Enough of That Trey
Enough of That
Trey
In the dream, he is walking next to Chloe.
She is heavily pregnant, and they are at a hardware store buying paint for the baby’s room.
She wants to paint the walls a neutral color, a soft green or yellow, and cover them with a mural of sweet jungle animals, but he knows in his heart the baby is a boy and is arguing for blue.
Maybe a nautical theme. They stand in front of the swatches, holding them to the light, and without warning, her water breaks, and they are rushing to the hospital to meet their baby.
It is a happy dream, one he has often, and only when he’s under severe stress.
His mind takes him to a safe place, to a memory of something that never happened.
An alternate universe, perhaps, where he isn’t the husband of a murdered wife, forced to do things he never wanted to be a part of, constantly on alert, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He wakes in the cheap, musty motel room off the highway, heart hammering, immediately alert. A noise—a scrape, a breath? He rolls hard to the right and just misses the whoosh of something that slams down where his head had been moments earlier.
He lands in a heap on the dank carpet and explodes to his feet.
His assailant is on him a heartbeat later.
Fists slam into his kidneys, knocking out his breath.
He lands punch after punch himself. They grapple across the room, slam into the table that’s bolted to the wall.
He feels something crack in his back, a rib, most likely, based on the searing pain.
Still, he fights, knowing this is his life on the line.
Adrenaline coursing through his body helps keep him upright.
He lands a kick and hears his assailant grunt in pain.
He presses his advantage and takes a fist to his nose.
Blood begins to gush, but he has his hands around the man’s neck now.
He drives him into the wall, then onto the floor, leveraging his body weight to force him down.
Squeezes the man’s neck until he feels something give way, and the gust of a last breath escaping the body tells him he’s won this round.
He stumbles to his feet, swiping his hand under his nose. It’s not broken, but it’s bleeding profusely. He gets a towel and presses it to his face, leaning his head forward so the blood doesn’t trail down the back of his throat.
He’s stayed ahead of them for several days, but they’ve found him, and he needs to leave again. Hasn’t slept more than a few hours, and he is exhausted. But the money is safe, still untouched, and for now, so is his family.
Keeping tabs on Brooklyn has been easier now that he was able to hack the hospital’s security system, read the charts, and watch her on camera.
She’s had some medication issues, and she’s still confused at times, but they are getting things under control.
She’s going to be okay. He just wants to be by her side, protecting her, but he can’t go home until he cleans up his mess.
The bleeding has stopped. His nose is sore and swollen, but fortunately, not broken. His ribs aren’t as lucky; he is having trouble taking a full breath. But he is alive.
He jams his laptop into the bag, drops the bloody towel to the floor, and steps over the dead body on his way to the door.
A glance through the curtains: Nothing seems amiss.
The meager light shines on the body behind him, showing the face of the man who drove the SUV away from Hartsfield.
Which means the blond bastard is still out there somewhere.
A lesson drummed into him during his training: Where there’s one, there’s many.
They’ve followed him to Nashville. This is not good.
He palms the weapon he took off the blond and parts the curtain again.
The wrecked parking lot of the Knights Inn near the Titans’ stadium is empty, but that means nothing.
They could be waiting. There’s no other way out, though.
He searches the body of the dead man, comes up with another gun and a decent switchblade.
He pockets that, then moves to the door.
He tenses, controls his breathing, then throws open the door, moving into the space before anyone can come through.
He clears the catwalk, sees no immediate threats, then hurries to the stairwell and down to the parking lot.
He is three steps from the asphalt when the shots ring out.
He takes one bullet to his leg, and another grazes his arm. The pain collapses him, and he rolls to the ground. Fuck. Fuck!
Moments later, the blond stands over him with a sneer.
“Where’s the money, Andrew?” He steps onto Trey’s leg, right where the bullet has torn through the meat, and white-hot agony explodes through his body.
All Trey can do is groan. He tries to roll into a ball but can’t. He’s pinned, staring into the single black eye of the blond’s weapon. Blood is leaking to the pavement below him. This is not good.
“Who are you?” he gasps.
“That doesn’t matter. Where’s the money? Tell me, and I might let her live.”
They can’t kill him. But they can make his life hell. And they can hurt Brooklyn or the kids. Even with his family under guard, he knows these men are vicious and will stop at nothing to punish him. He won’t let that happen.
“If you hurt her—”
Another shot, this time fractionally to the left of his head. Gravel sprays up and covers his face. He spits dirt.
“Get motivated, real quick, or she’ll end up like that sweet little wife you had.
A knife in her gut, bleeding out onto the living room floor.
How did that one feel? I’ll make sure that this time, it’s worse.
I’ll make you watch as I gut her. And I’ll make it last. Like I did with your parents.
That was much more fun. God, your mother screamed . . . Now, where’s the fucking money?”
Fury burns through him. Trey raises his gun hand slowly, as if in surrender, and the second the blond relaxes, he rears up with his left hand.
The switchblade plants itself in the blond’s torso, and Trey shoves him backward.
The man falls hard, and Trey scrambles to one leg.
His right is useless; he drags it behind him as he scurries to the bike.
An arm around his neck yanks him backward. He’s already off balance and goes down again. The blond is on top of him now, straddling his waist, the knife still sticking out of his chest.
Trey watches in horror as the man slides the hilt away from his body. The blade comes free, and blood trickles down the blond’s chest. He grins, and it sends a frisson of fear through Trey’s body. He struggles and bucks, trying to throw the man off, but he’s too weak.
“You missed.”
Trey sees the rock coming down, and then there is darkness.