Fracture(40)

*****





“What the fuck do you mean, the place was empty?”

Callum, one of my boys, cautiously words the information he needs to tell me, knowing full well how much shit he’s in. I set him the task of checking in on Sloane’s place through the night and the unbelievable little motherfucker is only calling me now, at eleven fucking a.m., to tell me that the house was empty when he got there. “When did you last go by the place?” I demand.

He’s silent for a long time. And then, “Midnight.” I can hear the wince in his voice.

I hope he can hear the murder in mine. “Say again? Because I swear you just said midnight, when I told you to go by every two hours.”

“I know, Zee. But the place is miles from anything, man! Took me an hour just to find it. I figured no one else was gonna be headed up that sketchy road in the dark. It’s fucking dangerous!”

“You know what’s fucking dangerous?” I growl in a low voice. “Me. I’m fucking dangerous, and right now I’m close to flying back to Seattle so I can personally fuck you up. You feel me?”

“I’m sorry, Zee! Seriously, I’m gonna find them, I swear.”

“No you’re not. You’re gonna tell me what you found when you went up there.” My voice grows quieter and lower with each and every word; anyone who knows me well enough knows this is not a good thing.

“There were deep tire tracks. Not from the doc’s car, though. That was all fucked up, still parked by the house. And there were a lot of footprints and skid marks in the mud. Guess it looked like something had been dragged or some shit.”

“Dragged or some shit? You’re really filling me with pleasant thoughts right now, Callum. Do you know what it feels like to have your fingers broken one by one? ’Cause the prospect of showing you is sounding more and more enjoyable by the second. Where. Are. They?”

“I don’t know, boss. I’m gonna find out, though. Right now!”

The phone goes dead. I grit my teeth together, screwing my eyes shut and clasping my hands around the thing until it creaks under the pressure. I take a moment. Swallow hard. Inhale a deep breath.

Today has not started off well.

An unsettled, frantic twisting has my stomach practically boiling. What the fuck is wrong with me? My palms are sweating like crazy and my heart is thundering so fast it almost feels like it’s battling to get away from me. I stand up, feeling slightly lightheaded.

Breathe, for fuck’s sake, I tell myself. Fucking breathe. But it doesn’t seem to help. The last time I felt like this was when the bars on my cell in prison slammed shut on the first night in Chino and I realized I was fucked. Totally vulnerable. At the will of another man. I hadn’t lived like that since before, with my uncle. And I’d sworn I would never again. I’d let myself panic on that first night, and then I had shut everything down. Decided that they could put me behind bars and tell me when I could eat and when I could shower and when I could exercise, but there was no fucking way they were gonna tell me how I was gonna feel about it. After that I’d walked around with my head held high, daring anyone to try and test me. To try and push me. There had been no obligatory fight with another inmate to prove how tough I was when I began my stint in Chino. I’d been a walking invitation, an open offer for anyone to be stupid enough to try. None had. Not once. The feeling of helplessness had vanished after that, and I realized I was in control in a few small ways, even inside prison.

But not now. The feeling wrenches through my insides, knotting everything together into one painful gathering of intestines, organs, muscle and blood.

Completely fucking unacceptable.

I don’t know where they are.

I don’t know where she is.

I don’t know how to get to them.

There’s nothing I can do.

But I need to do something. I have to. I snatch up my jacket, testing the weight to make sure the Camaro keys are still inside. I’ll drive all day and all night if I have to. I’m going to find those girls. My girls. My girl.

On the other side of the door, Julio and one of the guards from the entrance the other night, the tall one, are already heading down the hallway, serious looks firmly plastered onto their faces. A serious look on a Mexican gang lord is a bad sign. When Julio is suspicious or considers himself threatened, he acts to the contrary; he smiles. When he suspects someone is playing him for a fool, taking liberties, spying and generally fucking around in business he has no right to be fucking around in, that’s when the smile disappears.

“Going somewhere, ese?” Julio asks. There’s no brother here now. Only a mild contempt that lets me know I’m truly screwed. Ese’s the kind of name reserved only for other Hispanics. Julio’s using it ironically, pointing out that I don’t belong here. That he knows something is seriously up. The guard at his side is carrying a gun tucked in the front of his waistband, thumb hooked obviously in the belt alongside it.