Page 135 of Mangled Memory
high-dollar hooker
Christian
Fitz is prone on the concrete floor. Blood oozes from his side and one leg is at an angle that doesn’t exist on a human skeleton without being manipulated into that position. I dial nine-one-one while checking his vitals. He’s breathing but the pants come in shallow bursts.
“Jefferson County emergency services. How may I help you?”
I give the address and the basics of the situation.
When the operator asks me to remain on the line, I decline. It’s an invitation I cannot accept.
Sharp, indecipherable words are being barked from another room, if you can call it a room. Metal studs run from ceiling to floor. In places, sheetrock has been installed. In other places there’s nothing but ductwork and wire hanging from where the ceiling tiles should be.
I have no clue whether those cop dramas or movies are accurate, but I assume an actor has done more research than I have in this kind of situation, so I flatten my back to the wall and slide along, peering around corners as if bullets can’t slice through the pressed paper.
Everything changes when I hear a scream that can only be my wife’s and her angry tearful words. “No. Don’t hurt him.”
I run. I run as fast and as hard as I can, giving no fucks aboutalerting anyone to my presence or any consequences that go along with that. That’s my Princess. She’s mine. And no one hurts her.
Skidding around the corner, my blood freezes and my mind stutters to a halt.
Cian is strapped to a chair. The side of his face is pulpy and purple, and one eye is so swollen he can’t see out of it. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. A gun is held to his head by a man wearing a black mask eerily similar to the ones used by the men who cased my house the night I was shot.
The rest of the firearms in the room—five or so—are trained on me. All but one. And that one is aimed on Seamus Murphy…
… And it’s held by my wife.
Her hands tremble, and the anguish in her face is enough to bring me to my knees.
“Princess?”
She shakes her head. Her red hair spins out around her as tears stream down her face and her nose releases what it can no longer hold inside.
“Princess?”
“No.” The word is torn from her like it was ripped from her very soul. I have no idea what or who she’s saying no to.
“Do it,” the apparent leader of the group says. “Last time we ask,Princess.” The word drips with sarcasm, and I want to shove it back into his mouth for the tone he’s taking with her. “Pull the trigger or your brother will know what it’s like to have copper and lead slice through his brain.”
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
No way. She either kills her dad or they kill Cian.
“Don’t do it, sis.” Cian grits through clenched teeth just in time to have two of those teeth fly from his mouth with the force of a punch.
The sound of her mournful wails is more than I can take. How do I save her from this?
Sirens scream in the distance and the handful of masked men stare from face to face in the group. It was barely controlledchaos before. Now it resembles cockroaches scurrying from the light and not knowing how to avoid getting squashed.
Everything happens at once. The goon who was threatening Cian drops to the ground. Brain bits and blood ooze from his skull.
The lead goon turns on Ayla, lifts his weapon, and squeezes.
I do the only thing I can—I dive.
Ayla
“Noooo!” My throat burns with the fire of my scream.
