Page 16 of Downward Dawg
“Shut her the fuck up.”
That was the last thing she remembered hearing for a long time.
***
Mad Dawg
Gliding to a stop behind the building, Mad Dawg parked his bike next to Ella’s car. He looked around, angry and disappointed that the prospect he’d called wasn’t still standing guard. Didn’t matter that the sun was well past daybreak, his instructions had been extremely specific, up to and including the time between when the man would see Ella safe into her studio, and when Mad Dawg would arrive.
“Goddammit,” he grumbled under his breath, standing next to the bike and opening the saddlebag to pull out the small bag of donuts he’d picked up. “Tell a man his job, make sure he understands he’s got one job, and he still fucks it up.”
He was letting himself into the shop when he heard a soft sound, not quite a groan, but nothing he could blame on the wind, either. Kicking a piece of brick into the gap to prop the door open, he set down the donuts, emptying his hands, and turning to take a cautious step down the alley.
Now that he was away from the doors, he picked out the shape of a motorcycle parked partly behind the dumpsters.
“The fuck?” Every sense in overdrive, Mad Dawg kept close to the brick wall as he approached, his eyes landing on a clothing-covered lump on the ground. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, sinking down on one knee next to the laid-out prospect. His fingers found a slowly bleeding wound on the back of his head, which told a story, but it wasn’t one Mad Dawg wanted to hear. Yanking his phone out of his pocket, he hit Rocker’s number.
When the man answered with a “Yo” Mad Dawg barked, “Trouble at the shop.” Not waiting for a response, he terminated the call and deposited the phone deep in his pocket. Rolling the prospect to the side elicited a moan, and he noticed multiple contusions on the man’s hands.
“Didn’t go down easy,” he commented softly, one hand on the man’s chest. His heart was beating steadily, which was good. “Good for you.” He patted softly. “Be right back, brother. You did good.”
Regaining his feet he moved quickly, sweeping through the rest of the alley. Music came from Ella’s studio, and he assumed a class was in session. Not wanting to interrupt her business, he worked his way methodically through all the nooks and crannies where an attacker could be hiding. By the time Rocker and three more men arrived, he’d ensured his shop was also clear, front and back.
“What the fuck happened?” Rocker’s demand echoed the feeling of unease Mad Dawg felt.
“No idea. He was down when I got here. The alley’s clear, and there’s nobody in my shop. Nothing’s out of place other than the prospect laid out on his back.” He gestured to the man. “He’s starting to vocalize, which means he’s coming out of it. I don’t think he’s been out long. Head’s still bleeding. If it was hours, it would have clotted by now.”
“You think it’s HHMC? Jesus. Okay, what next?” Rocker stood next to Mad Dawg’s bike, looking up and down the alley.
“I’m gonna check on Ella quick.”
Leaving the other men to tend to the prospect, Mad Dawg went to Ella’s back door and knocked loudly. He could still hear the music going inside, but she should hear him easily. Turning around to survey the alley again, he became uneasy when there was no answer. Her carwashere. Another round of knocking delivered the same results and it suddenly dawned on him he’d seen a small crowd of women at the front door as he’d rode in. Waiting patiently as if the door to the studio were locked, which shouldn’t be the case if Ella was here.
“Rocker, here.” Movement behind him assured him his brother would have his back. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”
Fist curling around the knob on the back door, he held his breath and twisted, blowing out a steady stream when it turned easily in his hand.
“Goddammit, it’s unlocked.” He didn’t bother whispering, because if Ella hadn’t responded to his pounding, she sure wouldn’t be bothered by a conversation. “I’m going in.”
He held it for a count of two, then flung it wide, stepping inside and moving laterally to the door, crouching against the back wall of her studio. The door struck the wall and rebounded, but not before he saw what was beyond it.
Nothing.
Nothing except her empty studio.
The alarm started beeping as if it were still set for overnight, threatening to bring the cops.
“Where is she?” Rocker asked, leaning against the door, holding it open. “What the fuck is going on, Mad Dawg?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, brother.” Mad Dawg opened the panel and a piece of paper fell out. He caught it and then quickly pressed the sequence of keys to disarm the alarm. Unfolding the paper, he saw the message first, “Want her back?” It was followed by a hand-drawn map, indicating a location outside town. It also held a small square of what felt like plastic. When he turned that over, he found it was an instant photo. Ella was in the image, limbs carelessly arranged in what looked like a car’s trunk. Her eyes were closed, and he could see bruising already developing along her temple. Blood oozed from her nose across her upper lip.
“Brother, what’d you find?” Rocker’s question didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered.
Nothing except the image of Elodie, graceless in a way she never was, not even in her sleep.
Mad Dawg didn’t look away from the picture, couldn’t tear his gaze away. Each ragged breath was like knives stabbing his throat. He felt rather than saw Rocker approach his shoulder and shoved the note his direction, keeping the image in front of himself.
