Page 9 of Flame
“Good. You get there, and you wait for me. If I don’t show, you look for a red case. I already changed the combination to something you’ll be able to guess, and you—”
“You’re scaring me,” I croak.
“You’re damn right, I am.” He returns the gun to the case, closes it, and sets it on the counter. “Remember this shit—”
A sound erupts from down below. One, ironically, we’re both familiar with—smashing glass.
“Damn it.” He pushes past me and wrenches open the door to the stairs. “Keep an ear pressed to the goddamn floor if you have to. You hear me say ‘motherfucker’ in any context, you run. You don’t hesitate. There’s a fire escape below the window in the hallway. Got it?”
“Rafe—”
“You fucking listen.” He holds my gaze until I finally nod.
“Okay,” I rasp.
Satisfied, he pivots and descends the steps, slamming the door behind him.
My pulse hammers against my eardrums, filling the silence left in his absence—but the quiet doesn’t last long. A series of footsteps resonate through the building’s very foundation, heading toward the shop's front.
“What the fuck do you want?” I hear Rafe demand.
“You son of a bitch!” I recognize the speaker as Gino, his voice constricted with rage. “Do you have any idea of what you’ve done? Who you’ve fucked with? Do you?” More glass shatters in a musical cacophony. The frames holding his drawings? Something bigger? Panic chokes me, and this sense of blindness only enhances my dread. I’m shaking, my knees knocking together, my gaze fixated on the floor as if I can see through it by sheer willpower. What did he tell me?
You hear me say ‘motherfucker’ in any context, you run.
I drop to my knees, bracing my hands against the floorboards. Too suddenly—I might be heard from down below. I hold my breath, fearing just that, and I strain my ears, listening for any hint of what’s happening.
“…think you can fuck around with us?” another man demands. “You stupid cunt. You have no idea what you’ve started.”
“I don’t, do I?” Rafe sounds more distant as if he’s speaking from the very front of the store now. “Tell the bitch holding your leash that he doesn’t know whathe’sdone. Faith Wen? That name ring a bell? The next time you whore out your girls for a dime, don’t get so goddamn sloppy. I went easy on your ass once. No more.”
“You think you know everything, huh?” Gino replies with a harsh bark of laughter. “Oh, this is well beyond Faith, you dumb son of a bitch. You have no idea who you’vereallyfucked with, do you?”
“Do you?” Rafe snarls amid the sound of more smashing glass. Each tingling chime brings to mind a series of picture frames breaking one by one. “I know the assholes you cater to. Bastards who strongarm barely legal girls into sex. Who torture them. Then kill them to protect their fucking reputations—”
“Faith was a lying little cunt,” Gino snarls. “She stuck her nose into where it didn’t belong. But it’s not like you have anyproof.” He deliberately emphasizes the word with a hiss. “Do you, Rafael? Hidden in this rundown piece of shit? Keep looking,” he snaps, presumably to his men.
“Go fuck yourself,” Rafe snarls. “If she did give me anything, do you think I’d be dumb enough to keep it here?”
“You better hope not. Though maybe you need a little convincing to tell the truth? Boys. Hold him.”
Thuds erupt, alluding to a struggle, but sheer terror roots me in place. I can’t move. Can’t breathe…
My gaze drifts to the counter, and the box resting there, as my ears strain for a key phrase. Would I have the strength to grab it even then? I try to make my hands move, but my fingers twitch in place and nothing more.
“Fuck,” Rafe snarls, and the pain in his tone sets every nerve on red alert. He’s hurt.
I’m already on my feet, scrambling for the counter. I wrench open the box and clumsily grasp the object inside it. As I turn to the door, a shout rings out.
“Fuck! You motherfuck—”
“Shit!” Another man says. “Someone must have called the fucking cops.”
Cops. That word spurs my paralyzed limbs into motion, and I creep toward the window. Sure enough, a lone cruiser idles alongside the curb. I’m not sure if it’s the same one that used to live in Branden’s driveway, polished to shine.
From this height, I can’t make out the driver or anyone in the passenger seat. Liam?
The sound of a door slamming reinforces the more pressing danger. Three figures trickle from the store and stroll across the street. One man, in particular, has his hands in fists, visible from even here. A substance glistens over the prominent knuckles, and my mind goes blank with recognition. Blood.
