, huh?”
His face blanches, as though he’s been caught doing the wrong thing. He looks down at himself, wondering how I could possibly know that. He may be booksmart, but he’s desperately lacking in life skills if he can’t see that his clothes scream “academia”.
“How…how did you know that?”
“Educated guess,” I tell him.
His hands are shaking as he looks at me, and I know I’ve reached him. This kid’s got no loyalty to Rio and Tony, no real affiliation, and probably found himself here by accident. He’s here for the wrong reasons, and he’s terrified of what he’s gotten himself into.
“You really should be quiet,” he says, his voice a half whisper. “If they come back and find you talking to me, they could hurt you.”
I nod my head, tell him he’s right. Then I wiggle on my chair and scrunch my face up painfully.
“You know what is hurting me right now?” I ask him. “My bladder. Can I use the toilet please?”
He shakes his head as his face drains of all color. This is obviously what they anticipated and why they’ve given him the gun. He just never believed it would come to that and he wants no part of it.
“Can you hold it?” he asks.
“Does it look like I can hold it?” I ask, squeezing my thighs together.
“There’s no toilet here; we’re in the woods.”
Well, this certainly throws a spanner into any plan I may have had formulating in my head. In the woods. Which woods? We must be way out in the middle of no-where if there are no amenities.
“How can there be no toilet?” I ask him, playing up my distress. “I really need to go.”
“Then you’ll need to go in the woods,” he tells me. “Do you still have to go?”
I don’t tell him that I can’t miraculously switch off a bladder that hasn’t been emptied in hours. I put on my most outraged voice when I respond to him.
“What about insects? What about you? You can’t watch!”
“I’ll turn around,” he says, as he starts to undo the binds behind my back. “Don’t forget, I’m the one with the gun, so don’t try to do anything foolish.”
He even speaks like a preppy college student. I mentally roll my eyes at the false sense of bravado in his voice as I agree to behave. The fact that the toilet is outside in the wild could very well be the break I need.
I stand and stretch to my full height, shaking the cramps out of my hands and feet. He walks me through the room, down a long hallway with doors on either side, and out another door which leads outdoors. The woods are a vast expanse surrounding the rickety cabin, stretching as far as the eye can see in all directions.
There isn’t a soul in sight, with only the sounds of the inhabitants of the wild tickling through the trees. On any other day, I would think it’s beautiful, despite the run-down facade of the cabin and the uneven stairs we use to descend into the clearing leading to the forest.
“Over here,” he says, pushing his finger into my back as he leads me to the left. “There’s bushes here, you can have your privacy.”
I walk the way he commands, until about fifty yards away, when we reach a cluster of bushes.
“Don’t forget, no funny business,” he says, as I duck behind the bushes and lower my pants. I relieve myself, humiliation festering that he’s barely a few feet away. But I push it down, letting out a groan of satisfaction that breaks through the silence of the forest. When I rise, I make a point of taking my time adjusting my clothes, then move around the bush to join him. His relief that I haven’t tried to run away is palpable, and I watch as he lowers the gun, effectively lowering his guard.
My eyes scan the perimeter of the cabin, our surroundings, trying to formulate a plan. It’s one on one; how hard can it possibly be for me to get away from him? It’s as good a chance as any, and I know I’ll probably never get this chance again. I’m prepared; I know what’s coming, so I’m prepared. Whereas, he has let his guard down and believes he has things under control. He must be so proud of himself.
I take the first step up the stairs, then the second. In a quick, fluid movement, I push my elbow back into him until he stumbles backward. He grunts and I deliver a swift kick to his arm, knocking the rifle out of his hand, watching as it goes clattering to the ground. He howls at the pain, and I wince; I’ve probably fractured his writing hand. Preppy probably won’t be so preppy anymore. I grab the rifle and walk past him before he can react, even as his screams fill the forest, overtaking the sound of fluttering birds.