Page 70 of Shadows of Justice

I hear footsteps, and the suited American that has yet to speak comes into view. He’s on the phone, speaking quietly. He eyes me, watching Magnum paw at me, a nervousness in his gaze. He ends the call and holds his phone out in front of him, seeming to snap a photo of me and then of Sugar, who’s limp and breathing weakly on the floor. The act sends a jolt of newfound fiery rage through me at the idea of this bastard exploiting our torture.

“Wait, take another one,” I say with a sneer. “I didn’t get to smile.” He huffs a laugh at me and turns to go, his thumbs tapping on his phone’s screen.

“You own this place?” I ask. He pauses, turning back to me.

“I do,” he says, humor in his hazel eyes. “I hope you’re enjoying our hospitality.”

Add him to the lineup. He’s dead—along with the others.

So, this is Phillip Jennings. I’ve only ever met one of Jennings’s kids—his youngest daughter, Mia—when she was home from college and visited him at work. She was sweet; Cap looked at her like she hung the moon. I wonder if she runs a prostitution ring or is a part of the mafia. You know, keeping up with the familial extracurriculars.

Sugar groans, coughing blood onto the pavement. Lucky sits on a packing crate beside her, picking his nails with a knife. Trismo suddenly calls his name, beckoning for him to help them move one of the shelves to make more room for their activities. He hops up to help, and thankfully, Magnum joins them.

“Sugar,” I whisper, when they’re a safe distance away. She doesn’t stir, her face smooshed into the floor. “Sugar!”

Her eyes blink open and she rolls her head to look at me, drool and blood mixing on the concrete.

“Just hang on, okay?” I whisper, my eyes darting to the men and back to her broken face. “Backup should be here any minute. You just have to hang on a little bit longer.”

She coughs again and manages to nod weakly. Her eyes close and she settles back against the floor, her breathing alarmingly slow. I hope what I said is even the truth—for her as much as for me. I’m worried that Phillip just sent that photo to his father, and if he did, we could be in big trouble. If Jennings alerts Phillip to who I am, I’m not sure what they’ll do. I’m just praying that PPD comes to the rescue sooner than that.

My thoughts go to Leo. I wonder what he’s doing right at this moment. I would give anything to be sitting in his kitchen, watching him cook, listening to ‘90s rap far too loudly over the speakers. To feel his touch, taste his lips, revel in the strength of his arms wrapped around me. I didn’t realize how safe I felt with him until I was very, very unsafe. It still amazes me how much that man has become so important to me in such a short time, and as a result of such a wild turn of events.

The men pool their strength and eventually slide the heavy shelf over to make more room. Tres and another Dog slap on plastic aprons and gloves, seeming to prepare for something delicate. Lucky brings over the packing crate of iron oxide, and sets it heavily on the table where they’re standing.

They’re building the MG-T12.

Part of me is thrilled, knowing that when we’re rescued they’ll also take these fuckers down—red-handed. But the other part of me is filled with dread, wondering if there’s a small chance that help won’t come in time, and these fear-mongers are about to succeed in murdering all of the people they desire.

Another thought, unbidden, starts to circle in my brain.

What if Leo didn’t want to risk getting caught?

He’s tied to his freedom, his obligations. What if the risk wasn’t worth it to him, and he’s left me to die? I may not have known him for long, but I know him well enough to know that he will do anything to stay a free man. Sure, I think I had spotted sincerity in his eyes, but what if it was all just an act to get me to do what he wanted?

Have I been a complete and utter love-drunk fool?

Maybe I’m more like my mother than I realize. Trusting a man to care about me when, in reality, he’s just fooling me into doing his selfish bidding.

The cold touch of doubt trickles its way down my spine, kindling fear and despair in the pit of my stomach.

This storeroom could truly be where I meet my death.

Magnum slinks back over to me, casually looking around to see if anyone’s watching him. His lone eye locks onto mine, a yellowed smile curling his mouth.

“Thought I’d forgotten about you, huh, gatita?” he purrs in my ear, circling me.

“Nah. You look impossible to get rid of,” I say. “You and herpes.”

He chuckles, disappearing behind me. The other men are busy, Trismo leaning over Tres’s shoulder to watch him work. No one sees Magnum slide his greasy fingers down my stomach and tease the waistband of my leggings.

“You denied me earlier,” he says, malice in his tone. “You want to act like a whore, and I want to show you how whores are treated.”

I jerk and struggle, trying to evade him, even though nothing I could do right now would stop whatever his sick mind has planned for me. He dips his fingers into the leggings, and crests the top of my g-string, running his dirty hand over the apex of my thighs. I jerk back, managing to knock into his head with my shoulder, but not enough to deter him at all. With his other hand, he slides the punch dagger down my abdomen, its sharp point a promise of a slow death.

All I can see is a fear-drenched image of Magnum raping me, his dagger in my belly, dying in a puddle of my own blood on the floor.

I start to thrash, panic squeezing the breath from my lungs. “Get the fuck off of me, you dirty fucking asshole!”

---