Текст книги "Uncaged"

Автор книги: Emilia Kincade

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Chapter Thirty Four

I can cut through the zip ties.

I suck in a deep breath of air, and begin to scratch the zip tie binding my wrists against the corner of a table. They are the thin sort of zip ties, and it shouldn’t take too long to file down the plastic.

It’s not easy work. The space between my palms is tiny, and I keep scratching them on the table. I’ve already torn the skin, and I’m dripping blood.

But I need to do this. Good thing I got a tetanus shot before coming out here.

At first I think the plastic-on-metal sound is too noisy, will alert somebody, and so I keep looking at the door, expecting a guard to burst into the small office at any second.

But he never does, and so I keep filing away. Grinding it down and down and down, until there’s just the tiniest thread of plastic holding my wrists together.

I can pull my wrists apart at any time now, but I keep them together. If I’m going to make a move, it’s best that I have the element of surprise. It’s best that I’m in a position where I can make a break for it, try to escape.

Or, if not, try to attack. I’m not going down without a fight. It’s something that I’ve decided. I will scratch and claw and punch and kick and gouge and tear and rip and bite.

I go back to the chair and sit down. I can hear voices from outside, but can’t make out what they’re saying. All I know is that I can hear Pierce’s voice. It’s deep, seems to vibrate through the concrete walls of the office I’m tucked away in.

I can hear that he’s in pain. His words are spaced, their intonation all wrong.

I know they shot him. I can feel it in my heart. I don’t know where, and I don’t know why, but I know they put a bullet in him, and it makes me furious.

They can’t just do this. They can’t torture us. It’s cowardly. It’s pathetic. These fucking mobsters are nothing but scum.

Looking at my wrists, I see my tattoo there. The Chicago skyline… as seen from the lake. It reminds me of Dad. It reminds me of home, and how, right at this moment, I’m realizing that I miss it. I miss it terribly.

I feel a surge of guilt, a pang in my gut. What if Dad knew what was happening to me?

Damn it! I promised him that I wasn’t going to get myself in trouble, and somehow, here I am, in trouble. I promised myself I wouldn’t get in trouble. I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved with Pierce.

How could he lead me anywhere else but trouble? That’s him, that’s who he is. A whirlwind, chaotic and unpredictable. He goes where he wants. I was stupid to think that I could temper that, could tame that.

And now I’m in trouble. Bad trouble.

Looking around, I realize I need more than just my hands as an exit strategy. I need a weapon, something sharp, something I can use to stab or cut.

I begin to search the small office, always keeping my ear faced toward the door. If someone is going to be coming in, I’ll need to dart back to the chair, make it look like I wasn’t up to anything.

The light overhead is mustard yellow, and it casts dark, black shadows everywhere. Everything I see is either rust brown or ink-black. I feel like I’ve stepped onto a movie set.

Frantically, I open all the drawers, trying to find a pen, or a metal ruler, something sharp that I can use. But the drawers are all empty.

Damn it! They’ve cleared the office of anything I can use. I can’t even find a pencil. The pen pot sits naked.

That’s when I notice the first aid kit on the wall. A light bulb goes off above my head. I run to the kit, open up the plastic box, and sure enough I see a pair of small scissors inside.

When they’re closed, they make a decent stabbing knife, and they’re small enough to hide. I pick them up, test their rusty blades. The scissors snap in half. The metal is so old, so rusty, it’s become brittle.

Fuck! Defeated, I go back to the chair, and the moment I sit, the door swings open. The same man walks in, a rude sneer on his face.

I pretend to be looking into the corner of the room.

“Well, love,” he says, moseying up to me. He tears the tape from my mouth, leaving my skin stinging.

“What?” I ask through gritted teeth. I don’t even look at him. I have nothing but contempt for him, and I’m not afraid to show it.

“Your lover boy is going to be fighting tonight. Again.”

I’m interested, but try to hide it. “What are you talking about?” I ask in as neutral a manner as I can.

“The Russian’s here, and they’re having a make-up fight.”

I train my eyes on the guard. “Oh?”

“And your boy’s been handicapped.”

“He’s not my boy…”

He puts his hands up. “Excuse me, missy, but you two looked very close.”

“That’s none of your business.” I pause before asking, “What are the stakes?” I don’t know the lingo, I don’t know if I’m using the right mob or gangster terminology, but I need to know.

“Stakes?”

“What happens if he wins?”

“If he wins, you and him go free.”

“And if he loses?”

“You and him don’t go at all.”

I swallow. “Bullshit,” I say.

He steps closer to me, and I can smell his cheap cologne. “Hey, love,” he says, voice low, conspiratorial. “I’m serious now. Your boy better win, or it’s the end of the line for you. You go to Mogilovich. You want to know what he’d do with a young girl like yourself?”

I grimace. “Get me out of here,” I tell him. “Get me out and I’ll make it worth your while. My Dad’s got money, we’re… we’re really rich back home. We can pay you. We can cover the lost debt.”

He grins. “Don’t think so, but I don’t blame you for trying.”

“So when’s the fight?”

“Now.” He gestures for me to get up.

“What was that sound I heard? Was it a gunshot?”

“Yes.”

“Who was shot?”

He looks at me, but doesn’t tell me. “Get up, let’s go.”

We leave the small office, and he marches me down a steel hallway until we reach a large opening. The lighting here is bright, strong, and I blink rapidly, struggling with my eyesight as it adjusts. I see glowing hexagons and floating blobs, but then it all comes into focus.

I see a steel cage sitting in the middle of what might have been some kind of assembly or bottling floor. Conveyer belts still lie bolted to the floor, lifeless and unmoving.

I can’t see Pierce anywhere. I look around, and then see his opponent. He looks like a pissed off grizzly bear. He’s hairy, huge, and looks mean as hell.

He looks like he can snap a tree trunk over his knee.

Chapter Thirty Five

Pierce is limping. The bandage around his foot, what must have been once white, is now completely red, and in his wake he’s leaving crimson footsteps.

“Fuck,” I whisper beneath my breath.

The cage they’re approaching looks like it’s been used for fights before, but not for a long time. There are dried blood stains on the floor, splatter marks. The steel cage is rusty. It’s insane that I’m wondering if Pierce has had his shots…

Pierce’s torso has got a shine to it. The lines of his muscles seem to cut deeper. He’s sweaty already, and I wonder if that’s because he’s in pain, because he’s nervous, or both.

I’m fairly certain they haven’t been letting him warm-up on a bike or treadmill.

Pierce steps into the cage, and they close it behind him. I see a deadbolt lock, but there’s no padlock. Fallon and the guard approach me, stand in front of me. I can see the black grip of a pistol sticking out of the back of the guard’s pants.

I can work with that. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to get the fuck out of here. I know it. These bastards aren’t going to keep me.

Pierce does his customary intro routine; he walks around the cage. I don’t know why he’s putting on a show. Nobody is watching. The burly Russian, standing in the center, simply eyes him with amusement.

I can see Pierce talking to himself. He thumps his chest twice. I know he’s trying to psyche himself up.

Then he looks around. But there is no crowd here, no stands. He looks around until he finds me.

We lock eyes. He closes his right fist, kisses where his thumb meets his forefinger. He extends his arm, straight out, and with knuckles facing upward, points his index and middle finger at me.

I’m taken back in time to when I first saw him fight.

The girls, once screaming, fell quiet.

The crowd, once booming, left deafening silence.

All eyes were on me.

I groaned to myself, and adjusted my cardigan.

I blink, dragged back into the present. I’m not wearing a cardigan, but I know he’s sending me a message, and so I make the same gesture. I fiddle with my invisible buttons, but this time with both hands.

That’s when I show him, briefly, just a flash. I separate my wrists, break the last thread of plastic binding them together.

And then it’s over.

Nobody noticed.

But Pierce noticed.

I see the smirk on his lips, the glint in his eye.

We’re going to get out of this yet.

I know it.

“Ready?” Fallon calls, and he motions at the two fighters in the cage.

There’s Pierce, body tight, lean, not an ounce of fat on him. His veins bulge. His eyes blaze.

Across from stands the Russian, big, burly, a gigantic redwood of a man with enough heft to break through a solid concrete wall.

“Are you?” Pierce asks, looking at Fallon, but I know that he’s talking to me. His eyes flick to me for an instant, and I nod at him.

“Jesus Christ, mate,” Fallon says, laughing. “You’re bloody unbelievable.”

Pierce levels his eyes at his opponent. “Ready, Anton?”

The Russian gives Pierce a single, deep nod, and that’s when I see it on the top of his head, a huge scar running right down the center.

“What happened to his head?” I ask Fallon.

“He split it open in a fight. His skull.”

“Holy shit.”

“He finished the fight, too. Won.”

“Are you serious?”

Fallon turns around. “Dead serious. Blood was squirting out his head like a fucking fountain. It was one of the best fights I’ve ever seen. It was on the tape. Didn’t Pierce show you?”

I don’t answer him.

“Not looking good for your boy.”

I meet Fallon’s eyes. “Even with his foot he’s still the better fighter.”

“Get the fuck on with it already!” Fallon yells. He gestures at the Russian mobster, a tiny man, standing on the other side of the cage. He’s got goons with him, too, men in suits and sunglasses.

Pierce moves forward, and I notice his limp is gone. He’s not showing his weakness, even though it’s obvious. He’s not going to give his opponent any perceived upper hand.

He taps fists with Anton, and then they back up, and begin circling each other. I notice there is no ref, no doctor. This seems like a fucking cock fight… to the death.

Anton lunges first, covering enormous ground with massive strides. He kicks Pierce in the shin, sends Pierce stumbling backward, crashing into the cage.

But he pushes off the steel mesh, jumps off his hurt foot and punches Anton on the top of his head. Anton reels, shaking off the hit, rubbing his head and grinning.

This doesn’t seem like a disciplined fight. They look one moment away from just wailing on each other.

The Russian lunges again, and he wraps Pierce up, lifts him off the ground and squeezes. They’re wrestling, not fighting.

Pierce back-heels Anton’s knee, again and again, until he can squirm free of the barrel grip. He spins, throws an elbow into Anton’s chin.

And then he’s right up in Anton’s face, landing blow after blow into the burly man’s gut. He’s punching faster than I’ve ever seen him, hitting harder than I’ve ever seen him.

He roars, something primal, full of fury. He bends Anton over and knees him in the face, again and again. It’s six shots to the cheek before Anton pushes Pierce off him, and falls backward. His face is a bloodied, mangled mess.

But Pierce just goes even harder. He jumps onto Anton, rolls him over, tries to get him into a lock. He’s got his leg around Anton’s neck, and he’s holding onto his foot, pulling, pulling so hard it looks like he’ll choke the life out of Anton.

“Get him, Pierce!” Fallon yells. “Get that bastard!”

But Anton winds up his entire arm, stretched out, and lands a closed fist on Pierce’s hip. In an instant Pierce loses strength in his leg, can’t hold the lock, and Anton slips out.

“Come on,” I whisper, shaking my hands. My breathing is quick, my heart hammering. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, making my fingers tingle, making me feel like I’ve got all the energy in the world, like I could run like a sprinter or fight like a devil. Like I could get into that cage with Pierce and help him.

Pierce rolls the Russian over, and that’s when I see it, the leg lock. Pierce rolls again, grappling for position, and he finally slips his own leg beneath the Russian’s, and hooks it, twisting.

The Russian hits the floor with a closed fist. The thump is so loud I’m convinced that he’s left a dent in it.

Pierce twists, and he thumps the ground again.

“Do it,” I hiss, clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth. “Do it, Pierce.”

Pierce pulls and twists, and I see the moment it happens, the exact second ligament disconnects from bone. The kneecap twists to the side, along with the entire lower leg, and I instantly look away, feeling sick to my stomach.

It takes the Russian a moment to realize what’s happened, and then he lets out a droning moan of pain. It bounces off the steel walls, echoes for what feels like minutes. It’s a howl so long and loud that I tremble at hearing it. It’s haunting.

Pierce lets him go, and the Russian sits up, and looks down at his own dislocated knee. His whole lower leg is turned the wrong way around. Already his knee – what’s left of it – is turning blue and swelling.

He’ll be lucky if he can ever walk properly again.

Pierce, still on the ground, whirls a kick at the side of Anton’s head. The smack echoes. Anton is thrown onto his side, unmoving.

“Shit, he did it,” Fallon says in front of me. He turns around and grins at me. “Damn, your boy’s good.”

Pierce staggers backward, hands on his hips. His torso is drenched with blood and sweat.

He looks at me, and bellows, “Penny!”

Time slows. Sounds blur. My hair is floating.

I reach forward, grab the gun from the goon in front of me. I flick the safety with my thumb, aim it up at the ceiling, and pull the trigger.

Bang!

The kick hurts, throws my arms up. I pull them down, squeeze the trigger again, and again, and again.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

I hear the screech of metal, the ping of impacts, and the high-pitched bouncing of ricocheting bullets.

Everybody drops to the ground.

I sprint toward the cage.

“Pierce!” I cry. I slap open the deadbolt, wrench open the hinged door.

Pierce grabs my hand. I feel the moisture between our skin. It’s blood.

“Come on,” he says, and he pulls me.

I’m in his wake, and I can smell his sweat. I can smell metal. I think he’s going to run away, but instead he runs straight to Fallon. He grabs the gun from my hand, and points it at him, and before I know what’s happening, he’s got his knee up by his chest.

“No!” Fallon yells, but it’s too late. Pierce brings his leg down hard on Fallon’s thigh. I see the leg bend grotesquely before I hear the flesh-dulled snap of his femur.

Fallon mewls out in agony, grips onto his leg with wide, terrified eyes.

“Fucking told you I’d break it,” Pierce snarls. He shoots toward the Russians on the other side. They hit the deck again. He rubs the grip of the gun hastily on my shirt, then tosses it, and grabs my hand again.

We run toward the large shutter-doors, but on the way Pierce pulls me to the side.

“Look away,” he says, and I do, and moments later I hear the sound of shattering glass.

Fire alarms scream to life.

There’s screeching grinding, metal on metal. The whole building rumbles. Heavy steel doors begin to lower from the roof. I look at them, confused.

“Come on,” Pierce huffs, and he tugs me forward again. The doors closing from the ceiling seem like blast-doors. They’re obviously designed not just to keep everything out, but to keep everything in.

It clicks in my head. This is a chemical plant! These are security measures to prevent outside contamination. It’s containment.

“Faster!” he roars, tugging me harder. I run as fast as my feet will take me, but we’re still so far away from the big doors.

“Come on, Pen!” he yells, and I try, but I’m at the edge, and if I attempt to go faster I might just fall.

The blast doors are shutting down fast, and I will myself, force myself to run faster. I was never a quick runner, I was never good at sports, but I push, I push, fuck if I push.

“Yes!” I cry as I clear the doors ducking. Just milliseconds later, and we’d have been crushed at the hip. They slam shut hard, shaking the ground beneath my feet. The whole plant must be in lockdown. Fallon, the Russian mobsters, they’re stuck inside.

I turn to Pierce, look up at him, and that’s when I see his face is completely red. The cut on his head has opened even wider, and it’s just pouring a torrent of blood out.

“Oh no,” I groan, and I want to tell him, but he looks away, tugs me again, and we’re running again, this time toward the collection of parked cars. They’re all expensive, all completely conspicuous.

Mobsters.

“Which one?” I say, breathless.

“They wrecked my car,” Pierce growls. “Take the best one.”

Chapter Thirty Six

Mercedes… BMW… Jaguar… Maserati… it’s a tough choice.

“Come on!” Penny screams. “Who fucking cares which car we take?”

In the distance, red lights flash. No doubt they are fire engines.

“The Jag!” I say, and run to the door. I look inside. “Fuck, no keys.”

“Here!” Penny yells. “This one has keys.” She’s standing by the BMW, and I run to her, climb in. She gets in with me. I start the car, tear out onto the road.

We pass fire trucks that wail past us. They are followed by ambulances and… police cars.

“Why are the police going?” she asks.

“That was an old fight site. They must have been watching it. Fire alarms go off, they think a fight is going down and someone started a fire by accident.”

“We’re lucky they didn’t stop us.”

“Penny, are you hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Check! Those bullets you fired ricocheted.”

She pats down her body, then shakes her head. “No.”

Thank fuck.

Blood is streaming into both of my eyes.

I try to blink it out, but it’s no use. “Pen,” I say. “I have to stop. Hold on.” I pull the car over, and then lift my foot up and tear a small piece of tape from my ankle. It’s still sticky as fuck; the heat from my body has melted the glue.

“Here,” I say, handing her the piece of tape. I lean forward, wishing I could see her more clearly. But she’s just a blurred, red outline.

“You want me to tape your cut?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Wipe the blood away with your sleeve, and then put the tape over the cut.”

“My sleeve is not clean. You might get an infection.”

“I need to stop the bleeding,” I say. “Hurry up.”

She nods, and moments later my forehead is burning as she wipes across the split skin.

“Oh my God,” she says, swallowing. “I think I can see your bone.”

“Tape it!’

She places the tape over the cut, and I whip my head back, lean it on the car seat. I press the tape into the cut as hard as I can with my palm, wincing.

I turn to her, and grin. “Good, because the last mile I drove I couldn’t see shit.”

“You’re pretty messed up.”

I grunt. “Figured out where we are?”

“What?” she cries, putting up her hands. “How would I know, I barely just got to Australia!”

“Alright, alright,” I say, looking around. To the right there’s cliff faces, and no doubt beyond is the sea. It’s flat blackness is unmistakable.

“So?”

“I think we’re a little past Geelong.”

“Where’s that?”

“City nearby Melbourne.”

“Is it far?”

“No,” I say. I turn to her, take her hand. There are deep scratches on her palms. “What happened?”

“I had to cut my hands to cut the zip tie.”

That’s when it happens, that’s when there’s a crack, a breach. It’s not loud, it’s not dramatic, but for a fleeting moment her face is bunched up in a perfect split, simultaneously laughing and crying.

And then it’s over, seconds later, and she’s sobbing into her hands. I grip her, pull her toward me, hold her against me, and smell her hair and kiss her head.

“Fuck you, Pierce,” she cries. “I hate you.”

“I know,” I say.

“I really do!” she says, leaning up and smacking me on my chest. “God damn it. You need a doctor. Where’s the nearest hospital, I’ll drive us there.”

“You don’t have a license here. If we get pulled over in a stolen car, then—”

“Do you have a fucking license on you?” she cries, and gestures at me. I realize I’m just wearing my shorts.

We swap sides, and as she’s about to put the car into gear I say, “No, wait. We can’t go to a hospital. They’ll report us. They have to report these kinds of things.”

“Then where?”

“Hold on.” I look around, spot the car phone, and pick it up. “Yes! We have signal.” I punch in a number, and moments later a familiar voice floods the receiver.

“Ricky,” I say. “It’s Pierce. Don’t talk, just listen. Remember that doc, the one with the big nose? Didn’t he help patch you up? Yeah? What’s his number? Don’t ask me why, just tell me. You sure? Alright, thanks. No, can’t talk about it.”

I hang up, and dial the number.

“Doc, it’s Pierce. I need your help, where can I go? Where’s that, Caroline Springs? Okay. No, it’s close. When I get there, don’t fucking call me ‘son’.”

I throw the phone down, and tell Penny to take the next exit. “And stick to the left,” I say. “We drive on the left here.”

“Who is Ricky?” she asks a moment later.

I sigh, and pinch the bridge of my nose. Blood is beginning to pool beneath my foot. My whole body hurts to hell.

“He was eighteen, needed money. Good body, strong, athletic, but no fighter. You’re right, he went crying to his mother. He was raising money for her. She’s disabled.”

“What?” Penny asks.

I grimace at the memory. “Four fractures in his face. Edema in his ear canal that was pushing into his brain. He almost died.”

“Jesus.”

“He stepped into the cage.”

“You do care, don’t you?”

I lick my lips. “He stepped into the cage.”

“But you keep in touch with him?”

“Yeah,” I say. I look at Pen. She’s looking at me different, like she’s surprised.

“So all your bullshit what goes on in the cage stays in the cage crap was a lie. The consequences do matter.”

“I don’t want to get into this, Pen.”

“Fine,” she says. “But is that all you do? Keep in touch?”

“No,” I tell her. “I help out financially, pay for his mother’s rehab. She’s learning to walk again.”

I see just the tiniest glimmer of a smile on her lips. She almost looks… relieved.

Who the hell did she think I was? The devil?