Blood to Dust(3)

Godfrey saunters behind an office desk and falls onto a chair, resting his cane behind the table. Seb hands him my Nike bag as the masked men slouch on two plastic stools in front of their king, ignoring me completely. The chubby one in the ski mask straddles the back of his chair. Years of living in the back alley of life made me fluent in body language, and what his body says is perfectly clear—he’s scared. Black hoodie guy, on the other hand, stretches his legs forward, the ridges of his bunching biceps and triceps visible even through the thick fabric of his clothes as he hooks his arms behind the back of his chair. Relaxed. Comfortable. Peaceful.

Well, he is the size of a tank. I need to be careful with this one. One punch from him and I’d be liquefied.

“See Little Miss Goldilocks over there? She’s my job for you.” Godfrey cocks his head my way as he unzips the bag. He takes out the drugs I was about to sell. The Glock, Taser, pepper-spray, fake passport and one hundred dollar bills wrapped together and stuffed into a sock. He also takes out the plane ticket to Des Moines dated for a month from now, placing everything on the desk like incriminating evidence. Lifting his crusty old eyes back to me, he pulls his lips downwards, faking a devastated frown.

“Shame, really. So close to escaping your fate. . .yet oh-so far.”

If Godfrey thinks I am going anywhere without his blood all over my hands first, he is suffering from Alzheimer’s on top of his new physical disabilities.

No. I wanted to stick around until the very end, kill him, Sebastian and Camden, generate some money and find my brother.

Preston.

Where the hell are you, Preston? It’s not like you to disappear without a word.

Beat and Ink turn to look at me for the first time. Their masks mean I can’t read what they’re feeling, but I sure know what they’re seeing.

And they’re not seeing a typical drug dealer who spent the last five years selling coke and crack in the bowels of Stockton.

My long, honey-blonde waves, perfectly trimmed and impeccably shiny, are now matted to my bloody forehead and neck, big hazel eyes running in their sockets as they inspect them back. I’m wearing a designer, gray mini-wool dress that compliments my curvy body. Soft wide thighs and narrow waist. I look like the perfect victim. Scared. Beautiful. Innocent. . .

Though, I’m anything but the latter.

Ink goes back to staring at the drug lord. But Guy Fawkes—or Beat, as Godfrey refers to him—throws another glance my way before folding his log-wide arms over his pecs.

“The f*ck, God?” he snarls.

They nicknamed him God? Is he leaving me with brain-damaged people?

“The f*ck is you not asking any questions, Beat my lad. I expect you to keep her in the basement until Camden arrives next month,” Godfrey orders dryly. “And if you want your balls left intact, she better not run away.”

Beat shakes his head, chuckling on the brink of laughter. At least someone finds humor in my dire situation.

“I’m not down with this shit.” His leg bounces under the table. It’s so long and muscular, it sends the table shaking every time it hits it. “Thought you needed help with blow and weed, not kidnapping and trafficking.”

Ink coughs, shifting unnervingly in his seat. “Yo, man,” he says, leaning into Beat’s shoulder with a whisper. “It’s Godfrey.”

There’s a moment when their eyes meet behind the masks, locked in a silent battle. It’s a moment too long, and it will cost them a lot—because I realize that these two are far from friends. Works in my advantage.

“Trafficking?” Godfrey looks both startled and offended, playing with the zipper of my bag. “The only traffic she’ll see is a few passing cars on her way to your house. This girl is not crossing borders. She’s crossing forms, from living to dead. Just keep her in one piece and underground until my son’s arrival. Doesn’t take much more than a few brain cells and working limbs to do that.”

Beat tips his head back, slipping his massive tan palms under his mask and rubs his face in frustration. He glances my way again, and I ball into myself, trying to look like a lost lamb. Ink nods vehemently to Godfrey’s every word like he is reading from the Bible. He’ll do whatever the hell Godfrey tells him to, like the majority of the human population. But the mammoth Beat guy. . .he’s got some backbone.

“No.” Beat stabs a finger on the desk, dragging it from end to end. “This is where I draw the f*cking line. I’ll pack a bag and pay you three months upfront for the rent. Count me out. This doesn’t sit right with me.”

Beat stands up to his full height, which is approximately the stature of an average-sized building.

“Oh, don’t play the bloody saint now, Beat.” Godfrey shoots up, hammering him back to his chair, spitting a yell. “You’ve killed before. You can babysit a little blonde girl for a few weeks. No one’s asking you to slit her throat. That’s for us to do.”

Lookie here. One of my mysterious captors is also a killer. Fun times. I’m so happy I met Camden. So happy our fathers were in business, and we ended up hooking up. So happy I’m now tied to a chair in a warehouse, about to be thrown into some psycho killer’s basement. Fun, fun, fun.

“I’m not doing it.” The dark, tall guy states with conviction, his tone eerily peaceful. “Find another sorry ass to drag into your shit-show. I ain’t hurting the girl.”