Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
PHOENIX
I’ve been alone in the dark for at least a few hours, though the anxious part of my brain is convinced it’s been days.
I work my wrists against the rope again, testing the limits of my movement. The fibers bite into already-raw skin, but I feel something—the slightest loosening, maybe, or just wishful thinking. Hard to tell when you can’t see your own hands.
The sound of footsteps makes me freeze.
They’re not the confident stride of Aaron’s boots, thank God. These footsteps are hesitant, like whoever it is hasn’t quite committed to their approach.
The door opens into the darkness beyond with a scrape of metal. Then I hear the click of the switch on the worklamp and the storage container floods with enough light that it hits me like a dozen needles pushed directly into my corneas.
I flinch, blinking rapidly. By the time my vision clears enough to see, a figure has already stepped inside and pulled the door mostly shut behind them.
It’s the kid.
The nervous one from earlier—the young biker who wouldn’t meet my eyes while Aaron laid out his horrifying plans.
Up close, he looks even younger than I initially thought.
Maybe fifteen, sixteen-years-old at the most. His face is all sharp angles and bad skin, like he hasn’t quite finished growing into his features yet.
The leather cut he’s wearing looks borrowed, too big in the shoulders.
He’s carrying a bottle of water and a gas station sandwich still wrapped in plastic.
We stare at each other across the dimly lit room.
“I’m supposed to feed you,” he says finally, voice cracking on the last word.
“Hard to do that when my hands are tied behind my back.”
He shifts his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. “I could…I don’t know. Hold the sandwich for you?”
“Like a baby bird?” I let the disdain drip from my voice. “No, thank you very much.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“You could untie one of my hands.”
His eyes go wide. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? I’m still tied to a chair that’s bolted to the floor. I’m not going anywhere.” I let my head fall back against the chair, projecting a confidence I absolutely don’t feel. “Unless you’re scared I’m going to somehow overpower you one-handed?”
Color floods his cheeks, likely equal parts embarrassment and wounded pride.
“I’m not scared of you.”
“Then prove it.” I keep my voice calm, reasonable. “One hand. Just long enough for me to eat. You can tie it back up after.”
He hesitates, glancing toward the door like he’s expecting Aaron to burst through at any moment.
“Look,” I say, gentling my tone. “What’s your name?”
“…Kyle.”
“Kyle. I’m not going to try anything. I just want to eat my incredibly shitty gas station sandwich with a modicum of dignity. That’s all.”
There is another long pause as Kyle considers. I’m half-expecting him to walk out without feeding me at all, so I have to hide my surprise when he crosses the room and starts fumbling with the knots behind my back.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force myself to stay relaxed. The rope loosens around my left wrist, just enough for me to slide my hand free. The sensation of pins and needles explodes through my fingers as blood flow slowly returns.
Kyle steps back quickly and thrusts the sandwich into my lap.
Unwrapping the thing one-handed isn’t exactly easy, but I swallow the complaint.
Smashed into the plastic might be the saddest excuse for a sandwich I’ve ever seen—two slices of white bread gone slightly stale, a thin layer of mystery meat that might once have been turkey, and a single leaf of wilted lettuce clinging to life out of pure spite.
I take a bite anyway.
It tastes exactly as bad as it looks.
“Thank you,” I say after forcing myself to swallow. “Can you open the water for me?”
Kyle complies, expression a mix of wariness and guilt. He acts like a dog who knows it’s done something wrong, but gets smacked with a rolled up newspaper too often to figure out exactly what that might be.
Maybe I can work with that.
“How long have you been with the Sinners?” I ask, keeping my voice conversational.
“Why do you care?”
“Making small talk. Seems polite, considering you’re the only other person here.”
Kyle’s shoulders hunch. “Just eat your food so I can go.”
“You don’t seem like the biker gang type.”
He glares at me. “What does that mean?”
“I mean, I have to be your first hostage, right?” I take another bite of the terrible sandwich. “Doesn’t seem like this is really your scene.”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re the only one who asked Aaron about a backup plan. Which tells me you’re smart enough to think ahead.” I set the sandwich down on my lap, holding his gaze. “Are you smart enough to think about what happens when this goes wrong?”
“It’s not going to go wrong.”
“Kyle.” I say his name gently, like I’m trying not to spook a skittish animal. “Do you know what the federal penalty for kidnapping is?”
He doesn’t answer.
“It’s life in prison. Life. And that’s just the kidnapping.
” I let the words settle before continuing.
“What Aaron’s planning to do to me if the ransom doesn’t come through?
That’s trafficking. Human trafficking. Do you know how many years you get for being complicit in that?
Maine might not have the death penalty, but we’re talking federal crimes here. ”
“I wouldn’t be—I’m not—“ He stumbles over the words, face going pale.
“You’re here. You’re guarding the door. You’re feeding the victim.
” I keep my voice casual, like I’m pointing out something I’m assuming he already knows.
“In the eyes of the law, that makes you an accomplice. Every single thing Aaron does might as well have been done by you, as far as the law is concerned.”
Kyle’s breathing has gone ragged. His hands clench and unclench at his sides.
I wait a second for reality to sink in for him before continuing. “But there’s still a way out for you. I doubt that Aaron is putting much thought into your future.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m just telling you the truth.” I lean forward as much as my restraints allow.
”Eventually, I’m going to get out of here.
Do you want me telling the cops that you helped me escape or confirming that you were here and did nothing to stop any of it?
Unless Aaron just kills me, of course. In that case, I have to assume you’re okay with having my blood on your hands. ”
Kyle’s face has gone the color of old paper. He’s breathing too fast, chest heaving under the borrowed leather.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “Aaron would kill me.”
“Aaron’s going to prison. Whether it’s tonight or next week or next month, he’s going down for this.
The only question is who he takes with him.
” I hold his gaze, willing him to understand.
“If you walk out of here and leave me tied to this chair, you’ve made your choice.
And you’ll have to live with whatever happens next. For the rest of your life.”
The silence stretches between us like a wire pulled to breaking.
Kyle’s hands are shaking. I can see the conflict playing out across his face—fear of Aaron warring with fear of prison, loyalty to the gang crashing against the dawning horror of what he’s become part of.
“Please,” I say, and I let him hear the real desperation underneath the calculated calm. “I’m not asking you to fight anyone. I’m not asking you to be a hero. I’m just asking you not to be a monster.”
One second. Two. Three.
Kyle crosses to my chair and starts working at the knots binding my other wrist.
They had me in a fucking storage container.
Like I couldn’t be treated even more like an object than by being left in a steel box designed to ship objects over long distances.
We’re in some kind of industrial lot—that much I can tell from the hulking shapes of shipping containers stacked in haphazard rows around us. Rusted machinery hunkers in the shadows between them. The smell of salt and diesel hangs heavy in the air, mixed with motor oil and the rust of old metal.
I can just barely make out the sound of water in the distance, but Kyle directs me the other way.
“You need to stay out of sight,” he hisses. “Follow the fenceline and you should find a hole big enough to squeeze through.”
I glance back at him, hesitating. “You’re not coming with me?”
He shakes his head. “Can’t.”
“But—”
“Just go.” His voice cracks. “Before someone notices I’m gone too long.”
Before I can argue more, he disappears into the darkness.
I run in the opposite direction.
The path between the shipping containers is narrow and uneven, littered with debris that threatens to turn my ankles with every step.
My hands are still half-numb from being bound, and my legs feel like they belong to someone else after hours of sitting in that chair.
But I force myself to move anyway, picking my way through the maze as quickly as I dare.
I duck around a corner and find myself in a small clearing between four massive containers. About a hundred feet away, I can see the gap in the fence that Kyle mentioned.
Just before I step into the clearing, a loud shot shatters the quiet.
“What THE FUCK!”
I throw myself behind the nearest container, pressing my back flat against the cold metal, just as Aaron stomps into the clearing.
My breath comes in ragged gasps that sound obscenely loud in the sudden silence. I clamp a hand over my mouth, trying to muffle the noise, trying to make myself as small and invisible as possible.
A flashlight beam sweeps across the ground maybe ten feet from where I’m hiding. I press harder against the container, willing myself to melt into the shadows.
“Phoenix!” His voice carries across the salvage yard, that false calm barely masking the fury underneath. “There’s nowhere to run, baby girl. You might as well come out now before I get angry.”
I don’t respond. I barely even breathe.