CHAPTER 13 #3
"What the fuck you doing, perv?" I whispered, my voice shaking not from fear, but from an intense, stomach-turning revulsion. I tried to twist my body away, but his body remained heavy astride my sternum, pinning me like an insect to a board.
"I might fuck you first before I put a cap in your ass," he whispered sneeringly, his eyes scanning my body with a disgusting, possessive hunger.
He ran the cold barrel of the Glock over the curve of my left breast, the metal snagging slightly on the fabric of my cotton t-shirt.
His left hand, greasy and trembling, reached down, his fingers spreading wide as he aimed directly for my jean-covered coochie, intending to violate the very space that Joshua had revered just hours prior.
The thought of his filthy hands touching me where Joshua had loved me turned my blood into pure, boiling acid. Every ounce of hesitation vanished. I didn't care about the gun. I didn't care about the consequences.
"Get off me, bitch-ass nigga!" I roared.
With a sudden, explosive burst of kinetic energy, I brought my right knee up with everything I had left in my body. I aimed straight between his legs, driving my knee directly into his exposed, unprotected crotch with a sickening, heavy thud.
Morgan’s eyes instantly rolled back into his head.
A strangled, high-pitched gasp escaped his throat as all the air was completely sucked out of his lungs.
He stumbled backward, his boot lifting off my chest as he collapsed toward the wall, his left hand dropping down to clutch his ruined crotch.
He was doubled over in agonizing pain, wheezing violently, but his right hand—damn it—his right hand was still stubbornly pointing that fucking gun in my direction, his finger twitching wildly near the trigger.
I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, trying to create distance, my eyes locked onto the swaying weapon.
Wooo-wooo-wooo-wooo.
Suddenly, the sharp, deafening blare of a police siren exploded through the quiet street outside, the acoustic echo bouncing violently off the brick exterior of the apartment complex.
The red and blue strobe lights began to flash through the slatted blinds, painting the living room walls in a frantic, disjointed rhythm.
Morgan’s head snapped toward the window, his expression instantly shifting from agonizing pain to sheer, frantic panic. Through the gaps in the blinds, the unmistakable silhouette of a heavy police patrol jeep was visible, pulling up over the curb with its tires screeching.
"Fuck!" Morgan screamed, realizing he was completely trapped.
He looked down at me, his face twisted into a mask of pure, ugly malice. Before I could even raise my arms to shield myself, he lunged forward, swinging the heavy iron butt of the Glock in a brutal, sweeping arc straight toward my face.
CRACK.
The impact was catastrophic. It felt like a visual explosion of blinding, white-hot stars inside my skull.
The heavy metal of the gun-butt slammed directly into the right side of my jawbone with a horrific, sickening crunch.
The force of the blow snapped my head violently to the left, my vision instantly blurring into a chaotic, watercolor wash of gray and black.
I hit the floor hard, my face pressing against the cold wood, the taste of warm, metallic copper instantly filling my mouth as consciousness rapidly drained out of me like water through a sieve.
Through the fading twilight of my awareness, I heard the faint, distant sound of my kitchen window being shattered, followed by the heavy thud of Morgan scrambling out into the back alleyway. Then, darkness swallowed me whole.
When I finally came to, the world was spinning in a slow, sickening vortex.
My ears were ringing with a high-pitched, agonizing drone that made my stomach churn with nausea.
I blinked heavily, trying to clear the thick, heavy fog from my eyes.
The ceiling above me was blurry, the light from the windows entirely too bright, sending a sharp, stabbing needle of pain directly through my optic nerve.
"Ciara? Stay still, honey. Don't try to move just yet."
The voice was calm, authoritative, but carrying a distinct note of professional concern.
I blinked again, forcing my focus to sharpen, and the stern, weathered face of Detective Jones materialized above me.
The female cop was kneeling on the floor beside me, her tactical vest shifting as she leaned over my body.
I felt a sudden, freezing pressure against the right side of my face. I flinched instinctively, a guttural groan escaping my throat as the contact sent a vicious wave of throbbing pain radiating all the way down to my neck.
"Hold it there," Detective Jones murmured gently, her hand steadying a heavy plastic zip lock bag filled with loose ice cubes against my right cheek and jawline. "Your face is already starting to swell up real bad. Just keep the ice on it."
I swallowed hard, the movement causing a sharp, agonizing ache in my jaw.
I reached up with a trembling hand, my fingers wrapping around the cold plastic of the ice bag, taking over the weight so the detective could stand up.
The cold was a numbing relief against the burning, throbbing fire that was currently consuming the entire right side of my face.
"W-Where..." I croaked, my voice sounding incredibly small, raspy, and distorted. I tried to work my jaw to life, but the joints felt like they were filled with broken glass. "Where is he? Where... Morgan?"
Detective Jones sighed, running a hand over her tightly braided hair as she looked down at me with a look of grim frustration.
"He’s gone, Ciara. He ran out the back window before my backup could secure the perimeter.
We’re still hunting him down, though. Trust me, every unit in the district has his description.
We were actually trailing him from his secondary property, and the electronic ping from a burner phone we tracked led us straight to your house.
We got here as fast as we could, but the bastard was slippery. "
She paused, stepping back to let a paramedic approach, but I waved the medic off with a weak shake of my left hand, refusing to let them touch me. I just wanted answers.
"What about... Tesha?" I managed to ask, the words thick and clumsy against my swollen tongue.
"We have Tesha in full custody," Detective Jones explained, crossing her arms over her chest. "We caught her trying to move a massive haul out of the stash house. We’re talking kilos of high-grade cocaine, Ciara. When we threw the cuffs on her, she started singing like a bird. She claims she had absolutely no idea what was in those duffel bags, saying she was just doing a favor for her boyfriend, Morgan. She’s throwing him completely under the bus to save her own skin, but Morgan knows he’s done.
That’s why he came here. He’s a cornered rat. "
I let out a ragged, painful breath, the ice cubes crushing together inside the plastic bag as I pressed it harder against my throbbing jaw. "Thank you... Detective," I muttered, my mind suddenly jumping to a terrifying realization.
The ten minutes. Joshua.
I scrambled to a sitting position, ignoring the violent wave of vertigo that threatened to knock me back out.
I looked around the floor until I saw my phone lying near the base of the sofa, its screen miraculously unbroken.
I grabbed it, my fingers slick with cold sweat as I unlocked the device and immediately hit his contact.
It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, the line clicked open.
"Ciara, I am so incredibly sorry," Joshua’s voice flooded the speaker, thick with genuine remorse. "The session ran completely over, and I know I promised I’d call you back in ten minutes. I just walked out of the therapy room. Are you still at your place?"
I tried to speak, to assure him, but the moment I opened my mouth, all that came out was a strained, pathetic wheeze. "Joshua..." I managed to croak, the distortion in my voice completely undeniable.
The line went dead silent for a microsecond. I could hear the sudden, sharp intake of his breath, the immediate shift in his energy from professional exhaustion to a cold, predatory alertness. "Ciara? What’s wrong? Why do you sound like that? Talk to me, beautiful. What happened?"
The sheer agony of trying to explain it, combined with the throbbing pain in my skull, made it impossible to get the words out. I looked up at Detective Jones, my eyes pleading as I held the phone out toward her. "Please... talk to him."
Detective Jones looked at the phone, then at my bruised face, and nodded grimly. She took the device from my hand and pressed it to her ear. "Dr. Joshua Willis? This is Detective Jones. You need to calm down and listen to me very carefully."
Even without the speaker on, I could hear the muffled, frantic roar of Joshua’s voice vibrating through the phone's casing from across the room. He was demanding answers, his clinical, measured demeanor completely vaporized in an instant.
"There was an incident at Ciara's apartment," Detective Jones said, her voice remaining perfectly steady, iron-clad in its professionalism. "Morgan broke into the residence. He forced his way inside, assaulted her, and held her at gunpoint. He hit her in the face with the weapon before my unit could breach the perimeter. He’s escaped out the back, and we are currently conducting a wide-area search for him... Yes, Doctor, she’s alive. She’s conscious. She’s holding an ice pack to her face right now.
The paramedics are checking her over, but she’s refusing transport to the hospital. "
She paused, listening to the frantic, furious barrage of words coming from Joshua’s end. I watched her expression soften slightly into an empathetic frown. "Doctor, I understand you're upset, but the best thing you can do right now is let us do our job... Yes, I can do that."