He-who-should-not-be-named laughs, shouts to the rough men, and points. “She’s mine. No one touches her.”
Oh, shit, life keeps getting better and better.
As he buckles up, the plane taxis, and we take off. Already not feeling well, the motion sets off my inner volcano. I barely have time to grab a barf bag before puking my guts out. As I continue to retch in a most vile manner, my ex moves away with a disgusted grunt, and I utter another prayer.
Whoever made the stomach miracle? It was nasty but thanks. I don’t promise to go to mass every Sunday, but I will stop hiding Mia’s Mary-in-a-Bathtub. Amen.
To be sure I continue to be unappealing, I open the disgusting paper bag another inch, and no one comes close for the rest of the flight. A couple hours later, we land on a tiny strip in the middle of a forest. Paolo ushers me to a waiting SUV and after driving for an hour, we exit in a department store parking lot where a container truck spews diesel fumes.
It’s BIC code reads: NYCU 200599.
Chapter 25
Wheels
I should never have left Rose alone. It was a rookie mistake and if anything happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself. My only salvation is she said her ex never physically abused her and as I wait for news, I pray it still holds true.
They could be halfway across the Atlantic, but why now? There’s been plenty of time to reconcile since their divorce. Her disappearance has something to do with the fentanyl and her crime boss uncle.
As we trail the container truck, I swap to a military grade prosthetic. My other is fine for everyday but with this one, I’m more like the Million Dollar Man. Once my leg is attached, someone shoves a comm unit at me and I insert the speaker in my ear.
“Test, test.” The mic on my chest must be working because Hands, back in New York responds.
“Wheels, you motherfucker. Welcome to the party.”
“Where’s Rose? You find her yet?” Holding my breath, I pray she didn’t turn up in a morgue.
“She’ll be fine. As soon as she lands, we’ll find her.” His tone grates on my nerves. What if it were Mia who went missing? Would he be so damn calm? My anger flares until Slate taps me on the arm and holds his phone in front of my nose.
In the small screen, a short video plays out of Rose willingly engaged in kissing her ex-husband. At first, I think it’s probably ancient history but there’s a mark on her neck from the other night, when Lapa nicked her with his knife.
“There’s audio, too, if you want to hear it.” When my boss hands me his phone, I rewind and turn up the volume.
Leering, Stephano sits too damn close with his hand on her knee. “What about your new boyfriend?”
Rose shrugs. “He was a diversion, a way to keep my uncle from throwing more suitors at me. You know how I hate blind dates.”
I play it a few more times until I’m convinced it’s not a fake. Then, I turn to the guys with the pity-party expressions. “Cut the long faces you bunch of pussy-whipped limp dicks. It was just sex. Let’s do this thing and go home.”
I don’t care if they buy what I’m selling or not. We got real problems to deal with, like a containerful of opiate-stuffed Muppets. My broken heart will have to wait.
Five minutes later we drive past a flare, dead center in the highway. The second one is a quarter of a mile down the road.
With snow-covered pine boughs flickering in the blood red light, Hands counts down. “Ten, nine…”
A professional, I play out the win in my head. First, I shoot off the padlock. Next, I open the back doors without scorching my fingers. Lastly, I tranquilize anyone that moves.
According to plan, the eighteen-wheeler turns off the main drag and follows our detour. The driver takes the curve way too fast and as our SUV closes the distance, I hold my breath. If he tips over, all bets are off. Moments later, the breaks slam down with a deafening bang and the truck skids to a stop, inches behind the oil tanker.
Trusting my pals will take care of those in the cab, I pull down my ski mask and follow Slate to the back. Before I can get off a shot, I’m hit in the vest by someone in the woods.
“Motherfucking sonofabitch.” Rolling on my side, I ignore the stabbing pain, and wait for the asshole to show himself. When he does, I shoot out his knee, run to the trees, and taser him.
As I tie him up, our commander disappears into the back container. Suds, who enters next, shouts from within, “Fuck. Y’all need to stop.”
Thinking the guys need help, I stagger to the door with my AR-15. In the back of the dimly lit interior, an angry man holds a gun to a woman’s temple. At first, I think I’m seeing things. Then, my body catches up with my brain and I lower my barrel. Jesus, lord above. How the hell did she end up inside this metal box?
Eyeing me, she mouths. “I’m sorry.”
