Текст книги "End of the Innocence"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Chapter 62
Brad moved, taking the steps quickly, moving down the aisle, crushing delicate petals in his wake, strides increasing as he passed through the crowd, fixated on and anxious to get through that arch and into the arms of his bride. His mind struggled with the possibilities that were battling for attention—all of the reasons why she hadn’t walked down that aisle.
He burst through the opening, entering the ornate lobby, his eyes skimming over the few individuals there, looking for a white dress, then her face, then any sign that would point him to her. A blonde stepped forward, clipboard in hand, a tight face that screamed ‘problem.’ He focused on her, recognizing her features: one of the overpaid wedding planners Rebecca had insisted on. “Where is she?”
“She ... ahh ...” Her hands flapped nervously, a clipboard still in one hand, creating a puff of air. He had the urge to grab them, submit them into stillness.
“Where is she?!”
“We don’t know. We haven’t seen her this morning, and she isn’t answering her phone.” The calm voice behind him caused him to turn, and he looked to a brunette with a direct stare. The other planner. This one seemed to have a hold on her emotions, something he appreciated.
“And no one planned on telling me?”
“We thought it was cold feet. It still could be. It’s common, though the brides normally arrive by the start of the wedding.”
“It’s not that. She wouldn’t do that.” And she wouldn’t. If Julia was having second thoughts, or had decided not to wed, she would have told him. Communication had never been a problem between them, even if they didn’t like what the other person had to say. He pulled out his phone and called the police.
Holding the phone away from his mouth, he spoke to the woman. “Get the bridesmaids. Have them call her roommates and find out when they saw her last. And get all of these people out of here.”
She nodded and turned, walking off with quick and efficient strides. Stevie walked in and Brad snapped his fingers, catching his attention. Covering the phone with his hand, he communicated everything to Stevie in one determined look. “My father. Find out where he is.”
Chapter 63
A. Arm Across. I moved, wrapping my legs around his torso and pulling him tightly to my body, my left hand grabbing his right arm and shoving it across his body. He fell toward me, his eyes meeting mine in surprise.
S. Scoot away. I moved quickly, sliding my body away from him, pushing him down my chest. He swung his free arm upward, but the additional space made him unable to reach my face.
L. Leg over his shoulder. Putting his trapped arm in my other hand I waited until he reached back with his free hand and then I swung my leg over his shoulder, his head now trapped between my legs. He gritted his teeth, glaring at me, struggling to free himself.
Brazilian Jujitsu was developed with one main focus: to allow smaller and weaker practitioners to defeat much larger and stronger opponents, using leverage in ways that couldn’t be overcome by strength or size. I had practiced this move for five months, able to easily submit Brad, a man of massive proportions and strength. This man, a hundred and seventy pounds of coward, caught off-guard and unprepared, was a cakewalk.
A. Ankle. I released his hand and grabbed my raised ankle, tucking it under my other leg and tightened my legs, causing a scissoring motion to occur on his neck.
P. Press Head. Pressing down on his head, I squeezed my legs.
The triangle choke did not kill through asphyxiation; instead it restricted blood flow to the head while making breathing difficult, causing the victim to pass out. I held tightly, unable to see his eyes, staring at the top of his head, a head that struggled, his free arm reaching but unable to inflict damage, and knew the minute that unconsciousness hit, his entire body going limp against me. I continued the hold, using the time to look around the room, taking my first assessment of the space. It was a small room, consisting of the bed we now laid on and little more. White linoleum floors, one metal folding chair, a squat counter, trash littering its surface. The door to the room was closed, giving me no clue into what lay behind it or if it was locked. I had two options at this point: release the man, giving myself anywhere between thirty seconds and a minute before he would gain consciousness; or, I could maintain the hold for another four minutes, until his brain starved for oxygen and he died.
I tightened the hold and waited, starting a slow countdown in my head.
♦♦♦
Very few people have held the life of another in their hands. Have had the horrific opportunity of choosing whether someone lived or died. I had no desire to kill this man. Horribly maim and disfigure him, yes. Lock him away in prison, yes. Death was a sentence I was not equipped to give. And four minutes was a long time to contemplate, a long time to calculate the time I would need to escape. But thirty seconds to escape, when facing a closed door, with no idea of what was on the other side—it was not enough time. So my choice was clear. Save him or save myself.
One minute. I looked down; the only part of the man visible was the top of his head. Spiky hair, thin enough that I could see pale skin underneath. I wondered if he had a family. If I was killing an innocent child’s father. I closed my eyes, forced myself to breathe, and counted. Listened hard to see if I heard anyone. Four minutes was a long time. I could be putting myself at risk waiting that long. Maybe it’d be smarter to stop. To release him and run like hell. Pray that a clean exit lay on the other side of that door.
Two minutes. My arms were tired. I had a cramp in my right bicep, a cramp that was screaming for attention. I shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, and second-guess my plan. I was killing this man. This was not a movie, or a book. He was dying, the life leaving him with each passing second, and would never wake up again. Would never hug his wife, or kiss his daughter. Would I be able to handle this? Was this one move that would mentally fuck me up for the rest of my life? And how selfish was I that my main concern, while killing someone, was about the physiological impact on myself? I focused on my breathing and told my whiny bicep to man the fuck up. I forced myself to slow my counting, and listen, but could hear nothing from outside the door.
Three minutes. Who did this man work for? Why was I taken? I thought I was safe, a non-issue. I thought Brad’s family would stay away, and any slight risk from outsiders would start after my marriage. I can’t do it. No matter who this man was, what his purpose, I couldn’t kill him. Maybe I wasn’t mentally strong enough. Maybe I wasn’t cruel enough. Three minutes had been long enough. Long enough for him to still live.
I moved before I could second-guess the decision, shoved his weight off my body, his mass hitting the floor with a dull sound. I avoided his face, avoided the slack expression of unconsciousness staring accusingly out at me. I sat up, swinging my legs off the bed, testing the stability of my limbs before standing. My head roared with pain, my throat was dry, and I was still naked from the waist down. I glanced over and saw gray fabric, my pants from last night, bunched in a heap on the floor, purple panties peeking out of the sweats. I yanked the clothing on, rushing to the door and twisting the knob, letting out a moan of relief when it turned. I hesitated, unsure of what lay on the other side, then yanked hard, bursting through the door and into an empty hallway.
Twenty seconds.
I ran, worn linoleum underneath, my eyes picking up and processing items as I moved. I seemed to be underground, the hall artificially lit, the rooms I passed windowless and dark. It was almost empty, my eyes picking up on offices and storage rooms flying past. I saw the sign for a stairwell and flung open the door, headed up the empty stairwell, my bare feet quiet on concrete steps. As I climbed, I thought, trying to plan some sort of strategy if I encountered someone. I had no weapon, no phone, weak arms and legs, exhausted from four minutes of exertion. It was a depressing equation my brain had no solution for.
I reached the first floor landing and said a silent prayer, pressing on the door. I moved through it into a short hallway and was then in an open space, some sort of a showroom, display boards lining faux walls, multiple kitchens and bathrooms back to back, carpet samples and tile choices covering a center open space. I turned, scanning, looking for the one thing I needed: an exit.
Ten seconds. Then I heard it. Salvation and damnation in one moment—a door opening, an electronic chime announcing its movement. Someone’s here.
I ducked, crawling on all fours until I was in a kitchen, an impressive Viking stove in between me and the door. I waited, holding my breath, listening to the sound of footsteps across the floor, casual and unhurried, the rustle of a plastic bag accompanying them. My lungs bursting, I inhaled slowly, trying to mask the sound with my hands. Then I heard the stairwell door open, banging shut on its return trip. It had taken me less than fifteen seconds to run through those halls and up those stairs. His trip would be slower, leisurely in its steps, but short all the same, meaning I needed to move now. I ran, heading for the door, almost weeping when it came into view, my hands slipping as they reached for the bar, yanking hard on the metal. A loud clang sounded through the room, the sound of metal hitting unyielding metal, the door barely budging. Locked.
Chapter 64
“Your fiancée is missing, on her wedding day, and you wanna talk to the police chief?” The woman’s voice drawled through the phone, skepticism lacing every word.
“Yes. This is Brad De Luca, he will want to take my call.”
“I don’t care who you are—if you and the chief are such close buds, then call his cell. This is a line reserved for emergencies, not your girlfriend who decided not to walk down the aisle.”
“I did call his cell, and left a message.”
She snorted. “Then I guess he don’t want to take your call.”
“Goddammit, this is not a case of a runaway bride. This is foul play. Page. The. Chief.”
“Missing. Persons. Require. Twenty-four hours. Unless you got a bloody scene you wanna point us to, you need to call back after twenty-four hours have passed. I’ll leave a note for the chief with your number. If he wants to call you back before then, he can.”
He gritted his teeth, releasing a string of expletives when she ended the call. He turned, seeing his father before him, Stevie by his side. So the man had shown up.
“Is there a problem, Brad?”
“Come with me,” he said tightly, striding past the pair.
They moved, a staggered group of three, his father taking his time and depending heavily on his cane, his back erect and head up as he walked carefully behind Brad. They moved into a rectory office, Brad closing the door behind his father and waiting until he took a seat to speak.
“I don’t care how you do it, I don’t care if we kill half the city and bribe every street thug in a ten-mile radius, but you find her NOW. Put a hundred thousand dollar bounty on her alive head.”
His father chuckled, his hand caressing the head of his cane. “Suddenly you are a fan of our work? You have mocked us for years, yet now need our help?” He tilted his head shrewdly, his eyes meeting Brad’s. “I told you the girl wouldn’t last, that she didn’t care. And now? What if I say no to your demand?
“You won’t.”
The air grew hot as the two men regarded each other, one calm and composed, the other a bundle of electric heat. “Don’t test me, son.”
“Don’t test me. You have no idea of what I would do for her.”
♥♥♥
I pushed and pulled on the doors handle in disbelief, panic flooding like hot liquid through me. Locked. I fumbled, my hands finding an upper deadbolt and I flipped it, trying the door again and almost crying with relief when it moved, pulling open, the announcement chime reminding me that I needed to get the fuck outta Dodge.
Daylight. I was instantly relieved and afraid, the sun exposing me in the worst way possible. My bare feet flew down a broken sidewalk, my eyes looking everywhere, alighting on an industrial street, warehouses and closed businesses lining its streets. Saturday. It was, unless I had slept through days, Saturday. Someplace had to be open. What place could I trust?
I was open, exposed, the lone individual on the street, and I searched for a side street, a place to hide. I was suddenly afraid to stop a stranger, should I encounter one, my paranoia not knowing whom to trust. Escape. I needed to put distance between my prison and myself. Any moment the door could burst open behind me. Any moment I could be back in that room. From somewhere to my left, I heard an engine roar, the chirp of tires as a sharp corner was turned at too fast of a speed. I ran up the steps of a closed tire store and hid behind a large UPS drop box. The car slowed, a white truck driving past without stopping, my ears telling me what my eyes could not—they had not seen me, or they didn’t care about a barefoot girl tucked in an filthy doorway.
I waited until the engine sound faded, then stood, stepping back onto the sidewalk and running as fast as I could, the beat of my feet not catching up with the pounding of my heart.
♦♦♦
The criminal underbelly came to life in a citywide search for Julia Campbell. Her photo was circulated, her plate number scribbled down on the back of receipts and stuffed into dirty pockets, mingling with stale cigarettes and loose change. The price on her head was high, especially for a non-felony action. Find a beautiful brunette and deliver her to De Luca. Piece of cake for the lucky man who stumbled upon her. The fact that she was a future Magiano had no effect. Money was money, and a hundred grand was a universal motivator.
The man came to on a dirty floor, his shoulders shaken roughly, a familiar face in his line of sight. “Wake the fuck up!” He blinked, the urgency in the man’s voice letting him know that something was wrong. But what? Something had happened. Something... fuck. He pushed the man off, reaching out—pushing off the floor, trying to stand, trying to stop the spin of the room—but failed. He fell to his knees, held his head, and tried to think.
“Where is she?” the man’s hoarse voice broke through his fog.
“I don’t know,” he gritted out. “Find her.”
The man above him straightened, moving quickly to the doorway and out of sight. The man blinked, his senses returning, the fog lifting. He rose slowly and walked forward, gained stability on his legs as he moved out of the room and into the hall. Pulling his cell from his pocket, he took the time to re-zip his pants, buckle his belt, his mind working through what this would mean, the consequences that would occur if she was not found. He glanced in doorways as he walked, unsure of where to go, upstairs or downstairs, every dark room a place where she could be hiding. Then the call was answered and he stopped, his mind and feet coming to a resolute silence. “We have a problem.”
He explained the situation, and then waited, making a decision and jogging up the stairwell steps.
The man on the other end spoke. “I’m sending a team. Stay in the building, make sure it is locked, and search every inch of it. Pull the security tapes and find out what happened. Get your head on straight and fucking tell me something other than that she’s gone. Call me when you know more.”
The call was ended, a dead silence meeting his ears. He stood in the hallway, perspiring despite the cool air. He shouldn’t have touched her. Should have sat in that room, gun in hand, and watched. He took a few slow steps, moving toward the electrical room, where the security tapes should grant some explanation of recent events. How long he was out, where she had gone. He should be more aware, but his feet felt heavy, sluggish, like lead was in his shoes. The girl could be anywhere. He could be killed next, his steps never making the complete path to the electrical room. He wondered distractedly if this was what the steps of the damned felt like. Because he was certainly the one the blame would come to rest on. And in this organization, as the case with others, blame always came with consequences.
Chapter 65
The inability to do anything was paralyzing, wrapping a fist around Brad’s heart and squeezing the life out of it. He had bribed, threatened, and begged every contact he knew, questioned Julia’s roommates, friends, and neighbors, searching for anything, any observation or piece of information that might bring her back to him. Late afternoon he had finally spoken to the chief, had gotten them to place a trace on the last signal her phone had sent out. The location had come back on the north side of town, in a residential area that had no connections to anything. They searched and found the phone crushed and tossed on the side of the road, no prints on it. Brad had lost it at the news, punching the closest wall repeatedly until his hand was a mess of blood. He should have overpowered her request, put the damn tracker on her SUV. He had bought the BMW for her; it wouldn’t have been that ridiculous to insist that it be traceable. But she had refused, her face strong, eyes fiery, a stubbornness to her posture that he found irresistible. So he had yielded, letting her have her way, a decision that might cost her life.
Their family had too many enemies, the possibilities for who had taken her too great. But the logic behind it was questionable. He had assumed she was safe as his fiancée; he had been slack in protection coverage because it made no sense for another family to cause her harm. Once married to him, as time progressed and different families warred with the Magianos, there would be times when their life would be at greater risk than others. Diminished risk, since he was estranged from the family, but risk all the same. But right now was a time of peace, everyone coloring inside the lines and minding their own business. For a family to make waves and take a woman, a woman on her wedding day, one who was marrying an estranged member of the most powerful crime family in the city ... the elements were all wrong.
It could be a random crime, one of thousands that occurred each week in the city. Young, attractive women disappeared every day, most never to resurface, sold in the sex trade or killed and disposed of. Another possibility, one he had fought with, defended against entry to his mind, was that his family was involved. The shepherd eliminating new sheep from entrance to the flock. That should not be a possibility. His father had promised to leave her alone, and had never broken a promise before. In their family, their word was everything. That was why he typically despised the words coming out of his father’s mouth. Because they were ugly in their truth, indicative of his father’s real and rotten nature. Now, with that history of truth, he refused to believe that his father threw away a lifetime of ‘honor’ over one twenty-two year old girl.
Then again, Julia had disrespected him. Stood her ground and spoke to him in a manner no one else had dared in over three decades. Anyone who had was now dead. She had been a slap in his face from the moment she had entered his life. They had, with this marriage, forced his acceptance of her. And Dom Magiano didn’t like to be forced into anything. So, with all that considered, maybe he had acted. Maybe he had thrown his honor aside for a slice of vengeance. Brad sent a silent prayer upward, making promises he couldn’t keep, trying to bribe The One who couldn’t be bribed. Anything to get her back. Anything.
Chapter 66
My feet tired first, not from the exercise, but from injury. They were raw, dirt caking into cuts from gravel, rough cement, and small pebbles on pavement. I ran on sidewalks when I could, stopping frequently to hide when a car passed. I needed to find a minivan—a minivan driven by an overweight soccer mom with three adorable kids, preferably listening to Christian music. But minivans didn’t pass through this part of town. This was the area of truck stops, seedy gas stations, lumberyards, and warehouses. At one point I saw a cab, two blocks over, moving slowly through the streets, its top light off. I hesitated, then let it pass. Paranoia dominated my thoughts, every person, car, and business a trap, designed to catch me and deliver me back to those who wished me harm. To make everything worse, my headache, dull when I had woken, was now a full-fledged jackhammer, the pain causing occasional spots in my vision and a piercing pain when I would lean over to rest. I had vomited twice, the horrible aftertaste residing in my dry mouth, and was thirsty, my throat and body begging for liquid of some sort. I eyed puddles as I passed, their dark pools dotted with oil and waste, cursing the lack of public water fountains in industrial areas. In addition to my head and my feet, my shoulder throbbed, every swing of my arms stretching a muscle that screamed in response. There was a bandage there, the adhesive on its edges pulling on my skin, and my mind itched with the desire to pull it off, to reveal whatever it was that it hid. But I didn’t. I ran, I hid, I ran, and I thirsted.
I headed toward the sound of quiet, heading away from the noise of the highway, hoping to find a residential area, a place of libraries, well-kept homes with flower boxes, supermarkets, and joggers equipped with cell phones. I would call Brad’s cell, wary of the police after learning of their corruption. I saw movement, the bumper of a car rolling out of an upcoming side street and immediately veered, my speed increasing as I moved down the side of a building, worried that I wouldn’t reach its end before the car passed. Or, that I would turn the corner and run into a group of thugs, trading one danger for another. I held my breath as I sprinted around the corner, hearing the rumble of engine as the car traveled down the street, my feet disappearing from sight just in time. Then I skidded to a stop as my eyes raced frantically over the scene before me.
Two vehicles. Alarming. I would have preferred an empty lot, no strangers. In this area, every individual was a potential foe, my mind not trusting anyone. I searched frantically for any sign of the car’s owners. I listened to the street behind me, and ducked behind the first car, my eyes flitting over and then focusing on a green hose, coiled on the floor beside a parking bay. Water. The hose glowed, like a spotlight was focused on it, and everything else faded to gray. I crawled behind the second car, a green truck jacked up on off-road tires, neon yellow shocks blocking my view of the building. I exhaled slowly, listening for danger, then ran, loose gravel kicked up by my raw bare feet, a few hitting the truck behind me. Water. My sole focus followed that hose, the nozzle mounted on the side of the building and my hands reached for it greedily, turning the handle rapidly and hearing the perfect, orgasmic sound of water flowing from its end. I grabbed it, pressing it directly against my open mouth, grains of dirt mixing with the initial flow, the hot water pouring down my throat in a powerful stream, too much for me to take, and I lifted my mouth briefly, gulping in air and fighting a cough, swallowing the water and pausing before lowering my mouth to the hose. This time I was more careful, sipping from the stream, the liquid turning cool, tasting better than it ever had, my starved body drinking it like it would never stop, a need that would never be fulfilled.
I finally stopped, my hand stumbling over the wall until it reached the handle and turned, the hose going limp in my hand. My stomach was physically engorged, a round ball of liquid, and I felt sleepy, my mind turning on me, becoming a drugged machine that performed at half-speed. I crawled, on my hands and knees, finding a space between the dumpster and a fence, and laid down, not minding the unyielding feel of parking lot beneath my body. At that moment, with my belly full and the weight of my body no longer carried by my feet, I was beyond content. Encased in a dumpster shield of privacy, I felt safe and secure enough to briefly close my eyes and rest.
