“I don’t trust you.”
He shrugs. “Your call.”
“Our deal?”
“You swear on your brother’s life you’ll honor your side?” He says, knowing damn well how much I value Saxon.
“I swear on Saxon’s life, I’ll honor my side. I haven’t said shit so far, and I won’t, as long as you get the Cabal to forget about me—and Saxon.”
He nods. “You have a deal.” He juts his chin at the phone. “Someone’s got your girl, huh?”
I nod. “Her father. He’s a militia fuck wannabe with a mean streak a mile deep. Beat the fuck out of her regularly. Sold her to his friend who raped her six ways to Sunday every day for a year and a half.”
Lizzy’s eyes go hard and mean with the fury of a woman who’s experienced that shit. “You better go kill those assholes, Malik, or you won’t get near this pussy ever again.”
Malik eyes her. “You can’t live without this dick, baby, you know that.”
Lizzy’s eyes spark fire. “And you know what I came out of. You’re the one who got me out of it.Get them, Malik.”
Malik sighs. “Fine, fine.” He glances at me, hands up. “Truce? Let me get dressed and we’ll go get your girl.”
I hesitate.
He sighs. “Si, I never believed you snitched. You were always a class act. I knew you never had the stomach for that shit. Honestly, I expected you a long fuckin’ time ago. I got no quarrel with you, And if you want the truth, I’ve been trying for years to get us out of human trafficking. I’m close, too. Now. Come on, get that gun away from me so I can put on clothes. Let’s get your girl…old friend.”
the last battle
Naomi
Everything hurts. My ribs are re-injured; breathing is agony. The pain, however, serves me. I’m intimately familiar with pain, with the way it ebbs and flows. I know how to function through pain that would likely paralyze most others. And now, it serves as motivation to stay alert, serves to fuel my seething rage and boiling fury.
The men who have me are idiots. They haven’t bound me at all; I’m just loose in the third row of the battered, rusty, smelly, oversized old Suburban. No one is watching me. They didn’t even search me, they just took my pistol away and hauled me to their SUV. I still have my flashlight as well as the knife on my belt; how they managed to miss the knife, I can’t fathom. It’s not exactly small.
They have the windows down, country music playing, and they’re passing a thick joint around between the four of them, laughing, joking, and ignoring me.
I could probably kill at least one of them before they managed to re-subdue me, but I don’t know the first thing about using a knife as a weapon, and I’m not sure I want to try. Especially not now, in a moving vehicle taking me farther and farther away from Silas.
Some instinct, also, is telling me to bide my time. Just wait—not yet.
I spend my time examining the vest I’m wearing, and discover something fantastic: there’s enough of a gap between my body, the vest, and the gap of my cleavage that I can probably hide the knife there. They didn’t even take the whole belt, just snatched the gun out of my hand. Working slowly and quietly, I undo the belt, slip the sheath off the belt, and then tuck the knife down my vest, inside my shirt between my breasts, the weight of it supported by my bra. It’s heavy, awkward, and hellishly uncomfortable, but it’s hidden.
My gaze happens to fall on the floor, and I see a length of black paracord partly under the seat, left over from something or other and discarded. I watch the men smoking pot, and they’re growing increasingly goofy and idiotic. I wrap the paracord loosely around my wrists behind my back, giving the appearance that I’ve been properly bound. I have to hold it in place with my fingers so it doesn’t just fall off, but that’s easy enough.
The joint is down to a tiny little butt the men have to pinch between the tips of their fingers and suck at noisily. Their laughter is slow, and they laugh at everything, clapping each other on the shoulders and punching arms—they’re jubilant, like victorious warriors returning home after a pitched battle against a mighty enemy.
Good job, guys, you managed to capture one untrained girl with a single pistol. Real warriors, you are.
Disgust surges through me, and I let it further fuel my rage. I’m fairly vibrating with hate and fury so potent I have to control my breathing. I barely feel the pain.
Iwill notgo back. I’ll die first, and I’ll take as many of my father’s men with me as I can. I don’t even feel guilty for the lives I’ve taken. I may later, but I’m so flush with adrenaline and anger at the lifetime of abuse I’ve suffered that it doesn’t register.
My fucking father. I hate him. He acts like he owns me, like I’m his property, of no more value than a pig or a goat or a bag of potatoes. His to do with as he sees fit. I’m not a person to him, not a woman, not his daughter.
I’m spiraling into a rage, and I can’t stop it and don’t try. It’s not an incoherent rage, though, not a berserk, mindless fury. No, this is cold, calculated, and vindictive.
I’m done being a victim.
I am Naomi, and I am no man’s victim.
