Can I be her when I grow up?
Gives me something to focus on, a reason to keep my wits about me, stay calm, and when the opportunity arises, raise hell and hope La Víbora is as vicious a killer as I'm picturing.
Forty-five minutes is a long time when you're awake, bound, and staring at the ceiling with nothing to do but think and wait.
We must arrive at whatever location Luis gave to Pugli, because we stop, engine running, and both Pugli and Anatoly get out. They're gone about five minutes and then return, Pugli on the phone.
"…Just fucking find them, Connor! I don't care what you have to do. Fucking find them. I'll give you an incentive, alright? If you locate my quarry for me, I'll give you a bonus that will make your holiday bonus look like a pittance. Call it…a quarter million? And if you fail to locate them, I will take your girlfriend and your new infant son and I will rape your girlfriend myself while you watch and then throw your child out a fucking window. Alright? I don't want to, Connor. Really, I don't. Harming children gives me no pleasure. But I require results. Understand? Very good."
Jesus. This is how he treats his employees? Good lord. Succeed and I'll pay you a quarter million dollars. Fail, and I’ll rape your girlfriend in front of you and defenestrate your infant son. Charming.
A few minutes later, there's the burble of his cell phone.
"Connor. See? I knew you could do it. Excellent work. Yes, yes, Olivia and James are safe." Pause. "Your bonus should hit your account within twenty-four hours. Keep your phone on and within reach, though. I doubt I'm through with your services."
We're in motion again, racing this time. The powerful engine bellows as Anatoly floors the accelerator, and I'm thrown backward. I'm hoping they don't know I'm awake yet, so I have no choice but to go limp and let the momentum roll me like a rag doll.
We're only in motion for maybe ten or fifteen minutes when our brakes bite and tires squeal, and I’m rolled back the other way, slamming into the back of the second row bench.
"There!" Pugli shouts. "They're running. Anatoly, get them. And remember, the boy is important so you can’t hurt him. He's a little boy so you should have no problem restraining him without causing harm." A door opens, stays open. Pugli sighs. "The poor man is still alive? Good heavens. Well, best end his suffering."
Another door opens and stays open. I risk detection to lever myself so I can see out the window. An old, battered silver pickup truck is angled across the shoulder, halfway into the ditch beyond—I can just make out the silhouette of a man slumped over the steering wheel. I can see hints of movement, but he looks weak.
Pugli, in that impeccable stone-colored suit, strides toward him, withdrawing a pistol from a shoulder-holster and I shit you not, the thing is platinum-plated. What'd I say? Fancy gun for a man compensating for something…
Such as a lack of a soul, and probably a very small dick.
Pugli levels his pistol at the man behind the wheel and blasts a hole in the side of his head, replaces the gun, and then swaggers back this way. He doesn't get in the car, though, but rather leans his backside against the hood of the Range Rover, watching as Anatoly jogs across a wide, empty field. I see two figures running in the distance, one larger and one smaller.
Anatoly isn't even running very hard, but he catches up easily. He cracks the woman across the head with his gun, scoops the boy up over his shoulder, and marches back this way.
The woman scrambles to her feet and follows, begging, pleading, battering her fists on his back, grabbing at the boy…Anatoly ignores it for a while, and then when he gets fed up, he pistol-whips her again. She goes down once more, writhing and scrabbling at the tall grass.
Oh, god.
Stay down, lady. It's all you can do. They'll kill you.
She gets up.
No, no, no.
I watch, unblinking, eyes tearing up, as Anatoly strides toward us with the boy over his shoulder; the boy struggles and fights with admirable ferocity, for all the good it does him.
The woman staggers toward her son. Her face is a mask of blood, but she's visibly distraught, scared, and hurt. Sinks to her knees, arms outstretched, pleading, sobbing.
Casual as you please, Pugli draws his pistol, stalks with singular purpose toward the woman, halts a couple feet away, levels his pistol at her, and blows her brains out. The boy sees the whole thing from Anatoly’s back, watching as she slumps bonelessly to the ground.
The boy’s screams reach me, awful and shrill.
I flop to the floor when Anatoly strides this way with the boy's thrashing form.
"Anatoly, wait." Pugli puts his gun away and slimes his way over to the hatch of the Range Rover, opens it. "You can end the charade, Miss Harris. I know you're awake."
I open my eyes and glare at him.
He indicates the boy. "Keep him calm. The calculus is different, now. I have leverage over Mercado that isn't you. Which means I can keep you for myself. So what I’ll say is this, my dear: you keep the boy calm and I’ll keep your suffering short. If you do not keep him calm, I’ll chain you to my bed and show you the true meaning of suffering.” He leans in, dark eyes insectile in their cold, lifeless savagery. "I might even give you a taste of what was done to me to make me this way, since as you so astutely pointed out, evil things were indeed done to me. I learned to enjoy them, in time, but I doubt you will." The real threat is in the void of his gaze more than the horror of his words. "Do you understand me?"
I nod once.
