Blood to Dust (2 page)

I raise my head proudly, my eyes adjusting to the bright light, and toss a bloody, scarlet smile, compliments of his right-hand man.

“Don’t be sad. I promise to visit your grave regularly.”

He flashes his teeth, even though he is anything but amused, and jerks his index finger sideways. “Sit her arse down, tie her up to this chair.” He cocks his chin in the same direction. I let the muscle guys do as he said, watching him through hooded eyes as I calculate my next move. Godfrey looks delicate, brittle. San Dimas prison did the job I couldn’t finish, and weakened him even more. His limp got worse and his cheeks hollower. But I know better than to think it’d work in my favor.

It’s when the king is about to be dethroned that he is the wickedest.

Sixty-something, English, head overflowing with cotton-white hair and a matching moustache, hobbles toward me, each leg creating a semi-circle as he puts it forward.
Likes:
Money, watching others writhe in pain and his son, Camden.
Dislikes
: when people cross him…
and me
.

Godfrey has a quad cane with tennis balls shoved onto each end. He clutches it in his hand to the point of pale knuckles. White stretch walker shoes, Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian button-up shirts are his uniform. He always looks like a retired tourist.

The police are less likely to pick on a tourist.

“What’s in the bag, darling girl?”

“I busted your knees, your hands are fine. You can unzip it and see for yourself,” I chirp, and am immediately rewarded with another smack from Seb. My body crashes against the dirty floor, a coat of dust sticks to my tongue.

“Camden misses you.” Godfrey’s voice floats above my head. Calm. Collected.
Crazy
. “He’s coming stateside next month. Eager to see you.”

Eager to kill me
, more like. I shudder into my Prada dress.

“I’m guessing that’s why my heart is still beating in my chest?” Said organ pounds so fast it almost burns a hole through my skin, spattering on the floor.

“Yes.” Godfrey bends down to my eye level and taps my nose, feigning endearment. “And no. I’m going to let my son do as he pleases with you after you stew in misery. Beat you, shag you, gang-rape you. He’d be more than happy to tick all three boxes. But after he’s done with you, you’ll be delivered back to my loving arms. And trust me, Prescott, there’s no fun in a bullet to the head. I have quite the plan for your death. You’ll be made an example, a lesson for all to see.” He trails his long, delicate finger on my neck, stubbing my chin to tilt my head upwards.

Our eyes click, the air between us super charged—light a match and the whole place would explode. A wide smirk spreads across his wrinkly face.

“It’ll be a beautiful death. Gaudy, dazzling and inventive. A bit like you, come to think of it.”

I gulp, chancing a glare at Seb and the muscle men. They stand behind Godfrey cross-armed, their masochistic glee barely contained by their tough charade.

“But first things first—accommodation.” His tone turns cheery and he straightens his stance, clapping his hands together. “Prescott Burlington-Smyth had me locked up in prison for a few good years. . .and now she’s going to have a taste of her own bitter medicine. She’s about to learn a lesson about
time
. How awfully slow it moves inside four, thick walls of nothing. Bring me Beat and Ink. Now.”

Two men charge into the warehouse in perfect timing. Godfrey always was one for punctuality. One is a chubby, short man in a ski mask and blue coveralls. The other is a tall, built guy. He’s wearing black, ripped skinny jeans like a second skin, with a book rolled into his back pocket, military boots—unlaced—and a matching black hoodie. His straight dark hair is modernly slicked back, a Guy Fawkes mask covering his face. You can see from his form, posture, and the lazy way he carries his muscled body, that behind the mask is a man who sees more pussy than a pack of Tampax.

Godfrey saunters behind an office desk and falls onto a chair, resting his cane behind the table. Seb hands him my Nike bag as the masked men slouch on two plastic stools in front of their king, ignoring me completely. The chubby one in the ski mask straddles the back of his chair. Years of living in the back alley of life made me fluent in body language, and what his body says is perfectly clear—he’s scared. Black hoodie guy, on the other hand, stretches his legs forward, the ridges of his bunching biceps and triceps visible even through the thick fabric of his clothes as he hooks his arms behind the back of his chair. Relaxed. Comfortable.
Peaceful
.

Well, he
is
the size of a tank. I need to be careful with this one. One punch from him and I’d be liquefied.

“See Little Miss Goldilocks over there? She’s my job for you.” Godfrey cocks his head my way as he unzips the bag. He takes out the drugs I was about to sell. The Glock, Taser, pepper-spray, fake passport and one hundred dollar bills wrapped together and stuffed into a sock. He also takes out the plane ticket to Des Moines dated for a month from now, placing everything on the desk like incriminating evidence. Lifting his crusty old eyes back to me, he pulls his lips downwards, faking a devastated frown.

“Shame, really. So close to escaping your fate. . .yet oh-so far.”

If Godfrey thinks I am going anywhere without his blood all over my hands first, he is suffering from Alzheimer’s on top of his new physical disabilities.

No. I wanted to stick around until the very end, kill him, Sebastian and Camden, generate some money and find my brother.

Preston
.

Where the hell are you, Preston? It’s not like you to disappear without a word.

Beat and Ink turn to look at me for the first time. Their masks mean I can’t read what they’re feeling, but I sure know what they’re seeing.

And they’re not seeing a typical drug dealer who spent the last five years selling coke and crack in the bowels of Stockton.

My long, honey-blonde waves, perfectly trimmed and impeccably shiny, are now matted to my bloody forehead and neck, big hazel eyes running in their sockets as they inspect them back. I’m wearing a designer, gray mini-wool dress that compliments my curvy body. Soft wide thighs and narrow waist. I look like the perfect victim. Scared. Beautiful. Innocent. . .

Though, I’m anything but the latter.

Ink goes back to staring at the drug lord. But Guy Fawkes—or Beat, as Godfrey refers to him—throws another glance my way before folding his log-wide arms over his pecs.

“The fuck, God?” he snarls.

They nicknamed him God? Is he leaving me with brain-damaged people?

“The fuck is you not asking any questions, Beat my lad. I expect you to keep her in the basement until Camden arrives next month,” Godfrey orders dryly. “And if you want your balls left intact, she better not run away.”

Beat shakes his head, chuckling on the brink of laughter. At least someone finds humor in my dire situation.

“I’m not down with this shit.” His leg bounces under the table. It’s so long and muscular, it sends the table shaking every time it hits it. “Thought you needed help with blow and weed,
not
kidnapping and trafficking.”

Ink coughs, shifting unnervingly in his seat. “Yo, man,” he says, leaning into Beat’s shoulder with a whisper. “It’s
Godfrey
.”

There’s a moment when their eyes meet behind the masks, locked in a silent battle. It’s a moment too long, and it will cost them a lot—because I realize that these two are far from friends. Works in my advantage.

“Trafficking?” Godfrey looks both startled and offended, playing with the zipper of my bag. “The only traffic she’ll see is a few passing cars on her way to your house. This girl is not crossing borders. She’s crossing forms, from living to dead. Just keep her in one piece and underground until my son’s arrival. Doesn’t take much more than a few brain cells and working limbs to do that.”

Beat tips his head back, slipping his massive tan palms under his mask and rubs his face in frustration. He glances my way again, and I ball into myself, trying to look like a lost lamb. Ink nods vehemently to Godfrey’s every word like he is reading from the Bible. He’ll do whatever the hell Godfrey tells him to, like the majority of the human population. But the mammoth Beat guy. . .he’s got some backbone.

“No.” Beat stabs a finger on the desk, dragging it from end to end. “This is where I draw the fucking line. I’ll pack a bag and pay you three months upfront for the rent. Count me out. This doesn’t sit right with me.”

Beat stands up to his full height, which is approximately the stature of an average-sized building.

“Oh, don’t play the bloody saint now, Beat.” Godfrey shoots up, hammering him back to his chair, spitting a yell. “You’ve killed before. You can babysit a little blonde girl for a few weeks. No one’s asking you to slit her throat. That’s for us to do.”

Lookie here. One of my mysterious captors is also a
killer
. Fun times. I’m
so
happy I met Camden.
So
happy our fathers were in business, and we ended up hooking up.
So
happy I’m now tied to a chair in a warehouse, about to be thrown into some psycho killer’s basement. Fun, fun, fun.

“I’m not doing it.” The dark, tall guy states with conviction, his tone eerily peaceful. “Find another sorry ass to drag into your shit-show. I ain’t hurting the girl.”

“We’re doing it,” Ink snaps, nodding to Godfrey and resting a hand on Beat’s shoulder. He is staring at the big guy, but talking to his boss. “We don’t want any trouble, God.”

Beat has none of it. When he stands up again, his chair flies to the floor with a bang that makes the whole room gasp. He storms toward the door before Godfrey’s voice makes him halt mid-step.

“The Aryan brothers are close.” The old man leans forward on his desk, his arms straining to hold him upright without the walking stick. “They’re still on the lookout for you, and all it takes is one”—Godfrey grabs my Glock and points it at Beat, squeezing one eye shut—“little. . .”

He releases the safety with a soft, deadly click, his finger applying pressure on the trigger. “Push.”

His hand moves up and he fires a bullet a few inches shy of Beat’s head. Nausea slams into me and the room spins as I drift in and out of consciousness. I can still hear Godfrey’s voice hovering like dark clouds over restless skies.

Beat hasn’t moved an inch.

“Pshh. Little Prescott meant business when she got armed. Loaded, are we?” He blows air into the barrel mockingly and continues. “Trust me, son, you don’t want to cross your loyal, truest friend. I might decide to lead them straight to your door if you do.”

Color me intrigued
and
on death row. This Beat guy is full of surprises. I’m going to be a hot target next to this guy. God, I have to find a way to ditch these two clowns. I’ll figure it out when they take me.

“It’s not up to us.” Ink shoots up from his seat, clasping Beat’s arm. “It’s your goddamn life, man. She’s just a nameless chick.”

Just a nameless chick.
He has no idea how close he hit home. I used to be a sister, a daughter, a girlfriend and a friend. A poet, a dreamer and an honor student. But now. . .now I’m alone, left to fend for myself, with no one to look out for me. Some would say I’m taking my situation too lightly. I’m not. I’m looking at it from the outside, providing sarcastic commentary. Why? Because looking at my situation through a stranger’s eyes is all I can do to survive. After what I’ve been through, allowing myself to become intimate with this thing called a soul is practically a death wish. No. I’m stuffing reality, jamming it under mundane thoughts, and looking at the whole thing like it’s a terrible B-movie.

“Just follow the orders, pawn,” Godfrey instructs, his eyes returning to mine. He is stroking my gun, looking like he is using every ounce of self-control in his frail body not to shoot a hole in my forehead. “Camden arrives in California in thirty days. He has a wedding to attend in London first. We cannot miss it. After all, it’s
his
.”

My throat bobs involuntarily, my nose nipping like someone’s punched me square in the face. Camden’s getting married? It’s been a long time since I’ve last seen him. Up until now, I stupidly believed that I still knew him. But the guy I left behind wouldn’t marry anyone who wasn’t me. By the time we parted ways, we were much the same. Our guards were up so high, we couldn’t even see beyond the walls we’d built.

I was his sun and his stars, his water and air. And in my eyes, he was beauty and art, witty and smart.

Now I want to kill him, and he. . .he wants to cage me.

Godfrey snaps me out of my reverie.

“Now take the girl away before I cut her open and sell her inner organs to the highest bidder. A few things before you go—one: Do. Not. Fuck her. She belongs to Camden, and if he wants her as a belated wedding gift as a sex slave until she’s dead, it’s for him to decide. Two—don’t buy into her prissy charade. The girl might be of pedigree, but she is the epitome of ruthless, and she
will
try to run away. I’d expect nothing less from the daughter of a dirty politician. Three—” He takes a deep breath, rubbing his thin eyelids. “Do. Not. Fuck her. I said it before, but I’ll say it again. My son is quite smitten with this one. I want her untouched and, as much as I hate to say it, unviolated. Don’t hit her too hard and don’t rape her. She’s Camden’s.”