Page 60 of Vile Bastards
“There’s always that secret weapon of mine,” Bohnes offers up, shutting the car off and climbing out. One of the men unloading a four-wheeler from his truck pauses to sweep his eyes over Scarlett’s form, and I feel myself cracking on the inside.
I could easily stab my thimble into his neck, let the batrachotoxin do its work. If I dumped his body in the creek, who would ever trace it back to me?
Widow walks by the man, whispering something low under his breath, and the guy stiffens up like he might start a fight. Instead, the man redirects his energy to muttering under his breath and fiddling with his oversized toy.
“This place, really?” Widow asks, looking around as if he’s never been here before. That’s right. The delinquent might be a Prescott native, but he spent the last five years in a juvenile detention center. “Do you even have service on that shitty burner phone?”
“We’re about to find out.”
Bohnes dons a pair of gloves before opening the burner phone’s package which draws the attention of one of the moms clustered near the horde of small, squawking mini-humans. They disgust me so thoroughly that I actually take several steps back, despite the fact that there’s already a hundred or so feet between us.
“Germ factories,” I mutter under my breath, shivering all over.
“Children freak me out, too,” Scarlett agrees, crossing her arms under her tits and drawing my attention to them in a way that frightens me. It’s as if I’m powerless to resist. Which, of course, makes me want to resist her more, not less. “I don’t think I want to have any. Ever.” Her gaze slips over to Widow, and he smirks, offering up a shake of his head.
“We’ll have three. It’s a compromise; I wanted six.”
“Go fuck yourself,” she snaps at him, and then Bohnes is turning the phone on and checking for service.
“One bar should be enough.” He shrugs his shoulders and then passes it over to me. “Go now, rich boy. Make your phone call and then chuck the burner in the trash can.” Bohnes snaps the gloves off his hands and disposes of them before wandering away in the direction of a water fountain.
I almost vomit when I see him bend down to drink from it, eyes scanning the park for threats. He’s talented, at least, even if he drinks from filthy, public water stations … How dare he touch Scarlett with a contaminated mouth and hands? Disgusting.
“I’d rather fuck you and get you pregnant,” is what Widow returns to Scarlett’s quip, and I very quickly put some distance between myself and him before my twitchy fingers really do go for the needles in my jacket.
I find a quiet spot under some trees, the wind rustling the leaves above me, clusters of ferns clinging to the edges of the picturesque brook in front of me. I’m not about to take a seat on the nearby bench. Nature is far cleaner than humanity. I will take dirt over people, always.
I release a slow, calming exhale, closing my eyes against the late autumnal sunshine. It’s quite cold out here, but it’s also a rare, sunny day in November, and not quite so biting in the actual sunlight. I open my eyes and adjust my position so that I’m standing in a golden patch of light.
This could very well be a mistake.
There are equal chances here that the family will listen to me or kill me, but I can’t live my life in hiding forever. I won’t give up my father’s company or fortune to his murderers. I won’t allow Scarlett Force to die.
I dial the number that I’ve had memorized since I was five years old.
It’s as familiar to me as the address of our first Manhattan apartment, the one that my mother set to a silly jingle so that I’d never forget. It’s as familiar to me as her phone number, the one that’s still in service because both my father and I like to be able to call her and leave messages that she’ll never hear.
Or … liked. My Papa liked to do that.
But he’s fucking gone now, murdered in cold-blood, and here I am, having nearly died from hypothermia, and at the mercy of my (soon-to-be) girlfriend and her annoyingly adept but undeniably frustrating lovers.
I dial the number before I can talk myself out of it, lifting the phone to my ear and struggling to keep my breath even. I have nothing to hide. I’ve done nothing wrong. I shouldn’t be acting as such.
The ringing stops as the call is picked up, but there’s no greeting, no heavy breathing, just silence. That, and a heavy, ominous feeling that sinks into my bones like a frigid wind.
“It’s me.” I don’t bother to give my name. They’ll know who’s calling. “My papa was murdered, and I know who did it.” My throat threatens to close up, just to keep those awful words in, but I push through it. Nobody but me would ever know how badly I hurt when I think about my father. He was a kindhearted man, too kindhearted in my opinion. He was ruthless in business, but at home, with his wife and his son, he was big and loud and engaging. My hand begins to shake, but I ignore it. “We need to talk, but his murderers are actively pursuing me. I’m sure you haven’t missed the radio silence from your own men. It’s related back to that.” I pause again, wondering which cousin or uncle or underling is listening in right now.
