Page 58 of The Reaper

We fought.

There was a loud noise.

Heath pointed a gun at me.

No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He must have been pointing it at the intruders. Were they after me? Or him?

My heart hammered in my chest at the thought. Where the fuck was Heath? These fuckers had better not’ve hurt him, or I would make their lives a living hell.

I forced my eyes open; pain cut through as if they were being ripped in two. Blurry boots and legs appeared when I managed to open my eyes a sliver. Their conversation was too faint to make out. I wished I could see their lips.

A taste of salt and iron hit the back of my mouth when I swallowed. My vision started to sharpen and I realized that the floor was covered with blood and rainwater.

Before I could wonder whose blood I was lying in, a muddy boot pressed against my shoulder and shoved so hard I was forced onto my back.

“He’s awake,” the genius with muddy boots announced.

Three ugly faces I didn’t recognize were staring at me with smug smiles.

“Look who’s finally up,” said the one sporting a beer belly. His grating high-pitched voice didn’t match his stocky appearance.

I wriggled in an attempt to free myself, but the handcuffs between my back and the concrete cut into my skin. “Fuck you!” I croaked, spitting blood at their feet.

One of the men dashed toward me, driving a kick to my stomach. “I wouldn’t be cocky if I were you,” he said.

I gasped from the pain, and coughed up blood and spit. “You better hope I don’t get out of here—”

“Or what?” the short guy interrupted with a kick to my head. “The Reaper is gonna hunt me down?”

The Reaper? What the fuck? How did these clowns know who I was? “The Firm sent you fuckers?” I asked, hoping for some answers. “I should be offended.”

“And why is that?” the stocky dude asked.

“Sending the bottom of the barrel to get me? That fucking hurts more than your pussy blows.”

“What did you say, motherfucker? I should kill you right now.” He balled his fists and marched toward me, but his buddy grabbed his hand.

“Where is Father Saint James?” I asked.

“He’s not here, lover boy,” Stocky said, looking disgusted. He spit on my face and snarled. “Fucking fags.”

“Shut up, dude,” Shorty warned Stocky. “Just shut up.”

The spit dripping down my cheek was as rank as I suspected. I just needed an opening to escape and find Heath. “What are you gonna do now?” I asked, taunting the stocky guy with a short fuse. Perhaps egging him on would make him talk. “Or are you waiting for big daddy to tell you good little boys how to handle the big bad assassins?”

“Shut the fuck up!” he yelled. His face was red, fuming. “Stand up!”

The muddy boot released me, but I didn’t move. I maintained awareness of my location, trying to figure out a way to get the hell out of this situation. These men didn’t have the authority to kill me, otherwise I would’ve been dead already.

“Help him.” Shorty elbowed the other guy, who looked average as fuck with his pale face and thinning brown hair.

He gave him a questioning look, a little terrified of the prospect of being near me. Was it The Firm who’d sent those men who ambushed me in Havana? That couldn’t be. El Jefe swore he didn’t know.

I grimaced when two of the guys each grabbed an elbow.

Thanks to their help, I was able to take stock of my surroundings. We were definitely in an unfinished basement. The room was bare, a wooden frame outlined the walls, exposing electrical wires and copper pipes. To my right was a dilapidated eight-step stairway leading up. The spaces where windows should be were boarded up, except for the open one.

The two men’s eyes were on me as they lifted my body from the concrete floor. A mixture of curiosity and fear reflected in their shaky gazes.

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