Page 13 of Ricochet

Dragging him through the house was no small feat with his legs hanging up on the crap that covered the floor. We arrived outside, and I tossed his passed out body into the passenger seat.

From the glove box, I nabbed a pair of cuffs and locked him to the passenger door. At gunshots whizzing past the right of me, I turned to find another dealer at the doorway, his gun slanted sideways. Ignoring his shitty aim, I rounded the vehicle and climbed into the driver’s seat. The wheels squealed as I took off.

***

Strong gusts of wind beat against my face as I carried Marquise up the rusty, winding fire escape stairs of Book Tower. Almost twenty stories in the air, and we were only halfway to the top when I started feeling a little winded. Goddamn, I’d spent months training, working out, but somehow it didn’t prepare a bastard for a mountainous climb with a drug dealer strapped to his back. The pungent smell of sulfur emanating from the manholes didn’t help, either.

Peering over the railings showed the back alley to the building, which stood empty for the time being. The alley ran perpendicular to Grand River Avenue—it’d be bustling the following day, but right then, the ordinarily gated channel was quiet. No one guarded Book Tower, another one of Detroit’s sleeping giants.

I set Marquise down on the corroded grates of a landing and smacked at his face, until he jerked his head back and forth.

“Oh, fuck! What’s … what the fuck’s goin’ on?” His hands were bound behind him, the black blindfold still covering his eyes, and he strained his neck as if it’d miraculously fall away. “’The fuck you take me?” He kicked at the gravelly platform, pressing up against the rickety iron spindles behind him.

“That’s a long story, Marquise, and I’m not sure you have that kind of time.”

“Who the fuck are you?” He wriggled against his binds. “I’ll fucking kill you! I’ll kill you, bitch!”

“How’s the cuffs? Too tight? Not tight enough?” I gave a tug at his arm, laughing when he recoiled and tucked his elbow tight to his body.

“Do you know who I roll with? Mothafucka, you ain’t walking away from this shit. They’ll find you and smoke you.”

“Smoke? Is that a play on words?” Sneering, I pulled a black leather case from my coat pocket. “You like getting high?”

“I ain’t sayin’ shit. Corrupt fuckin’ police. Can’t trust nobody.”

“I’m not the police.” Unzipping the leather revealed seven syringes inside, strapped like a set of valuable pens. Five of the seven happened to be filled with twenty cc’s each of potassium chloride—the same shit used in lethal injections.

Another gust of wind blew past as a horn blared from somewhere in the direction of Washington Boulevard, and Marquise perked up. “Help! Hey! Someone help!”

It didn’t matter. No one would hear him. Even if they did, no one would save him. For kicks, though, I nabbed a white kerchief from my coat pocket, stuffed it in his mouth until he gagged, and yanked two knives, one from each boot.

I preferred to work in silence, anyway.

Waiting for him to calm down took longer than expected, so I grabbed his thigh and stabbed him in the kneecap.

He planked, trembling beneath my hand, though his muffled ‘fuck!’ hardly carried over the wind. I heard it though, and, somehow, it took me back to that night.

The open door leaves a sinking feeling in my gut, and, as if by instinct, my pulse hastens along with my pace, when I climb the stairs to enter my house. The first floor is dark and quiet, but somewhere above there’s scuffling and laughter. My heart is beating fast in my chest, as I drop my computer bag along with my keys and wallet then race up the stairs.

The door to Jay’s room is closed, and I tip toe past to where the noise leaves me feeling increasingly uneasy. Sounds of taunting and misery have my heart about ready to go AWOL.

There’s a steady slapping noise when I approach my bedroom door. Peeking inside robs every bit of breath in my lungs as I take in the four men standing around the edge of my bed while one of them pounds into my wife, her muffled cries hardly carrying over their laughter.

Adrenaline surges in my veins. My hands ball into fists at my side. Without thinking or arming myself, I kick open the door, and all four men turn to me.

The one keeps going at my wife, tipping his head back. “Aww, shit, this pussy is tight! So fuckin’ tight! I’m gonna fuck you ‘til you pass out, bitch!”

I dart toward them, taking a fist to the face that kicks me back a step. Punches pummel my stomach, pistons of pain cracking against my abdomen, but my eyes are fixed on the motherfucker raping Lena. I twist to the right and drill my fist into one cocksucker’s face, then turn to the other, hammering my fist into his cheek. Another kicks my feet out from under me, and suddenly I’m on the floor, scrambling to get back to my feet. A boot knocks my head back, sending jagged flashes of light exploding inside my skull, and I’m seeing double. Three more kicks damn near crack my ribs. Flames explode inside my chest, so hot it feels cold, as numbness coats the pain. Two of them hold my arms while one continues to snap my bones.

Lena screams as the rotten prick slips a belt over her throat, riding her like a fucking horse. Acid curls inside my veins until my skin is hot with anger, throat tight as a bellow builds in my chest and tears fill my eyes.

He falls forward, catching himself on the bed while still pumping behind her. “Scream if you want. Ain’t nobody gonna save you.”

Her scream, followed by a choking fit of sobbing, traipses along my spine, and by instinct, I attack again.

Shaking it off, I blinked back to the present. “I’m not going to lie, Marquise. You’re going to die tonight. Painfully. Mercilessly. It doesn’t matter what you say in the course of it all.” I smoothed the gloves over my hands, stretched my fingers, and removed the cloth from his mouth, before tucking my arms behind my back and pacing. “I am a collector, and you’re the first knickknack to grace my shelves.”

“’The fuck did I do to you, man? What did I do?”