Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
H ere’s the thing—yes, I was a nun, but before that, I was a coed living in downtown Chicago. I started practicing karate when I was an undergraduate, and when I showed an aptitude for martial arts, my instructor encouraged me to keep up with my training. Unlike most undergrads, I didn’t spend my free time partying. Between two jobs and my own studies, I had very little free time to begin with, and without distractions like boyfriends or a social life, I was able to fully commit to my training and advance quickly. Not to brag, but my sensei said he had never met anyone so single-mindedly focused and scarily intense.
Unlike most of my classmates who were women, I wasn’t training in karate because I’d felt particularly unsafe where I was. Sure, I’d had people follow me off the bus, the usual uncomfortable groping from strangers on the bus, the guy who sniffed the back of my head at the bus stop...come to think of it, there was a lot of bus-related sexual harassment happening, before, during, and after being a nun. Troubling. Anyway, I hadn’t felt threatened during these encounters so much as annoyed. Usually a cold glare and a sharp, “Cut it out, asshole!” were enough to cow anyone from trying anything more. Someone like Nina might feel too embarrassed to call people out like that, but not me. I love a good public shaming.
No, for me, karate wasn’t about physical defense as much as it was mental fortitude. I’d spent so much of my life having my control taken away. Leaving behind my babushka in Russia to come to the States for Mama’s new boyfriend. Having to step up for Alina and Sasha when Mama didn’t come home on the weekends, and then didn’t come home at all. Being split into different foster families and homes from my sisters. I channeled all that frustration, all that rage, into disciplining my body and mind. Becoming a nun was supposed to help me escape my childhood demons, but in a lot of ways, karate did for me what prayer and fasting ultimately couldn’t.
Anyway, all of that’s to say, me kicking Freckles’s literal and figurative ass didn’t come out of nowhere. I’d been training for that moment my entire adult life; I just didn’t know when and where it would come.
Do I wish that it had been Sandy instead of Freckles? Sure. Sandy’s the bigger asshole by far, and I would have loved to see his look of surprise when he got his ass handed to him by a woman. It might have even made his red-pill-addled brain explode, which would have also been entertaining to watch. But do I feel bad about taking Freckles down? Absolutely not. He might be the nicer of the two kidnappers, but he’s still a kidnapper. As my babushka used to say, Что посе?ешь, то и пожнёшь. What you sow, you will reap.
I make it to the trees before I hear the first shout. Freckles must have needed a moment to recover from that ass whooping I just gave him, ha! Knowing I don’t have much longer now before they start looking for me, I throw myself into the dense green foliage, searching for the best place to hide.
After running mindlessly for what feels like an hour but is probably only a few minutes, I see a fallen tree. There looks to be just enough space between it and the ground where I can tuck myself and try to wait out the kidnappers. God, I wish I had my phone so I could call for help, but it’s back at Dumb-Ax in my purse—or maybe in a dumpster somewhere, if that employee who sold us out was smart enough to cover his tracks.
As soon as I’m in place and my heartbeat stops roaring in my ears, I can hear Sandy, not too far away, shouting and kicking up a fuss: “...let her get away?”
I hear Freckles close by, too, though he’s not shouting, which makes it harder to hear exactly what he’s saying: “...didn’t expect...freaking Buffy the Vampire Slayer...”
Is he talking about me? He must be. I can’t help but preen at that, pleased despite myself. Vampire slayer, huh? I mean, I knew I was good, but I didn’t know I was Buffy good...
“Do you even really need to find her? She has nothing to do with this. She doesn’t even know where you’re taking me. Maybe just leave the scary slayer out in the woods, call it good?”
Kimo. His voice comes through loud and clear, almost like he’s projecting for my benefit. I hold my breath, waiting to see how the others will respond.
“I have a better idea.” Sandy seems to be following Kimo’s lead in enunciating clearly so he can be heard—or maybe they’ve just gotten closer to where I’m hiding. “Hey, Pink Ranger. If you don’t come out in ten seconds, I’m gonna put a bullet in your boyfriend, here.”
My eyes widen. I clap a hand over my mouth, even though I haven’t made a sound. He wouldn’t really do that, would he? He has to be bluffing.
“He’s bluffing.” Kimo seems to agree with me. He still sounds totally relaxed, like this is a typical Thursday afternoon for him. “Come on, brother. You need me alive. That’s the whole point of this.”
“I need you alive,” Sandy agrees, “but no one ever said I can’t shoot you in the kneecap. And believe me, brother , you’ll wish you were dead once I shoot you there.”
I wait for another reassurance from Kimo, but it doesn’t come. Even he can’t pretend to be chill about getting shot in the kneecap, I guess.
“Ten, nine, eight...” Sandy starts counting, loudly.
Surely he won’t really shoot him...but what if he does? How difficult is it to recover from a knee shooting? I wish I had my phone so I could Google it.
“Seven, six, five...”
Won’t it be better for Kimo in the long run if I’m able to escape and get help? Otherwise, who will even know where to look for him? Sure, I don’t know an exact location, but I can give a general direction of where the kidnappers might be taking him.
“Four, three, two...”
Oh my God, I’m going to have to listen to someone get shot! I’ve never had to listen to that before, all Russian stereotypes aside. And all things considered, the knee seems like an awfully important body part. It’s not like a thigh, which is kind of meaty and might be able to absorb a bullet without too much damage. A knee is just bone and muscle, and that’s going to require reconstructive surgery, probably months of physical therapy. He might never be able to exercise in flip-flops again...
“One—”
“Okay, okay, okay!” I can’t do it. I can’t sit by and listen to that. Sandy was probably bluffing, but what if he wasn’t? I may be a stone-cold bitch, but I’m also squeamish, and all that blood and screaming and whatnot is a solid pass from me.
Wriggling out from my hiding place, I hold my hands up in the air, spinning around until I find where everyone’s located, only a few yards away from me. “I’m here, all right? Don’t shoot anyone.”
Sandy grins at me, looking pleased as punch. Ugh, how irritating. He’s going to be pure hell to travel with now. Freckles looks pissy, likely because I knocked him down and made him look like an idiot in front of his kidnapper buddies. He’s definitely not a fan of mine now. Well, feeling’s mutual, buddy! And Kimo...
It’s hard to tell what Kimo’s feeling. He looks sort of resigned, disappointed things didn’t turn out like we’d planned, but also kind of...warm? Is that an expression? And if so, why is he looking at me that way when I just screwed things up so badly?
* * *
I get my answer once we’re stowed in the back of the van again. This time, at least, I don’t have a gag, although my hands have been retied. “Sorry,” I mumble to Kimo, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself and the fact that I don’t have a cloth shoved in my mouth, in case they just forgot to re-gag me.
Kimo nudges me. “For what? You did everything I told you to. Then you saved me. Not everyone would have done the same thing in your position. That was pretty badass. You saved me, Mattie.”
If this were an episode of Full House , this is when the treacly music would start playing. Moments like these always give me the warm gooeys when I’m watching them on TV, but experiencing them in real life is...awkward. I’m not used to people “expressing their emotions” to me. It makes me feel like something is crawling under my skin. “I just didn’t want to hear you cry like a little girl,” I tell him briskly, hoping that will discourage any more of this emoting he’s doing.
Kimo just grins at me. “Little girls got nothing on me. I’m a screamer when I cry. Wailing. Gnashing of teeth. Full-on snot rivers running down my face.”
I fight a smile. “Sounds disgusting.”
“Oh, it is.”
My lips tug upward as I lose the battle. We smile at each other for a moment, before I start to feel that crawly sensation again and avert my gaze. It lands on Freckles, who is glaring at me with open hostility. I seize on that. Open hostility is much easier to deal with than whatever warm, gushy nonsense Kimo is sending my way right now.
My smile morphs into something very different for Freckles, openly taunting. “Do I have something on my face, or is there some other reason you’re staring at me?” So much for lying low and not drawing attention to myself and my gag-less state. I just can’t help but poke the bear sometimes.
Kimo nudges me with his knee. Play nice , that gesture says. “Hey, man, no hard feelings. She could have taken down any one of us. Black belt in karate.”
I frown at Kimo, wondering how he knows that, before I remember that he saw the picture of my black belt ceremony in my apartment. “Stalker,” I mutter under my breath nonetheless.
It’s a little irritating that Freckles’s fragile masculinity has to be assuaged, but I guess Kimo’s wise to try to keep him on our side. I do my best to look contrite. Louder, I add, “Yeah. Sorry. And if it helps, I’ve taken down way bigger guys than you before. More muscular, too?—”
I’m genuinely trying to be helpful, but Kimo clears his throat, loudly, cutting me off. “Mattie’s a little high-strung today. Her dog died this morning.”
“Parade—” I start to say, but Kimo nudges me again, stopping me before I can get carried away with the elaborate lie.
To my surprise, Freckles shifts, looking genuinely troubled by this news. “I’m sorry. That really sucks.” He shakes his head, as if this news has hit him like a personal blow. “Dogs are so much better than people, you know? They don’t deserve that shit.”
For a moment, I can only stare at him. This guy isn’t at all fazed by kidnapping us, apparently, but he seems to be getting emotional about the idea of a stranger’s (made-up) dog dying...?
Looking at him more closely, though, I notice for the first time traces of white fur on his clothes. I send Kimo a furtive, sidelong glance. First the tattoo, now this. Kimo seems to have taken in every detail about this guy and is using it to his advantage to form some kind of emotional connection. That’s some crazy Sherlock Holmes–style manipulation. I guess I should be worried that Kimo might be using that same kind of tactic on me, but I’m too busy being impressed.
I turn my focus back to Freckles, wondering if I can work the same manipulative magic. “He was a white dog. With hair, that was also white.” Hopefully that will make Freckles think of his own dog and, therefore, make him more prone to feel sorry for my pretend dead pet. Let’s see, what else do people like about dogs? “And he was a good boy. So slobbery and sweet. Always peed outside, like he was supposed to. Loved chasing balls.”
Hey, cut me some slack. I grew up for most of my life in foster care and then became a nun. Do you think I have any experience with dogs? But whatever I’m doing seems to be working, because Freckles is nodding, and even seems a little emotional about the whole thing. “Yeah, man. I’m sorry. That’s rough. What was his name?”
At least I have this part of the lie prepared. “Comet.”
Freckles reacts visibly. “Like the dog from Full House ?”
Oops. I did not expect him to be able to put that together. I recover quickly. “Yes. Yeah. It was my favorite show growing up, so as soon as I got a dog, I thought, I have to call it Comet!”
To my surprise, Freckles smiles and shakes his head. “That was my favorite show growing up, too. All the reruns on Nick at Nite? I used to fall asleep watching it.”
“Me too!” This time, I don’t have to lie. I sit up, eager to compare notes with a fellow cable-baby, raised by a television. “I always wished I could be a Tanner.”
“Yeah.” Freckles nods his agreement. “But I’d probably actually be?—”
“A Gibbler,” I finish for him. We laugh together companionably.
I can feel Kimo watching me and I realize that I’ve probably said too much on the subject now, revealed too much about myself. I clear my throat. Freckles shifts, too, glancing over at Sandy, who luckily seems to have tuned out most of this conversation. “Sorry about your dog,” he says quietly.
“Sorry about...kicking you,” I tell him. It’s not totally a lie. I mean, I would definitely do it again if I had to, but now I might feel slightly bad about it afterward.
When Freckles looks away, I glance over to find Kimo watching me. I rear back, frowning defensively at him. “What?”
My voice comes out just a tad too sharp, but Kimo doesn’t react, just holds his steady, calm gaze on me. “You’re just an interesting lady, Matilda Markov.”
There’s that warm, crawly feeling again. I look away, forcing a laugh as I shake my head. “Please. You don’t know the half of it...”