Blood to Dust (11 page)

I drag my shades down and roll my lower lip between my fingers as I stare through the rear window.

Yeah, it’s definitely them
.

Stella merges into the highway as I try to lose the 1970 Ford Econoline van. White, rusty and fitting for these assholes. I spot it a couple of cars behind me. The faces staring back at me through my rear mirror are unfamiliar, but recognizable all the same.

I can spot an Aryan Brother from miles away, having been in prison for so long. Two big pink men. Fat, tatted and simple looking.

I can’t lead them to my house. Gotta’ get rid of them somewhere along the way.

Fuck, I thought Godfrey said he was on top of this shit.

Speeding onto the I-5, I duck my head low so that the back of my skull is covered by the cushioned seat. Cursing under my breath, I’m throwing glances to assess how many other cars I can bypass without raising suspicion. My pulse is wild, hammering against my ears, making my blood roar in my veins. Shaky, damp fingers choke my steering wheel. I push the gas pedal until my foot hits the floor. The van’s following close behind. Now it’s only one car away. It’s ten p.m., too late for traffic, and the highway is deserted, other than a few random cars crawling along their journey to their point of destination.

Shit.

My eyes dart from the road back to the van, and a big guy with a tattoo on his cheek pulls his torso out of the passenger seat’s window. Then I see it. A rifle. A fucking rifle.

Double shit.

He levels the rifle with me, one eye squeezed shut, the other focused on my head. I gulp hard and take a sharp turn to the right, switching lanes. If I don’t take the next right exit, I’m dead.

Godfrey, you lying scumbag. Did you let them loose, or did you never have any power over them in the first place?

That’s a question I’ll have to deal with if I get out of this alive.

I veer onto an exit ramp and speed with everything I’ve got. Stella starts shaking to the point where everything clatters. Reluctantly, the old van switches lanes to follow me into a winding road crawling into green-grass covered hills of nothingness.

Triple shit.

I couldn’t have given them a better place to shoot me. All I’ve got left is to push my fucking forehead into their barrel at this point.

The van manages to bump into my rear and my vehicle coughs forward. I try to speed up unsuccessfully. It’s done. The Tacoma has reached its limit. Another bump follows, this time harder. My ass disconnects from my seat, my body jumps upwards. Third bump, and this time Stella’s thrown a few feet forward. I need to stop this chase before they roll me over and shoot me down.

So I change tactics.

I take a left turn out of nowhere, rolling into a carved hill, and reverse back so my car faces theirs, hidden by a blizzard of dust and gravel.

Let’s. Play. Fucking. Chicken.

These men want to kill me, but me? I’m actually going to let them. They may not yield, but I won’t, either. It’s easy to gamble your life away when you’ve got nothing to live for.

Playtime, motherfuckers.

Revving up my engine, I push the gas pedal so hard the muscles in my foot pull, my truck galloping in their direction. All I see is red. All I feel is the taste of their blood on the tip of my tongue.

Faster.

Quicker.

Nearer.

Closer.

The driver finally swerves to the right, and the van crashes against a thick bush. Black smoke scuttles from its engine.

The van’s old age caught up with it. They’re done. Their vehicle’s fucked.

It’s time to ruin and reign.

I fling my door open and stagger out of Stella, hurrying to my trunk and pulling out a wooden broom. That’s the only weapon I have. A fucking broom. But it’s long and I break it in two against my knee, so now it has two sharp edges, too.

Pacing to the van, I pull out the guy who’d sat in the passenger’s seat, the one with the rifle, and toss his heavy weapon behind my back, far away from his reach.

“Who sent you?” My spit peppers his face as I drag him out onto the grassy hill. He’s twisting left and right, trying to break free, but he stands no chance. I’m way bigger and stronger.

Behind me, the driver unlatches his safety belt, scrambling out of his seat. Before he has a chance to bolt for the rifle, I nail the sharp point of one of the sticks straight into the first guy’s palm, pinning him to the ground. The stick is firmly planted into the soil, as is the guy who’d just tried to shoot me. There’s a massive hole in the center of his palm now, and he’s screaming his lungs out. I proceed to nail his other hand to the ground, crucifying him to the hill like a sick, sad, corrupted Jesus.

Then I jump on the fleeing driver like a panther on its prey.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I slur on a scream as I yank him by his shirt. He swings his fist at me, but I dodge it. I tackle him to the ground and he resists, pulling us together into a ball of kicks and punches. We roll down the bank, tangled and throwing fists at each other. We land in a valley a few feet from our vehicles, and I’m quick to climb on top of him, straddle him with my thighs, the way I did when Pea tried to escape, and unleash twenty-seven years’ worth of wrath on his face.

I’m angry, possessed and out of my fucking mind.

My knuckles land on his nose, shattering it with a chilling sound, and I follow it with another fist as I smash his mouth with a brutal blow. A tooth pops out and rolls on the grass. I hit him until all I see is blood. I hit him even though I know that he might be dead. I hit him for reasons that have nothing to do with him. I hit him because I’m an orphan, an ex-felon, a captor and a guy who’s in lust with a girl he cannot have. Because I’m a sad boy, a broken man and a lonely soul. A barbaric savage, a poet with a heart of gold and a nobody who is desperate to become somebody.

And I hit him because I need him dead. Because I can’t chance him finding me again.

But I don’t just kill him. No. I’m butchering him with my stone-cold heart.

Because he’s not a person. He’s a symbol.

Representing everything I hate.

Everything I want to turn my back on.

Everything that’s taking the only thing I was born with, other than this stupid beautiful face, and that still belongs to me.
My peace
.

After I’m done, I drag his body up the hill, aware of the fact that someone might spot us. What choice do I have? I can’t leave him here to be found. Luckily, by the time I climb back up to Stella, it’s already pitch black and the chances of being spotted behind those hills are slim to none.

I pile the dead driver into his van and stride over to his friend, who’s still nailed to the ground, cursing and spitting, kicking his legs like a toddler in a tantrum. It’s a good thing Mrs. H sent me to buy a new broom not too long ago, and I forgot it in my trunk.

“Who sent you?” I growl into his face, fisting one of the sticks and moving it in circles, splitting the hole in his palm wider. I need a name I can look up. A name I can hunt down. Someone who I can turn my rage against. If the Aryan Brotherhood is after me, I want to know who the shot-caller is, who went against Godfrey’s direct order and decided to kill me.

“Brown bastard,” he moans at me, trying to kick me with what’s left of his strength.

I drop my head to my chest, letting out a bitter laugh. “One last chance? I might let you live if you decide to cooperate.” I don’t want to be responsible for an unnecessary death, but I’m not dumb enough to let him walk away without a payback, either.

He shakes his head and spits his words. “Do whatever you need to do, Nathaniel Vela. You’re already a dead man. We just haven’t killed you yet.”

I kneel on one knee, cradling his face in my palms. He has a blonde moustache, a shiny bald head and an
Aryan Warrior
tattoo on his cheek. He grins as I snap his neck in one sharp movement, breaking his spine.

His head is weirdly positioned on the grass, the stupid smile and wide eyes now staring back at me instead of the sky.

Dumping him in the van along with the rifle doesn’t take long. My engine is already revved up before I throw the match I lit into the open gas tank door through Stella’s window. My crime scene bursts into flames behind me, creating a rancid cloud of burnt flesh and gasoline as I speed away. My eyes prickle and my throat stings, but it’s not due to the whiff of fire making its way into my lungs. No. What strikes me the most on my ride home is the fact that I am officially contaminated by sin. I’m not a killer, I’m a murderer. Self-defense or not, I’ve taken three lives, and I’m barely twenty-seven.

I’ve killed three people, two of them deliberately, not just to stop them, but to
end
them. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t bat an eyelash. Goddamn, I didn’t even flinch. I ventured straight into fucking serial killer territory, with neighbors like Ted Bundy and Jeffery Dahmer to accompany my new title.

Some people collect stamps. Some coins. Taxidermy. Fucking cards. I collect regrets. They don’t take up much space, not physically, anyway. But inside. . .they occupy. They eat away. They ruin.

Because that’s the thing about regrets. They’re mistakes that left scars. Vicious, sensitive, searing wounds.

I don’t feel remorse for killing those three bastards, but I feel bad about
her
.

Maybe that’s why I kick the basement’s door open the minute I get home.

“Vegetarian chipotle.” The foil-wrapped burrito knocks on her shoulder as I toss it against her body. She’s lying on the floor, her face against the tiles. I should be pissed at her for not talking to me yesterday
.
Correction:
I am
pissed at her for not talking to me yesterday.

I’m mad.

At her.

At me.

At everything.

Especially
at everything. Yet again, life threw a knockout punch right in my face. Does Godfrey know about the AB seeking me out? And what fucking good is he to me if he can’t even keep the bad guys at bay?

Pea doesn’t move. Maybe she’s asleep. Doubt it. She’s too smart and alert, and she lives for her fifteen minutes of bathroom and food break. Glancing at the wall, I notice she hasn’t chalked a white stripe today.

Not counting the days anymore? Why?

I take two steps in her direction, my pulse thick and erratic in my throat, and nudge her leg with my leather boot. She doesn’t respond, her face and stomach against her blanket. I use my foot to roll her over on her back, and the stress ball she was holding rolls onto the floor. Her eyes are open, and she’s staring back at my mask.

The emptiness in her expression is more unsettling than watching a man’s last inhale as I snap his spine in two.

“Eat,” I command.

She doesn’t budge, her muscles slack. Squatting down, I drag her up to a sitting position, her back against the wall, trying to swallow my next question. It storms out of my mouth anyway.

“Has Ink fucked you?”

Irv better not have touched her. Godfrey would kill us both if he has. But that’s not why my chest is burning with uncontained fury.

Something I don’t recognize bubbles up inside me. It’s not hate, not anger, and I hope to God it’s not jealousy.

What the fuck am I doing? What the hell am I thinking? What’s happening to me?

Pea doesn’t answer.

“Pea!” I slam my fist against the wall behind her, expecting her to jump in fear. The wall shakes, but she just stares at a point behind my head. Apathy leaks from every pore in her face.

Fuck it all to hell.

I thought I had issues with the spunky, blabbering girl I took from Godfrey. I was wrong.
That
girl was semi-entertaining.
This
girl? She’s a goddamned graveyard.

“Tell me now, before I start breaking shit. What’s Ink done to you?” I take a sharp gulp of air, my body dangerously close to hers. When her mouth opens slightly, mine follows suit.

“He hasn’t done anything. It’s not about him. I’m not going to eat, because there’s no point in me eating. They’re going to kill me anyway. It’d just be a waste of everything: food, water and both of our time.” She shakes her head. Her voice is so hollow, it almost echoes. “If I’m going to die, I don’t want it to be at their hands.” Her eyes harden. “No. I’ll die here. Alone. Deprive them the opportunity of getting off on seeing me gasping for my last breath.”

The mention of her death mauls at me combined with the crimes I committed a few hours ago. I resist the urge to say something comforting. I ain’t a liar, and Pea’s right. They’ll kill her. Godfrey will make it a gory death, and no matter where the crime scene ends up being, a splash of her blood will forever stain my conscience.

But one of us has to die, and right now, my integrity is paralyzed by my survival instincts.

“Beat,” she croaks. Fuck, her lips. Those pinks I’d like to touch—now more than ever—are trembling with fear. “Please kill me. I know you can’t set me free, I get it. I do. But you can make my death look like an accident. Please, spare me the Archers’ wrath.”

She wants to become my third death for tonight, and my fourth in total. Do I look like the fucking reaper? I clutch my hair with both fists as I bite into my lip. It’s a sad turn of events when you realize you don’t only want to fuck the girl you’re supposed to hand over to death row, but you also want to save her.

“Hey,” I drop my hand to the floor to pick up the burrito, placing it in her hand. “Shut your trap about death. I’ll go get my food. We’ll eat together tonight.”

That’s the only thing I can think of that’d cheer her up. I don’t want her suffering. She hasn’t done anything bad to me. My dick, on the other hand, resents her round ass and suckable lips. She’s been taunting it for days. If cock teasing were an art, this girl would be Picasso.

“Beat,” she says weakly when I start ascending the stairs. I stop, my back still to her. “Bring your favorite book along. I’d like to read something good.”

My head falls in a small nod.

She’s aiming straight for my fucking heart, this chick. Shot after shot in the dark.

And sooner or later, I know, even in the pitch black, she’s going to hit her target.