The plantation’s wild growth swallows the sound of their bodies hitting the ground, blood seeping into dirt that’s seen too much already.
I flatten against the warm brick and breathe in slowly to settle my heart rate. I count the seconds before I move again. The air pulses with the scent of gun oil and cut grass, old wood and fresh death.
With the perimeter clear, I pull out my phone and type fast.
“Perimeter’s clear. Main house is next. I can’t tell how many are in there.”
“5 mins out. Hold steady.”
Reaper means for me to wait for them. I can do that.
I whisper into the stillness settling around me, “Hold on, baby. I’m coming for you.”
Gun in hand, I melt back into the greenery, every sense burning. It’s taking all I have to stay tucked away and not go in and slit throats to get to her.
Somewhere inside that mansion, Layla waits. And I will tear through heaven, hell, and every fucking Vulture keeping me from her.
5
LAYLA
Five months. That is how long you can live inside a nightmare before your mind starts believing the world beyond these walls is only something you dreamed.
Or I’ve inhaled so much damn Euphoria I don’t know what day it is.
Then again, two things can be true at the same time.
I let out an exhale that catches the eye of a girl across from me at another table. She smiles, but there’s no life behind her eyes.
She’s counting wads of money and winding rubber bands around the stacks and what she has in her hands is the sole reason any of us are in this hellhole.
Greed.
A swirlingwhoosh, whoosh, whooshpunctures the air as the blades of a fan try to cut through the thick humidity.
It’s not helping. I flick my gaze to the single door leading into the prison cell of a room they have me stuffed in. It’s not in thebasement like the last places, I’ll give them that, but there’s still no way out.
The lab is suffocating in the worst ways. The dead heat of a Louisiana spring covers my skin in a slick sweat. It slides into the scrapes along my hips and elbows, causing them to sting. I wouldn’t have the scrapes if the Vultures didn’t find it fun to push me around when I don't produce at the speed they need.
There’s a haze that hangs over the place, a mix of chemicals and bayou humidity, the faint hint of soap and shampoo from a dozen women who were someone before they were the Vultures’ prisoners. The light above my station is a dim white, flickering like it wants to give out, casting my world in watery shadows.
I would do almost anything right now to have the sun on my face and this place be a distant nightmare. If I ever make it out of here, I know a good chunk of my paycheck will go toward therapy and I almost look forward to it. It means I survived.
I stand at my work table in nothing but my bra and underwear. My wrists are raw from rope burns. There’s one particular Vulture who likes to tie my hands up when we move locations. If I ever get a chance to shoot him, I hope I have the balls to put one right between his bushy black eyebrows. I would at least drive a foot into his nutsack.
I gather my long hair into a messy bun and let the stragglers hang where they want to fall. I’m not here to win any beauty contests. Sweat makes my glasses slide down the bridge of my nose. I push them back in place for the hundredth time today and start to unpack all the materials I need to get the lab up and running again.
Yay, me.
Sometimes I stare at my reflection in the glass beaker and imagine I am a scientist again, not a captive forced to brew poison for men with dead eyes and greed in their hearts.
Around me, the other women move like they’ve let these douchebag men break them. Some are in threadbare tank tops, others in bras, all of us exposed in ways that go far deeper than skin. I can smell the fear radiating off them, blending with the sour, sickly sweet scent of older batches of Euphoria pills being packaged to the far right of me.
Every batch I cook, beaker I set to boil, and pill I help package into those black baggies with the garish pink E chips away at a part of my soul. I catch a glimpse of a shadow moving past the door.
I grab a small crate from the floor and set it on the table. I have thirty minutes to have this place up and running again or these fuckers will start getting handsy.
I reach for a dropper, my hands shaking, and I force myself to steady my breathing.
