Killing Ruby Rose (9 page)

Wow. I couldn’t help but be impressed with his maturity and refusal to trash-talk.

“But you on the other hand,” he said, looking me in the eyes. “I think
you’re
amazing. And brave. And totally different.”

Firewall disabled, I let him pull me into his arms.

I let him put his body against mine.

I let my eyes close, appreciating the heat between our bodies. His heart beating against my ear drowned out all my wild, neurotic thoughts. I was giving in to him again.
I
was the glutton for punishment.

Until I felt a pinch on my neck. Like a bee sting, it burned. But surely there were no effin’ bees at the beach this time of night. I tried to pull away, but by the time I reached to get the bee’s stinger out of my skin, I realized I was dealing with something else entirely.

A syringe.

And I was losing consciousness.

CHAPTER 9

I heard the voices before I could identify where they were coming from. Swirling human forms floated around my mind. And pain. I felt that rising with my consciousness. In my head, mostly, but also on my wrists. They were bound behind my back.

I ordered my eyes to open, but they were as heavy as theater curtains. I needed pulleys or something.

When my eyelids eventually creaked open, I almost wished they hadn’t.

I lay on the cold floor of a large metal cage, like one used for lions at the circus. I had awoken in my very worst nightmare. I hated bars. Like, I really, deathly feared them. Dr. T said it was a “seminormal/common phobia,” and not to give it too much importance, but that was easy to say when she wasn’t the one with the recurring dreams of bars slowly closing in on her until she was crushed to death.

The men behind the echoing voices were nowhere in sight. Hyperventilation and claustrophobia drained me of my wits. I closed my eyes and tried to steady my breathing. I couldn’t lose my cool now. I had to fight. I had to look past the bars and pretend like they weren’t there in order to gather my survival instincts. The inanimate cage couldn’t beat me when the very animate men beyond them were far more likely to do so.

Forcing open my eyes, I saw a spacious warehouse filled with boxes and old machinery, not unlike the one at the harbor where I’d put a hole in Charlie LeMarq’s head. And I wasn’t alone. There were two equally drugged and bound bodies just outside the cage, except they were tied at the ankles as well as the wrists. I wondered why they weren’t in here with me—and why they weren’t stirring.

I looked closer at them through the dim light. It was Alana and Liam. The last time I’d seen Alana, her dark hair was bouncing to the beat of the music. Now it was as limp as a doll’s. And Liam’s beautiful lips, the ones I’d come so close to kissing, were now gagged and covered in bloody cloth.

My chest tightened with a crushing force. I hated myself for getting them involved. If only I’d done a better job of pushing everyone away, they wouldn’t be here.

“I’m not going to tell you again!” a deep voice echoed across the warehouse. “It’s time, so make the call!”

“Come on, jefe, this ain’t right,” another man replied in a much younger and more hesitant voice, with an accent that made me think of the East LA gang crews. So not
bueno
.

I couldn’t see them, and they couldn’t see me behind the row of crates piled haphazardly toward the ceiling.

“What
ain’t
right is you acting like a little bitch. Now get your phone out and make the call.”

“Bro, calm down and think about it. All we’re supposed to do is babysit these drugged kids for a while and then take the money and run? Rick, it’s a setup.”

Rick. I knew a Rick. Rick “The Stick”—one of my Filthy Five. But I’d never heard him speak, so how could I be sure if this voice belonged to him?

“You’re wasting time,” Rick said.

“You’ve done deals with this guy before?” the younger guy asked, sounding more skittish.

“Yeah, two nights ago, OK? It didn’t go as planned, and I had to get rid of a girl. Let’s just say he owes me tonight.”

Two nights ago? Get rid of a girl?
Could he have been talking about the girl on Ninth Street from the text I got?

“Didn’t go as planned? Shit, man, you ain’t exactly making me feel better.”

“Look, I’ve done plenty of deals, and this one won’t be any different,” Rick said. “So just make the damn call and let’s get this over with!”

“Why don’t
you
make the call?”

“Because, you idiot, I don’t have the number. The broker gave it to you.”

The broker? What product—?

Oh, crap. We were the product.
I
was the freaking product.

“Here. Take the number that dude gave you. I’ll go wait where the cops can’t bust through that door in five seconds!” The younger guy was rattled.

“Look, you split, and you
lose
your split. You understand? That’s twenty grand. And the
broker
is not
some dude
. He’s big-time, working with Mr. G. You get in with G, and you don’t get to mess around. So just shut up already!”

There was a pause and some shuffling.

“Can’t I at least sample the product? Five minutes alone with the blonde?” My stomach turned, and my muscles tensed in revolt. Young or not, stupid or smart, this guy was dangerous. “If we get busted, at least it won’t all be for nada—”

“How many times do I have to tell you? The broker said she’s a virgin, and they pay triple for virgins. You’re not touching her or her skinny little friend, no matter what. I need this score, all right?”

There was no longer any doubt in my mind—this was, in fact, Rick “The Stick.” Number two on my list of the Filthy Five. The details I’d written in his file quickly came to mind. Formerly: Rick Rossi, champion featherweight boxer from South LA. Currently: notorious drug dealer and unmerciful murderer of anyone who got in his way. He earned his cute little nickname by screwing over one of his big-time drug partners, “sticking” him with the evidence that sent the guy to prison, and walking away with a sweetheart deal from none other than Dear Mother Jane Rose.

Before Dad’s death, his team had responded to a tip on one of Rick’s big deals going down. They recovered 500 kilos of cocaine, but not The Stick himself. He’d gotten away again. Since the bust he’d been lying low, staying away from the cartel guys. That must’ve been what he was talking about when he said he needed this score. He needed the money.

If I didn’t do something quickly, they were either going to make the call and sell us, or they were going to talk each other out of it and get rid of us themselves. I cursed the man behind this torment. Who was this “broker” who’d convinced another one of my Filthy Five to participate in the systematic torture of Ruby Rose? Why didn’t he just kill me himself? And why did he have to involve Alana and Liam? Sure, Alana was fragile enough to sell, but there was no market for six-foot-four tight ends who could knock out The Stick with one punch.

As they continued to argue about whether or not to get rid of us, I rocked back and forth until I could wiggle my hands under my legs and bring them in front of me. I was relieved to find my bonds were only plastic tie straps—and I had sharp teeth.

But minutes passed and I’d made no progress on the thick ties. My now swollen and bloody gums weren’t helping, either. I was running out of time. If they hadn’t heard me by now, it wouldn’t be much longer.

I looked around for something sharp—a broken bottle, a piece of scrap metal, anything. But after too many minutes of blinking to try to focus past the bars, all I could find to saw the plastic were the sharp, rusty hinges on the cage itself. I swallowed the feeling that the bars were moving toward me as I crawled toward them, and I began sawing. I barely breathed as I used all my strength to grind through the plastic as silently as possible.

As soon as the ties snapped off, I felt around for a way to open the cage. In the top corner was a latch kept shut by a bicycle lock. A bicycle lock? Come on, no proper criminal uses a coiled three-digit-code bicycle lock! If it were a normal lock, I could have picked it with my earring like Dad taught me. But the only way to get this thing off was to know the code. And I didn’t know it.

Wait.
Three
digits.

Suddenly, I had an idea. Mr. D. S. didn’t seem to do anything without purpose or meaning. I doubted Rick had put me in this cage himself. It wasn’t his MO. He was a vicious criminal who didn’t mind beating people to death with his little bare fists, but as far as my research went, child trafficking wasn’t in his repertoire. Plus, why cage me and not my friends? These bars felt very much meant for me.

The three numbers had to be significant. I mentally ran through all the numbers in my life—birthday, phone number, address—rotating the lock as fast as I could to any three-digit combination related to them. But nothing worked.

My heart thumped three times, as if willing my brain to figure this out for the sake of all the body parts. I let go of the lock and let my head fall against the bars.

I thought back to the text with the photo of the girl on Ninth Street. Any numbers? No. The sketch at the art fair? No. The text from Fake Liam luring me to the warehouse?

That message filtered into the forefront of my sore head:
366 Water Street.

I squinted through the bars and put in the numbers 3-6-6. The lock clicked open, and I broke free.

“They’re on their way,” confirmed Rick’s personal assistant in crime.

The call had been made. Whoever was coming to take us would be here soon. And I couldn’t carry out both Alana and Liam on my back. Even if I could wake them up without making much noise, I had no idea how to get their ankle and wrist ties off in time.

I had to find a weapon, or see if my captors had one and use it against them. Maybe the men had a knife, and I could get back here in time to cut Alana and Liam free.

I crawled through piles of strewn trash, careful not to look too closely at it—and also careful not to cause any noise. Whether it was the drugs or the stress of the cage, time wasn’t making sense to me. It took forever to get to the boxes separating me from the men. I peered over the clumsy piles, cautious not to knock them over like dominoes. Now I could finally see the enemy. Rick could have also been called The Stick because he’d been beaten by an ugly one. Or because he was as skinny as one. He and his coconspirator, who was far chubbier and softer than I was expecting, sat at a flimsy card table, anxiously staring at the door. Like either a dump truck full of money was about to back up through the cargo entry door—or a SWAT crew. There appeared to be only one revolver between them, and it sat untouched on the table. If either of them was packing another weapon, I couldn’t see it.

That shiny gun was my target. I had to get it somehow. I imagined Dad walking me through it all—just like he had with LeMarq. Just like he always would, dead or alive.

Create a diversion. One of them will take the gun and check to see what it is. Take him out by surprise from behind. Grab the weapon and disable him with two bullets to the chest. You already know he will kill you, so don’t let him have the chance. The second man will either flee or attack. If he flees, pursue. He could double back and ambush you before you’re able to find a way to call for help, and you can’t leave your friends in harm’s way. If he attacks, you know what to do.

I took a deep breath. I could do this. There was no time to waver or second-guess. I had to save my friends.

I found an empty beer can nearby and chucked it toward the cage. It hit with a loud
clang
!
Instantly, the men’s chairs screeched backward on the cement floor. I hid behind the stack of crates again so when one man walked past me to check on the noise, I could spring.

“Go check it out,” Rick ordered. I remembered his strange aversion to guns, and most likely the only reason he even had a tagalong with him was to pack it. Or to blame everything on later if he got caught.

“It’s probably that stupid white boy waking up. I’d be happy to knock him out again,” Tagalong said as he made his way to my hiding spot.

I lunged, simultaneously kicking him in the groin and twisting his weapon from his grip. I’d done it dozens of times in training sessions but never in real life. He howled in pain. This couldn’t have been his first swift kick to the balls, but he sure acted like it as he rolled around on the floor with his hands between his legs.

“Rick, it’s the blonde!” he moaned. “She’s got my piece.”

“Shut up or I’ll shoot,” I warned. I had no idea where Rick was. I hadn’t heard him move.

“I knew this was a trap.” He groaned. “Just shoot me and get it over with. I can’t go back to prison. I won’t go back. I’ll kill you and both your friends before I go back.” Real tears came spurting out of his pathetic eyes, and for a second, I almost pitied him. His baby face and purple LA Lakers hat turned sideways made him seem only a few years older than me. The guy should have been in college or working at the mall, not messing around with gangs and a guy like Rick. Dad’s voice cut into my hesitation.

Protect yourself, Rue. Make sure the weapon is cocked, and take the disabling shots. You know he will do it to you, or worse, without a moment’s hesitation if you let him.

As I made sure the gun was cocked, I noticed how familiar it felt. This was no street gun. This was a sophisticated piece. A gun I’d used before.

I heard the terrible cracking noise against my spine before I felt the pain. My knees buckled and I fell to the ground, face first. Either Rick had slammed me with a wooden two-by-four, which had splintered in half, or he’d used a steel beam and the cracking noise was my vertebrae shattering. But how had he gotten behind me?

I checked my senses to make sure I still had the gun. Its cold steel was still wrapped in my white-knuckled clutch. I looked over my shoulder. Rick’s gaunt, pockmarked face loomed above me. And I knew he was hell-bent on making sure it was the last face I ever saw.

“Stop!” I screamed. I rolled over on my back, crunched up, locked my arms out in front, and raised the gun between my legs. “I’ll shoot!”

He raised another two-by-four above his head, ready to destroy me.

I had no choice. He was going to kill me.

I aimed for the largest target area and pulled the trigger. The gun sounded like a bomb exploding in the vast space. His chest ripped open and his body lost momentum. As though in slow motion, he dropped to his knees and the life drained out of his eyes. He would never fight again.

The smoke from my gun rose, just as the dust particles under his body mushroomed from his fall, swirling with the sudden draft of wind.

I gagged on the taste of bile in my throat and grimaced as the tinny smell of blood and gunpowder choked the air out of my lungs.