Chapter 15 #2
"Ehi!" A male voice calls. "Dove vuoi arrivare con tutto questo?"
Killian adjusts his armload of things and taps his wrist, pointing vaguely in the direction of the nearest cruise ship. "Tardi!"
“You speak Italian, now?” I ask in a hissed whisper.
"No," he whispers back. "A smidge of Spanish. I'm just hoping that the Spanish for late is close enough to the Italian that it’ll sound the same." He breaks into a jog, checking the imaginary watch on his wrist again. "C'mon. Act like you're in a rush."
“You just told me not to!" I protest.
We cross the end of the nearest row of trailers and cut out of view of the security guard.
Panting more out of nerves than exertion, Killy and I stop and wait to see if we're caught.
When nothing happens for several seconds, Killian peeks out cautiously and then straightens. "Alright, we're good. He bought it."
"A lightless container was bad enough," I say. "I really don't want to end up in an Italian prison. I've seen the Amanda Knox show on Hulu. That doesn't look like fun."
Killian snorts at this. "I think in comparison to what Pugli has planned for you, an Italian prison would be Club Med. Of course, the problem is that Pugli can get his slimy paws on you even more easily in prison. He has access, and you'd have nowhere to go."
I frown at him. "Wow, Killy. That's so reassuring. Thank you very much for that."
He winks back at me. "No problem, babe."
"You're so helpful, babe."
"I know, babe."
We burst into suppressed snickering at our idiotic exchange, but the levity is short-lived.
It's not fully dark yet, but the shadows are lengthening, and the heat is dissipating to merely brutal, although when I glance at Killian, he seems perfectly at ease, not even a dot of sweat on his upper lip; at some point, Killian has donned his vest, while I, too hot, have not.
I pull my shirt away from my chest, where it's sticking with sweat. "You don’t seem fazed by the heat."
He shrugs. "Not all that different than back home." He smirks at me. "You're a northern girl. Not used to real heat, huh?"
"Shut up," I mutter. "So let's go over the plan again."
Killy rolls a shoulder again, the very picture of studied indifference. "Wait for the goons to swarm the car, start cappin' some bitches."
"And then what?"
He blinks. "Then what, what? Then we win."
I gesture broadly around us. "Killian, this is a fairly large port. With its own security. We'll have the police on us within minutes if we just open fire."
"Oh. Hmm." he glances out at the car, scanning the road.
"I mean, I don't see much of a choice. What we don't do is take another of their cars.
" He hums thoughtfully. "Mmmm? Okay, I've got it.
We break these down," he lifts his MP-5 in gesture, "and stuff the pieces in the backpack.
Keep the armor on and tough it out, and make a run for it.
Do like we said and see if we can meet my new friend. "
"Did you get a name for your drug-dealing buddy?" I ask.
He frowns. “You've clearly never bought pot off a sketchy dude in a back alley."
I snort. "Clearly."
"You don't ask names, honey. That's, like, rule number one."
"I thought rule number one was not shouting, 'may I buy some drugs, please?' "
Killian sputters. “Yeah, that's a good rule. Sort of an unspoken one."
"Aren't all the rules about illicit drug deals unspoken? Like, is there a how-to-buy-drugs guidebook for dummies?"
He frowns at me. "You're just full of jokes, huh?"
I grin, shrug. “See also our conversation about dark humor. It's how I cope in high-stress situations."
He frowns again. "This isn't high-stress. We’re just waiting."
"That's the stressful part!" I don't-quite yell. "All the sitting around doing nothing, knowing people are about to try to kill you and you're about to try to kill them. The scary part of a rollercoaster isn't the actual drops and loops, it's slowly click-click-clicking up to the first drop."
Killian ejects the magazine and inspects it, does another visual sweep, and then sets about stripping the MP-5. I don’t know why, though, as we don’t have a cleaning kit. Something to do with his hands, I suppose. "You make a good point."
"You're not scared right now?"
He shakes his head. "Lot of anticipation, sure, but fear?" He frowns even harder, brow furrowing, nose wrinkling. "I suppose the last couple firefights all happened so fast I didn't have a chance to be scared.” He barks a laugh. "Well now I am, thanks."
"It just feels different, Killy," I whisper. "Shooting back at someone who's shot at you first is one thing. Lying in wait, literally, and shooting someone who doesn't know you're there? It just feels a whole lot different."
He inspects the pieces as he reassembles the weapon, and when he's done, he taps the magazine home and levels a look at me.
"I guess it is different. This isn't reactionary, this is an offensive maneuver.
And I do get where you're coming from. But you can't think of it like that.
These guys that are gonna show up? They're career killers, Story.
You don't end up doing wetwork for a man like Pugli if you're a nice guy with clear morals. "
"I know, but—"
"Just think of it like this—these guys have one mission: kill me and bring you to Pugli. And you haven't sat in on the briefings about Pugli that I have, Story."
I let a breath puff out between my lips. "No, I guess I haven't. So?"
"So, I feel like maybe you're not fully informed as to what kind of a person Roberto Pugli really is. The kind of shit he does to his…merchandise."
"Killy—" I start.
"He's not just a human trafficker, that's number one.
He's not just the businessman, the money behind the operation.
He hand-selects the people he sells. See, people who buy from him are…
they're high-end customers. You go to Pugli for your sex-slave needs because he supplies a particular kind of product. Apparently, he guarantees that his merchandise will be fully house-broken; I think that’s the term I heard.
Meaning, just so we're clear, girls who aren't going to fight, argue, complain, or try to escape.
They pay a premium for girls procured by Pugli because he breaks them himself. "
My skin crawls. "I thought that guy was just trying to scare me."
"He was." Killy pauses for effect. "With the truth."
"Oh," I murmur.
"Pugli does sell in…um…untrained bulk, but those girls are generally the kind of people he feels won't be missed—orphans, prostitutes, and drug addicts, people like that.
He also sends snatch squads to rural villages all across Europe and they take girls right out of their homes, but again, those are places that generally see little to no oversight from government.
" He lifts a chin at me. "You he wants because you'd be missed.
You're an American. An extremely attractive English-speaking white girl with blonde hair and blue eyes and a lot of spirit.
You're the kind of girl he likes to take his time breaking himself, and then once he's done that, he gives them to his men for further 'breaking,’ and then he finally sells them to the highest bidder. "
"Wouldn’t…?” I struggle with how to phrase my question. "You'd think a buyer would want someone…unbroken. Un…um…used."