Page 63 of Shadows of Justice

I refuse to feel powerless anymore. I refuse to stand by and watch another person I love die because I couldn’t find a way to stop it. I’m no hero—the world isn’t a better place because I’m in it—but that’s not true for Viv. She is a fucking hero, and she deserves to live and to keep making this awful world a better place. If that’s all my life will stand to be, at least I will have saved hers so that she can still have the chance to do that.

Then I’ll one day die a happy man, knowing my life was spent for something worth it.

I throw the Malibu into park and shut off the engine. It’s 4:50 AM. Those bastards have had her for almost an hour now. My mind races with all of the sick, imaginative things that they could do to her in just that amount of time. A dark voice inside me whispers that she could already be dead, but I refuse to entertain that thought. She can’t be dead—it can’t happen.

I exit the car, leaving the keys inside. The building’s doors slide open for me as I enter, the chilly blast of air conditioning hitting my sweat-slicked skin, but still does nothing to cool my nerves. I walk up to the desk and see no one present at this early hour, so I turn to the right, hop over the barrier, and pound on the glass of the door. No one answers for a moment, but as I continue to rap my fist against it, I hear approaching footsteps.

Finally, a pimply-faced young man with a freshly shaved head wrenches the door open, the way someone does when they’re pissed.

“What the hell, what?” he yells, and his eyes widen in confusion as he takes in my appearance. I probably look like I’ve been in a bar brawl.

“My name is Leo Barone,” I say to the young police cadet. “And I’m here to turn myself in.”

Genevieve

My eyelids are swollen.

Have you ever tried to open your eyes when they’re swollen shut? It’s very difficult.

Light slices through the slits I manage to make and blinds me—its sudden presence like a knife carving into my brain. I wince, releasing a groan, and go to cover my eyes. I’m stopped when I realize that both of my arms are chained above my head, suspending me from the ceiling. The thick metal around my wrists is cutting off the blood supply to my hands, leaving them dangerously pale and numb.

There’s a ball gag in my mouth, and the aching in my jaw is considerable. I don’t want to think about whether or not it’s been sanitized since its last usage.

I start to struggle, trying to wriggle out of the chains. I start to breathe faster through my nose and renewed pain courses through my head—more pain than I’ve ever been in before. I tire quickly, my strength a joke at this point. The drinking, puking, and numerous missed meals in the past few days start to count off in my head, and I kick myself for not taking better care of my body.

A jingling catches my attention and my head snaps to the left, my spotty vision slow to catch up. Dante lies in one of the storeroom aisles, his broad chest and front legs visible to me. The canine’s head is lifted as he stares at me, watching me like I'm his next meal. I swear he’s not a normal pit bull. I’ve never seen one that big before. He looks like he’s been injected with steroids.

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to remain a dog person after this—if I make it out of this alive.

I force my breathing to slow, determined to get a hold of myself. If I’m going to get through the next few hours, I need to keep my cool.

My shoulder sockets are screaming from being in this position, my struggling causing the wounds on my wrists to leak fresh blood. I wonder how long I’ve been like this. I have no recollection of how much time has passed, but connecting lucid thoughts is becoming increasingly difficult. The last thing I remember is looking up into Dante’s face, and Trismo practicing his grand slam swing on my head.

I look around, shivering. I know I’m in the same storeroom, but all the way in the back behind all of the shelving. My skirt and my corset are gone, leaving me just in a bra, g-string, and what’s left of my tattered fishnets. The crucifix is tossed in the corner along with my boots, which probably means my knives are gone. There’s dried blood all over me, most likely from my head wound.

The room starts to spin, the concussion I surely have wrenching my gut with nausea. Saliva starts to gather in my mouth, and my body breaks out in a cold sweat. I try to think only of slowing my breathing. I cannot throw up—not with this fucking gag between my teeth.

I’m momentarily distracted from the roiling in my stomach when the slam of a door at the front of the room catches my attention. The air around me seems to shudder and electrify, the tension mounting at no longer being alone. I blink, trying to focus my thoughts.

I need to live through this.

Leo would never forgive himself. Why does that thought pain me more than the fracture in my skull?

I close my eyes and listen. Three sets of footsteps close in, echoing through the cold storeroom. The nausea intensifies with each passing second, and I’m unsure if keeping my eyes closed is making it better or worse. The footsteps come to a halt in front of me and the room comes to a standstill, the anticipation creeping over my skin.

I open my eyes, survival fueling my burning defiance. I look upon the faces of my captors, refusing to show an ounce of fear.

“Oh-ho-ho!” Trismo muses, a brilliant grin on his smug face. “The puta thinks she’s tough now, huh? She wasn’t so tough before. Although, I’m not sure if she was awake enough to remember our special moment.”

His eyes gleam with evil as he grips his dick through his jeans and twirls the bloody baseball bat. He pointedly licks his lips and bites his lower lip, making a moaning sound. My brain distantly registers that the suited American and Magnum are also present, but now only one thought rings in my mind.

Oh god. My sore jaw . . .

I start to tremble, images of this animal face-raping me while I was passed out blinking through my head. I start to panic again, breathing rapidly, and his buddies start to laugh when I’m noticeably bothered. The bile is creeping up my throat, about to join the party whether I want it to or not.

I’m going to choose to believe he’s lying. He’s just trying to rattle me.

I squirm, trying to speak against the ball gag. I need this thing off of me—fucking now.

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