Page 110 of Reaper
“Take care, Ruiz.”
“You too.”
The call ends. My phone then dings with the sound of an incoming text — an address not far from Murphy’s. I look over at the Marine and wonder if I should ask him his name before we head to the location where he, and I, will probably die trying to rescue someone he’s never even met, then decide it’d just be rude and might even make him rethink his decision to take on this suicide mission.
"Let's go," I tell him, pocketing the phone.
The drive takes us through the grittier parts of Sacramento, past shuttered storefronts with bars on the windows and streetlights that flicker like dying fireflies. The Marine follows my directions without question, his hands steady on the wheel as we navigate pothole-riddled streets.
The storage facility sits like a concrete cancer in an industrial district where legitimate businesses gave up years ago. Chain-link fencing topped with razor wire surrounds rows of identical metal units.
We park three blocks away and approach on foot, using the shadows cast by abandoned warehouses to mask our movement. My training kicks in, overriding the alcohol still swimming through my system. I signal the Marine to take the east side while I circle west, both of us moving with practiced silence.
From my position crouched behind a dumpster that reeks of rotting meat, I count four vehicles parked inside the facility's main compound — expensive SUVs with tinted windows and a van that could hold a small army. Guards patrol in pairs, their automatic weapons glinting in the night.
I'm reaching for my phone to text the Marine our next move when the world goes cold.
The barrel presses against my spine just below my shoulder blade, perfectly positioned to punch through vital organs if the trigger gets pulled. My hand freezes halfway to my pocket. My heart stops, and my mind seizes on one cold truth: I’m about to become another casualty of Reaper’s.
"Don't make a sound," the voice rasps, low and gravelly, like cigarettes and whiskey have been grinding it down for decades. “Make a sound, make one wrong move, and you’ll be dead.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Adriana
Even with the gun at my back, I’m not dead yet. And what the asshole behind me doesn’t know is that I’ve been in situations like this before. Like, but not exactly like — because I’ve never loved anyone like I love Reaper; never had anyone care for me the way he does; never had anyone who saw my hard edges or the sharp, jagged parts of my soul, and wanted more. Never had anyone who made me feel loved and accepted just as I am, because I know that who I am — broken, beaten, deeply and violently flawed — is not easy to love.
I’ve been here. I have a gun. And even if it’s not in my hands right at this moment, I know what to do when there’s a gun at my back and my life on the line.
“You don’t want to do this,” I whisper. It’s a gamble speaking, but it’s a gamble worth taking. Any chance of provoking them to talk is a chance to distract them, to buy myself a window of opportunity to strike back.
The gun taps me in the back again. The raspy voice answers. “You’re right, I don’t.”
“Then why do it?”
“I don’t want to.”
“So why is your gun in my back?”
“Because that’s where I’m pointing it, and I couldn’t see you clearly at first. You can never be too careful.”
“What now? You going to take me prisoner and bring me to your boss?”
“My boss?”
“Volkov.”
“Fuck no.”
“Oh, so you’re going to keep me for yourself?” I say, inching my hand into position. If I do this right, I can whirl and maybe disarm him. The odds are shit, but they’re my best shot at turning this situation around. “Make me your own private prisoner and what, rape me? Big fucking man you are, needing threats and a gun just to get your dick wet.”
“Rape you? What? Ew, gross.”
“Then what the fuck do you want?”
“Literally what I just said: to tell you it’s dangerous here and that if you make even some noise, you could get yourself shot. I’m just trying to look out for you, Adriana.”
“How the fuck do you know my name?”
