Page 82 of Rebel
The air tastes of metal and gasoline, burnt oil and copper. My wrists burn where zip ties bite into my skin. My head pounds in time with the flicker of a single overhead light that buzzes like it’s dying a slow and painful death.
I peel open one eye, taking in my surroundings. I’m on the cold floor in the middle of a room. Concrete walls surround me. No windows. A single steel door stands before me, tauntingly.
I shift, testing the bonds on my feet and hands. Too tight to slip, too thick to break. My shoulder screams in protest when I twist, the bruises from the crash blooming fire under my skin. Somewhere close, someone breathes, a hitching, uneven sound.
“Who’s there?” I rasp.
A whisper answers. “Help me.”
It’s faint, a woman’s voice, raw. I drag myself toward the sound, scraping concrete with my boots. My vision swims, then clears. She’s curled in the corner, wrists zip-tied like mine, lip split, eyes wild.
“Name?” I ask.
“Syvannah.”
The name hits me hard. Tiny’s girl, the one that the Royal Bastards saved when Lattimer kidnapped Red’s Ol’ Lady, Nadia. The one Nadia tried to protect while being captive. This girl has gone through so much in her young life, she shouldn’t be here.
“You’re safe now,” I lie, because lies are armor.
She nods weakly. “When Capone took us to a safehouse, Lattimer snagged me when I was outside and brought me here. The men holding me here said they wanted access to a donor list.” Her bottom lip trembles. “Said if I didn’t give it to them, what Lattimer and Josiah did to me would be child's play.
Figures. The Vultures never just kill. They gut what matters first.
Footsteps echo beyond the door. Two, maybe three male voices echo down the hall. They’re close, laughing. One mentions a “delivery to the boss.”
I slide back into the shadow, forcing my breath slow. When the door creaks open, light knifes through the gloom, causing me to wince. Two men step inside. Cartel muscle, from the ink, the swagger. One carries a jug ofwater. The other has a gun he doesn’t bother aiming, carrying a bottle of beer.
He crouches, grabbing my chin. “You the accountant bitch? The one who thinks she can hide dirty money in clean accounts?”
I smile with my teeth. “You’ll need a calculator for what’s coming next.”
He laughs, and that’s his mistake.
I launch forward, smashing my forehead into his nose. Cartilage cracks. He stumbles back, cursing. I twist and drive my boot into his knee. He goes down screaming.
The other drops his beer bottle, and it rolls toward Syvannah. He raises his gun, but Syvannah’s already up, charging him with the only weapon within reach, the beer bottle. It shatters across his face in a burst of glass and blood.
“Nice swing,” I grunt.
“Been waiting for a reason,” she pants.
I grab the fallen knife, slice through my zip ties, then hers. The adrenaline burns hotter than pain. We search the two thugs fast, finding two mags, a lighter, half a can of gasoline, and a ring of keys.
I hand Syvannah the pistol. “You shoot?”
“Tiny taught me.”
“Then make him proud.”
We douse the locks with gas and light them up. Fire races along the steel, crawling bright and hungry. The men outside shout, pounding at the door as the metal glows red. The hinges give first, then the wall.
Theexplosion takes the corner of the room with it. Smoke rolls in, thick and black.
“Go!” I shove Syvannah through the breach.
We sprint into chaos. The compound is a sprawl of corrugated warehouses and chain-link fences under floodlights. Trucks, crates, and armed guards everywhere. The smell of diesel and blood.
Then a familiar sound hits my ears, and a smile spreads across my face. Engines rumble in fast. Dozens of them.
