Working in my favor, however, is the fact that A1S is on the case. Rush is on the case. They're looking for me, at least. I don't know who this kid is or why he's suddenly so important to Mercado, but I have to imagine if he's involved, people are looking for him. Hopefully, good people who are dangerous to these very bad people.
My fury is a simmer, bubbling away just beneath the surface, hot and full of seething violence and ready to boil over at any moment. I have to wait. I have to bide my time. I have to keep my fury banked until the moment is right.
Which means I have to stop baiting Pugli.
And then…an idea occurs to me.
A very bad idea.]
But I'm far, far too impatient and reckless to sit around and wait to be rescued.
Anatoly returns a while later with two large brown paper bags filled with white Styrofoam clamshells which contain a variety of Tex-Mex dishes. Pugli selects what he wants first, and then Anatoly, leaving Ren and me what's left. Which is fine—there's a chicken quesadilla with beans and rice and a giant burrito, also with a side of beans and rice. Ren takes the quesadilla and nibbles at it, making the occasional face, muttering to himself in Spanish. I hear the words "Mamá and "Comida." Mama's food was better, or something like that.
No shit, kid. Tex-Mex from a crappy restaurant in the middle of nowhere can't touch a Hispanic Mama's home cooking.
So far, Pugli has claimed one bed, leaving the other for Ren and me, while Anatoly eats at the small desk in the corner by the window. Once he's done eating, Anatoly stands at the foot of the bed Ren and I are on, the TV remote in his hands.
Here we go.
"Move, bitch."
I can't help it. "Get out the way, get out the way…move, bitch,” I chant, finishing the line from the song.
He blinks at me, confused. "Shut the fuck up, bitch, and get off the bed. Is mine. The little shit, too."
Pugli ignores this exchange, although I note his gaze flicking to us briefly before returning to his phone.
“You know," I say, "You keep calling me a bitch like it's the worst thing you can think of. What's funny about that is I really am a bitch and I know it. So, do you think you can come up with a different insult? Or is that too taxing for your pathetic little squirrel brain?"
Out comes the gun, as expected. He braces his hand on the edge of the bed and levels the gun at my knee. "I will call you bitch or anything I like and you will shut the fuck up about it, whore.”
I do a mocking little series of claps. "Good boy! You learned a new word! Can you spell it with me? W…H…O…R…E. Whore!"
Anatoly's eye legit twitches. "That is it. You learn a lesson now, stupid American whore." I shove Ren unceremoniously off the bed as Anatoly lunges for me, grabbing my ankle and hauling me toward himself with the gun pointed in my general direction.
Cue the pain, dumbfuck.
My hands are still bound, but I'm a woman: my real physical strength is in my legs, and a lot of my self-defense lessons have been focused on situations exactly like this, where my hands are bound and I have to perpetrate violence on assholes.
I curl my body in on itself, yanking Anatoly toward me by his grip on my ankle. He topples forward, off-balance, gun-hand smacking into the mattress to catch himself; I kick him as hard as I can, square in the nose with my other foot as his momentum carries him forward. His nose crunches with a beautifully brutal crack of cartilage, loosing a curtain of blood and ripping a howl of shocked pain from Anatoly.
He braces himself with his gun-hand and puts his other to his nose—perhaps five seconds have elapsed. Pugli's attention is just starting to cut to us, his mouth opening to settle our squabble as if we're recalcitrant children on a road trip: Now, now, kids, don't fight or I'll turn this car around.
I hook my legs around Anatoly's neck, bracing one thigh against his torso for leverage. I roll hard against the leverage point, and I'm rewarded by the loud, sickening crack of his neck snapping. I already have his gun in my hand, Anatoly's now-dead body locked between my thighs. We're only a handful of feet apart, but Pugli is moving, rolling off the bed as he recognizes what's happening—there's no chance of a headshot, so I pop off a quick pair of shots at his torso.
I fucking hit the bastard, dammit, square over the heart—I know my aim is dead-on at this range. But there's no blood—just the flutter of his suit jacket and shirt as the bullets strike…revealing the black of a bullet-resistant vest underneath.
Dammit—Rush did the same thing. I should’ve remembered, should’ve gone for the headshot.
Pugli hits the ground groaning. I wish to god my hands weren't bound. Anatoly left the key fob for the Range Rover on the desk by the door—I shove the gun in my hip pocket, scoop Ren off the floor with my bound hands, and drag him to the exit. He finds his feet and scrambles into a run, leaving my hands free to grab the keys.
Pugli is on the floor, gasping for breath, eyes wide with pain, panic, and rage. Ren has the door open for me, and we rush outside into the hot black night. An amber lamp flickers at one edge of the motel's parking lot, casting short, stuttering shadows. Despite the gunshots, no one has come to investigate. Lovely.
I bolt for the driver's door, transferring the keyring to my teeth so I have my bound hands free for the door handle. Yank it open, physically hurling Ren in; the boy wastes no time scrabbling over the console to the passenger seat as I throw myself in after him. The gun topples out of my pocket and wedges between my hip and the console—stupid girl jeans with these stupid, useless tiny pockets. If I were a dude wearing dude jeans, I could fit a whole-ass AK-47 in my hip pocket, and maybe an extra mag or two. Girl jeans? You can barely fit a fucking key fob.
I stab the ignition button and the engine catches with a powerful snarl; I yank the shifter toward myself into Drive, thanking stupid dead Anatoly for being one of those pretentious jackasses who back into every parking spot just to show off. It means I can floor the accelerator and haul ass out of the parking lot just as Pugli staggers out of the hotel room, blasting shots after us. One shatters the rear window, the round thunking into the ceiling. Another thuds into the back of the passenger seat headrest, and a third slugs into the dashboard in front of the passenger seat—good thing Ren is a smart boy, having curled his tiny body down inside the footwell the moment the rear window shattered.
Driving with your hands bound is tricky, it turns out, something that probably should be covered by training. I'm all over the place as I wrench the wheel around to get the big, heavy, powerful SUV onto the road—we go flying as I launch over a curb, tires barking as they catch pavement, the body rolling precariously. Ren chatters in scared, panicked Spanish. I have to ignore him for now, though. Just drive. I get the heavy, powerful Range Rover under control, gunning it for the freeway. I have no doubt Pugli can track this thing—if this Connor dude is even half as skilled as Uncle Lear, following my getaway will be child's play. I just have to stay free and find a way to contact my family.
