Chapter 9
self-destruct as a unit
Cian
I sigh and move forward, accepting my fate.
As if I have another choice.
Or until I have another choice. If I’m smart enough to get out of this, I… Who knows?
“Sit.” I have no time to wonder if he means me when the cold metal bites into my ribs. The Laotian man is making no effort not to leave a mark and uses the nose of the gun to push me toward the chair to my left.
Walking slowly, I take in everything I can, which doesn’t amount to much.
I must be crazy because my gaze sticks on the wiring hanging from the ceiling where the walls haven’t been drywalled. The work looks messy and I’m disappointed in the quality and effort. It’s amazing what the mind fixates on in these kinds of moments.
Dad’s phone rings and most of the men in the room swing their weapons in his direction. One trigger-happy dude could have ended this whole thing. Even knowing all eyes and all barrels are trained on him, he has the gall—or the stupidity—to answer it.
“Yes.”
He pauses as the man who met us outside—whose name I can’t for the life of me remember—walks calmly and plucks it from his hand and presses the red button, pocketing the device.
He places the muzzle of his gun squarely between Dad’s eyes and pushes, saying, “Bang” as he cocks his head.
My father makes no attempt to protect his daughter or me from this trap he called us to. He ensnared himself and then failed to protect either of us from being captured in the same way.
In one moment, my disdain for the man washes over me like a flood of hot water.
The whipping of the pistol aside, only to land the butt against Dad’s temple, is the sole sound in the room aside from the melodic murmurs in a language I neither speak nor understand.
Dad doubles over as he grasps his eye with both hands. Then the fucker starts yelling. He screams at the man who hit him, gesticulating wildly. He flails his arms around as if he’s in complete control in this situation, and the masked men are there to serve him.
I slide my chair as far away as I can as silently as I’m able. This isn’t going to end well.
My movements do not go unnoticed, and I’m quickly flanked by one of the crew who yanks my hands behind me and pulls a zip tie so tight the flesh on my wrists will rip if I struggle.
An entire conversation is played out above my head in what I can only assume is Laotian as the men we leased this building to were of that nationality.
I take the punches they inflict. The ones to my temple. The ones to my jaw.
I lose at least one tooth before the first time I black out.
When I come to, it’s worse.
Way fucking worse.
My sister, who doesn’t have the capacity for way fucking worse right now, is in the mix. Her back is to me. Her softs sobs are enough to break my heart. I know her strength. The woman is incredible, tough, and takes no shit. But something has rattled her.
She says “No” over and over on repeat while shaking her head. “I won’t do it.”
“Oh, but you will. Or I’ll kill your brother.”
My head is a heavy weight on my neck when I roll it to twist my face her way. Her spine stiffens, and she grows taller.
As if this nightmare couldn’t get worse, my brother-in-law runs from the shadows hell-bent on saving her. “Princess?”
“No,” she wails.
“Do it,” the unmasked apparent leader of the group says. “Last time we ask, Princess. Pull the trigger or your brother will know what it’s like to have copper and lead slice through his brain.”
Fuck me. I don’t want to die. I don’t know what I missed or how long I was unconscious, but none of it was good. I can only see through one eye and what remains of my vision is warped for sure, but she’ll never live with herself if she has to make whatever choice it is they’re forcing.
“Don’t do it, sis,” I offer as loudly as I can muster with my mouth a bloody mess, careful to avoid biting my swollen cheek.
Three things happen at once. Sirens scream and brakes screech at the street as gunfire explodes inside the building. My teeth fly from the force of a punch I never see coming to my blind side. And the man who holds his gun to my temple crumples at an odd angle as brains spray the floor.
Temporary deafness, partial blindness, and overall fiery pain drag me to blissful unconsciousness.
I wake being strapped to a stretcher. My face is covered with what looks like the inside of a toilet plunger. I thrash and fight the restraints as voices urge me to calm down.
Calm down? No, the fuck, I won’t.
My life has flashed before my eyes more times today than I can count.
I have no idea how many of those men survived or are on the run.
They know my name. My address is public record. I’m vulnerable…
As is everyone I love.
My sister may or may not have had to kill our father.
My gums are swollen, and I’m gagging on the blood running down my throat, and I can barely see.
Fear slithers in my veins like a long, icy snake.
My final act of life will not be being smothered while I’m strapped in.
I scream.
Doctors.
Nurses.
X-Rays.
Surgeons.
Specialists.
CT scans.
Referrals.
Tests.
Bloodwork.
Hours upon hours I sit at a hospital—no clue which one—with people talking at me, making requests, ordering me to move or stay still, to rest but not sleep, asking questions I cannot answer.
I’m foggy, anxious, and want to know if my family is okay. Even my stupid, fucking father who got me into this mess.
If he’s not, I’m okay with that. I just want to know.
Where’s Ayla? Is she safe? What about her husband? And Liam? Is Mom safe from this mess? Were those crazy mother fuckers watching me? Did I lead them straight to Sariah’s doorstep?
I tap my pockets to find a shattered phone screen and a device with zero charge.
If that’s not the perfect end to a shitastic day, I don’t know what is. I can’t even call a rideshare to get me home to Eleanor. Fuck. What time is it?
I’m wheeled to the front door but walk back to the waiting room, trying to find a phone. I bet there was one in my ER bay, but I wanted the fuck out of there and didn’t spend the time hanging around to ask.
I’m dead on my feet and can barely brace when I’m rushed by my sister, surrounded in her hug, and sobbed on for the second time in two days. Or has it been three?
I peer over her head to my little brother and communicate my respect for the man. I need to be better about letting him know I care. He knows. I know he knows, but I don’t want him to ever wonder.
Same for my sister. I pull out of her tight arms far enough to boop her nose. I think I started that when she came home from the hospital as a baby. I can’t remember ever not doing it.
Mom pushes in, but I refuse to let go of Ayla. I hold her close to me. We’ve been through something that no one but the other can understand. There’s no way I’m letting her go.
The group hug is awkward and fucking painful, but I can’t say I would let go either if I were in their shoes. So I grin and bear it, minus the grin. Moving my mouth is painful as shit, also it’s impossible with the wires.
Hell, I’ve been referred to specialist after specialist, including one to get new teeth. New because the old ones didn’t get re-whatevered in time. I don’t know the words. I know they can’t be salvaged, due to the beating and the timing of it.
My fucking father. I need new fucking teeth because of the asshole. I clench my jaw only to instantly recognize the mistake. The agonizing sound that leaves my face sounds like a wounded animal.
I don’t hear the conversation around me. Mom’s going on and on. Ayla has made plans for me. I simply nod and agree.
How long can we sit around? Why are we still here?
I learn it all as I spin my day over and over in my head, committing every detail to memory.
Liam texting. Ayla calling. The beatings. Hours upon hours with a gun to my head, losing my will to live. Finally realizing, through the soup of my mind, how close I came to dying today. That Ayla could kill our sperm donor—he’s no father and he’s sure as fuck no dad—or they’d kill me.
Sick mother fuckers were going to have us self-destruct as a unit, with the guilt and legal issues that came with it.
I don’t know how they knew about her. Though, that takes me back to early thoughts of who’s at risk and how.
My thoughts are slow and sludgy. Too much pain, too many meds, too little food, way too long since non-injury-induced sleep.
It’s Mom’s question and the worry behind it that has me seeing red. “Your father was there?”
“Did you miss the part about all of this being his fault?” Liam’s thunderous voice matches the murderous look on his face.
“Where is he? How is he? Why haven’t we heard?”
I can’t take it for another moment. That sack of shit doesn’t deserve the concern of anyone in the room, maybe not in the whole fucking city, but I can’t control that.
I can say my peace. Fighting the pain in every single word, and dealing with my jaw wired shut, I grit out, “No. One. Fucking. Cares.”