Clay didn’t answer. None of this mattered; the conversation was just distraction. All he wanted was George.
Outside, the sky belched a mighty roll of thunder—it shook the house, made it feel as unstable as the pit of Clay’s stomach. The air was electric with expectation. He wanted to go to George, to comfort her, but that was the worst thing he could do right now. He’d already shown his hand—shown them how important she was to him. That had been a mistake. He knew them. He knew them so well.
They wanted him, needed to kill him, because without him, the case against their bosses was a whole hell of a lot weaker. But they wouldn’t let George go no matter what—not when they knew how much hurting her drove him crazy. They’d do horrible things to her, unspeakable things. And Ape, Clay knew, would take pleasure in it.
“So, Indian. Nice cover, man. You had us fuckin’ snowed right till the end. Had no goddamned idea you were ATF, right, Jam?” he asked. Over his shoulder, the other Sultan slid out of the hallway.
“Yeah, man.”
“You got nine lives, motherfucker? How the fuck’d you get outta there with the bullet holes in your back? I mean, I saw it with my own goddamned eyes.” The hate spewing from Ape was toxic. Clay could almost smell it on his breath, mixed with the cigarettes and bourbon and body odor.
George stirred, but Clay let his eyes catch hold of Ape’s and latch on. No more looking at George. He needed to forget she was there, or he’d do something stupid.
“How much’d you pay Olson to tell you where to find me, Ape?”
“Fuck, man. Took you long enough. You’re as dumb as you look. Special Agent Clayton fuckin’ Navarro. Jesus Christ, a goddamned spic.” Behind the stove, Ape laughed, and Clay’s hatred concentrated on that sound. That stupid, evil sound. He held himself back from pouncing, since the man still held George. “All this time, us laughin’ about how dark you were. Callin’ you Indian and shit, and you were a filthy wetback. You and your wetback sister.”
Clay tightened up, his breathing uneven, which was bad, dangerous as hell. He couldn’t get out of control. He couldn’t. It took everything he had to keep his face blank. Everything.
Behind him, on the screen porch, Clay caught movement. The prospect coming to, or the sheriff arriving on the scene? His eyes flicked to Jam, who didn’t look quite as sure as Ape was. He was the wild card in the room.
Ape said, “You know, Indian, I feel like I might actually remember that little bitch?” Something dulled in Clay’s vision, cutting out whoever was behind him, Jam skulking around the edges. “She had the tightest little—”
“I’ll fucking kill you, you motherfu—”
“You know what happened to your sister, man?” Ape cut in, and Clay hardened himself to what was next.
Words, just words, he repeated in his head. Over and over again. But the words hurt worse than bullets. Those words tore him apart.
“What happened to that stupid fuckin’ whore is nothin’ compared to what I’m gonna do to this sweet, innocent, little bitch right here.” Ape smiled his rotten-toothed grin, and Clay felt it, that next jolt of fear or adrenaline or whatever it was he’d been waiting for. Through the fucker’s words, he let it fill his body, let it take him over, let it calm him and harden him and give him that dose of power he needed to do what he had to do. Because he was a cop, yes, but also a man—an honorable man—whose job it was to save the life of the only woman he’d ever loved. And that was exactly what he planned to do, even if he died in the process.
* * *
George heard the words, knew the man holding her by the hair was talking about her, but couldn’t quite connect the two. Cut her, he’d said. He wanted to cut her. And the things he was saying to Clay about his sister…
“I’m gonna fuck every hole in her body—maybe slice a couple new ones to stick my dick into. And then—”
He pulled her hair tighter, bringing tears to her eyes, then tighter still. With a twist of his wrist, he rubbed her face into his sweaty neck. She gagged and tried to pull back, which only made him laugh and grind her face in harder, the blade of that ax ever-present at her throat.
The man was talking, taunting Clay, pushing him, and throughout his filthy tirade, her fear multiplied tenfold. George, a victim to God and the fates. Standing here, letting it happen, just letting it all happen to her, the way it had happened with Tom. Because who was she to fight the inevitability of what was to come? She’d lost against God once, right? So…
Around her wrists, the zip tie cut into her skin.
The man loosened his grip, stupidly forgetting, maybe, that she was an actual person and not some blow-up doll. In those few seconds, where everything in her life came together—images, feelings, the memory of her impotence against the inevitability of death, George recognized something new. It wasn’t God she needed to look for in this moment. No doctors to beg, no miracle drugs to put her energy into. No faith to bank on.
She wasn’t helpless here, a tiny David battling a big and omnipotent Goliath. No, here, right now, in her home, on her turf, with her hands tied in front of her, George held the power.
She closed her eyes against the feel of this big, filthy man, shut her mind to the reality of Clay paralyzed in front of her, and remembered the way he’d slammed his hands to his hips while they’d made love, breaking the plastic at his wrists.
She reached inside, gathered every tiny cell of her being, every bit of her strength and her will to live. With a deep rush of breath, she opened her eyes, met Clay’s, let her gaze slide to the side to show him the pot boiling on the stove, and then, through a wash of tears, took the time to tell him how she felt, mouthing those words she hadn’t yet had the courage to say aloud.
I love you.
* * *
George loved him. The truth of it exploded into him. It was all Clay needed.
Big and frightened but whole, her eyes flicked down to the right, and though he wanted to follow their path, he held back, unwilling to give Ape a clue to whatever she was trying to show him.
