Page 36 of Charity's Torment

The prick was playing with me.

Christopher hollered somewhere in the distance, audible above my panting.

Where did he go? He had to be around here somewhere, but the mirrors were disorienting. I closed my eyes and used the one sense I could rely on. Floorboards creaked to my left, and the scuff of a heel on the floor painted his location in my mind. I waited. His footsteps came closer. When he sounded close enough, I opened my eyes and found him before me. I rushed him, falling to my knees as his arms swiped to enclose around me. My blade struck flesh across his inner thigh, hoping I slashed the femoral artery, and he bellowed.

My blade was my pride and joy. Some had cars. Others had kids… I had my knife. I took care of it and made certain it was as sharp as a scalpel, for when the time came to use it, it wouldn’t fail me.

His imposing size turned slowly with a limp, trying to capture me as I danced around him. I sliced my blade across his back from shoulder to waist, and he curved his body away from the pain and screamed. He tumbled to the floor, and I dropped on top of him, ready to rip my blade across his throat, but he stood and threw me with ease. I plunged straight on to my back with a thud before I could get a grip on him. The air whooshed from my lungs, and I struggled to use them.

Chris’s calls were getting closer. I needed to bring this situation elsewhere. I couldn’t have a dead body on my hands and have Christopher witness it. I scurried back, but he pursued. He flicked his knife out and changed the angle around in his fist. I had dropped my blade somewhere, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him to search for it. He stalked forward and swiftly came down on top of me and pounded his fist into my chest, knocking the wind from my lungs again.

“Giovanni was right. You are one tough bitch.”

His Irish accent gave him away. He belonged to ICF. But what the fuck did Gio have to do with this?

An intense, repetitive plunge of his knife sank into my side, and I shrieked. He raised his knife to my throat but stopped before making contact. My blood lit up from the black-light as it dripped down his blade. “That’s for Tom.” The weight from his body lifted, and he stepped back into the shadows at the sound of approaching footsteps. My hand pressed on the wounds when I heard a gasp. Christopher raced over and fell to his knees before me.

His face fixed with fear, and his hands shook. He wasn’t a man made for death; he didn’t know what to do. There were three types of people in an emergency. Those who watch. Those who freeze and those that act.

“What happened?”

“Run, Chris… run,” I whispered.

The Irish enforcer stepped out from the shadows and stood directly behind him.

“No!” I yelled before he ran his blade across Chris’ throat.

His mouth gaped, and his eyes went wide with shock as the blood spurted from his slashed neck. I reached out and pulled my new pistol; I had it aimed and ready as Christopher’s dead body collapsed to the floor, and I pulled the trigger, hitting the Irishman between the eyes. His head mushroomed from the impact of my massive bullet. His neck shot back before he too crumpled to the floor.

The gun grew exponentially heavier as I held it up, waiting for him to make like Lazarus and finish the job. My hand holding my wound twitched, inflicting pain I had tuned out. I wailed, then rolled to my side to stand on my feet.

My mind ran a million miles an hour. What do I do next? Do I call the police? I couldn’t call the cops. There would be questions I can’t answer. It would put my name out there involved with an ICF enforcer’s death. That can’t happen. Someone had to have heard that shot.

I holstered my weapon, then picked out my phone and called Luca. I caught sight of Chris’s dead eyes, and the realization hit me. I got him killed. A man who worked his life to avoid cruelty died by brutality—for no reason at all.

Luca’s voice pulled me from my mental anguish. “Charity? Are you there? What’s going on?”

His questions came in rapid fire, and I wasn’t sure which one to answer first. Whatwasgoing on? “Luca…” I said, hushed and broken. “Luca,” I repeated with a stronger voice. “Someone stabbed me. I need a cleanup.” My ears were still ringing from the blast of gunfire, and it wasn’t easy to hear his words. Blood soaked my shirt. The bright red substance stood in stark contrast to my white hand, tainting my skin.

“I said, where are you, Charity?”

“I… um… I’m at the carnival. In the maze. The mirror maze. I’ve got to get to my car.”

I forced my hand harder onto my wound. My blood seeped between my fingers and trickled down my pant leg. My head was floating, and I was getting woozy. I put my phone on my shoulder and picked up my blade. Placing it back into place, I stumbled my way out of the maze—I couldn’t be found here. I raced behind the attractions, keeping a low profile, while I gave the details to Luca.

“Where are you now? I’ve got Nico and Max on their way with a team.”

I sat in my car, locked the door, then placed my gun on my lap. “I’m in my car.”

Air rushed my lungs as if I ran a marathon. I was losing a fair amount of blood.

“Okay. Sit tight; they are almost there.” I could hear the anguish in his voice. “Just stay on the phone with me.”

“Luca?” I whispered. My muscles weakened as I struggled to hold my phone to my ear.

“Yeah, baby?” A term of endearment from him? That’s new.

“It’s…” I shook the cloud from my head, “Giovanni.”

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