as we make our ascent. Take off goes smoothly, but my anxiety has nothing to do with our flight. It’s our destination that has my nerves in knots.
Callum says they tracked the girls to a shipping container headed to Columbia. I overheard him talking to Roscoe about making a deal with the freight worker to have them reroute the shipment, but they got greedy and switched up the loading records.
Three freighters are currently on their way to Columbia, but he’s not sure which ship Lottie is on. And the ship determines which port we go to. By the determination on Callum’s face, he has a plan to get the information he needs.
As soon as the seatbelt light turns off, I connect my phone to the plane’s wifi. The moment my phone is connected to the internet, messages are flooding in. They’re from Ronnie, telling me to call her as soon as possible. Pressing the phone to my ear, it only rings once.
“Oh my god, Lexie! I’ve been trying to call you for the last hour,” Ronnie gushes.
“My phone was on airplane mode,” I explain, sitting forward in my seat. “What’s going on?”
“I have a friend who’s hooking up with a guy that works at Rikers,” she starts, her mention of the prison making me perk up. “She says that Carl Suco was attacked on his way to the showers. It was brutal.”
“How brutal?” Hearing the name of the truck driver responsible for the busload of first graders has white hot rage flashing through me all over again.
“He was stabbed with a shiv at the base of his spine, and one of his eyesockets was shattered. He’s never going to walk again and he’s permanently blind in his right eye.”
Adrenaline floods through me with a wave of satisfaction. Good, a man like him doesn’t deserve death—that’s too easy. He’ll live the rest of his miserable life in pain and suffering like he’s inflicted on so many others. I hope he never knows a minute of peace or comfort again.
“Do they know who did it?” The violent gratification barely registers in my mind as it’s welcomed openly by my thirst for vengeance. My gaze flickers across the plane, and gets caught in Callum’s passionate stare. He’s looking at me intently, and something tells me he knows who I’m talking about right now.
“No, they said it was in a blind corner. Whoever did it got away clean, and I can’t say I’m mad about that.”
“Me neither,” I admit. “It’s crazy how that happened though.”
Is it?
“I know.” There’s movement on the other end of the call. “Hey, I gotta go. But I just had to tell you.”
“I’m glad you did. I’ll talk to you later.” Ending the call, my eyes meet Callum’s again. “Carl Suco was attacked in prison. He’s going to live the rest of his life in pain.” There’s something in the air between us that makes me feel like I’m not telling Callum something he doesn’t already know.
“Sounds like he got what was coming to him.” Callum’s statement is vague and telling at the same time. “People in places like Rikers don’t take too kindly to someone who hurt kids. I have a feeling that’s not the only time he’s going to run into problems.”
He did this.
I don’t know how, and I’ll probably never know exactly who, but somehow Callum exacted a ruthless justice on the monster behind my nightmares. He’s not the one I see when I close my eyes, but he’s the cause of it all.
“Good.” The word sounds an awful lot like thanks coming out of my mouth. “He deserves everything he gets.”
***
I vaguely remember my life before back rooms and men tied to chairs were common occurrences. When we’d stepped off the plane in Colombia and drove through the colorful streets it almost felt like a vacation for a short moment. The house Roscoe drove us to was large, nice, and almost completely empty—a foreclosure I’m guessing. It’s pretty secluded, tucked away in the jungle by a long, private drive.
I’d been sitting at the kitchen counter for a few hours by myself when Callum reappeared to collect me. He lead me across the house to the back door, through the overgrown backyard with the half-empty green pool, to a detached two-car garage.
Walking into the garage feels a lot like deja vu. Just like walking into that night club, the scene that greets me is shocking. Roscoe and Callum aren’t the only men in the room, now there’s one more. But he’s not a guest, he’s a prisoner.
And he’s bleeding.
“Please help me, this man is a maniac.” The bleeding man’s eyes on me are pleading, and a wave of guilt washes over me. He looks so nice, so normal. Still in a shirt and tie, the older man looks like he was snatched on his way home from his office job as an accountant. A pair of wire rim glasses lay broken on the floor near his feet.
Blood stains the man’s dress pants where long metal nails have been brutally hammered into his thighs. A metal clamp clipped to each nail leads wires connected to something that resembles a car battery covered in dials on the table where Roscoe stands a few feet away. Bloody fingernails that have been truly removed neatly line a metal tray with the other instruments of torture, making me cringe.
“Again.” At Callum’s command, Roscoe cranks the dial on the battery. The man convulses as electricity shoots through him, his jaw clenching so tightly I swear I hear his teeth crack. The veins in his neck protrude and his back arches against the chair like he’s being yanked backwards. No sound comes out of him, instead it seems like the life is being sucked from his body.
Roscoe lets up after an excruciating long moment, and his eyes begin to roll back into his head. As soon as the electricity is no longer coursing through him, he slumps like a puppet with cut strings. His head falls forward as he loses consciousness and I step forward to feel for a pulse.
“His heart stopped,” I announce.
“Give him what’s in that syringe,” Callum instructs, motioning for Roscoe to step back so I can get to the small table. Avoiding the fingernails and other assorted cartilage scattered on the different trays, I lift the predosed syringe to read the label.
“This is undiluted adrenaline.” It’ll get the man’s heart beating again, but at what cost?
“I’m aware.” Callum’s not in any mood to coddle me. “You’re here to do a job, Lexie.”
Holding the syringe at a 90 degree angle, I push the long needle straight down into the man’s thigh until I hit muscle, and press down the plunger until the full dose of adrenaline has been injected from the barrel. After several seconds that feel like forever, the man’s head lifts with a pained gasp of air. His chest heaves, skins so pale he looks like death warmed over.
“Good job, Doc.” Callum’s praise falls flat. “Now step back so Roscoe can get back to work.”
“Is that really necessary?” Callum’s eyes move to me at the soft words, a ruthless unfeeling glint in his gaze. The eyes of a killer. Apprehension washes over me, goosebumps raising along my arms. He turns back to the man, his voice cold.
“My nurse here doesn’t think you deserve to be in so much pain. But you and I both know exactly what you deserve.”
“Fuck you.”
“Why don’t we tell her who you really are under that cheap suit. What’s in the container, Jimmy?” Callum asks, his voice laced with venom.
“Just merchandise.”
“What kind of merchandise?” Another zap, more teeth cracking and groaning. “Say it.”
“Girls.” The answer makes my stomach drop like a ball of lead.
“What kind of girls, Jimmy? Be specific.”
“You know what kind.”
“I want to hear you say it out loud. Come on, tell me what kind of a man you are. What kind of girls are in that container?”
“Underage girls.”
“Little girls.” Callum’s tone turns absolutely lethal. “I have no problem with the sex trade, Jimmy. If women want to be paid for sex, that’s none of my business. But little girls, stolen from their families and forced into sex slavery? That is my business. And this time you took the wrong little girl. Because this little girl has parents, parents with money who hired me. And that mistake is going to cost you your life.”
“Fuck you, Russo.”
“You’re a worthless, scum sucking rat, Jimmy. The lowest form of roach that crawls on this earth. People who mess with kids—depraved, sick men like you—aren’t men at all. And even though you don’t deserve it, I’m going to let you choose how you die. If you tell me where the container is, I’ll consider ending you right here, right now. A bullet right between the eyes, quick and easy. But if you decide not to tell me, or worse lie to me, Roscoe’s going to have a field day extracting each organ from your body until your heart gives out. And then we’ll give your daughter the same fate you’ve chosen for Lottie Harris. What’s your daughter’s name again?”
“Lindsay,” Roscoe offers easily.
“Ah yes, little Lindsay. Sweet kid, though a little too friendly. You really should teach her more about stranger danger, especially in your line of work. Does she know what kind of a man you are?”
“Don’t you fucking go near Lindsay,” Jimmy spits.
“Tell me what I want to know and maybe I’ll spare her.” Any other day I’d be sure that Callum is making an empty threat—he wouldn’t hurt a little girl like that. But looking at him right now, I’m suddenly not so sure. Jimmy sees that same brutality residing just beneath the surface too.
“Port of Cartagena.” The words fall from Jimmy’s mouth like he can’t physically hold them in anymore. “The Scorpius. They don’t tell me the container number, but it’s expected in today at 3pm.”
“Security?”
“Three on the ship, four on the ground who move the girls. Semi-automatic weapons and vests.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing, that’s it. I swear on my life.”
“That doesn’t mean much, Jimmy.” The light is fading from Jimmy’s eyes as his breathing becomes more labored. More than likely, the electricity is causing organ failure from internal tissue burns. Callum’s piercing eyes turn to land on me, his hand running over his impeccable beard.
“I’ll let you decide what happens now, Dewdrop.” My breath gets caught in my chest in surprise. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulls out his phone to extend to me. “Let Jimmy meet his fate, or call for help.”
This isn’t the type of decision I’ve ever had to make. The weight of someone’s life in my hands is heavier than I ever thought possible. A few months ago my hand would’ve reached for that phone in a heartbeat—do no harm and all that. But since being in New York I’ve seen some shit, and my eyes have been opened to the truth people keep hidden behind business suits and closed doors. Nothing is as black and white as it seems.
This is a human life, but not everyone deserves to be saved.
My gaze travels from the phone, up Callum’s arm to meet his eyes. I’m sure he can see my thoughts warring with each other. He’s probably expecting me to grab the phone and call for help. It’s what I should do. Finally, I step forward.
Stepping past the offered phone, I walk the few steps to stand in front of the vile man responsible for so much pain and suffering. The pleading on his face is long gone, replaced by dark contempt. His eyes are empty, even as he fights to keep them open.
“You fucking bitch.” He struggles to get the words out, and there’s no mistaking the disdain in his feeble voice. His breaths are becoming shorter and heavier, a look of agony permanently etched on his face. The organs in his body are shutting down one by one after being burnt to a crisp. It’s an excruciating process, but not a hard one to watch. Not with him.
“This is for every little girl who had their life ruined because of you,” I say. “You don’t deserve peace, and the world will be much better off without you. Including your daughter.”
It doesn’t take long for Jimmy to lose the ability to speak, his mouth gaping open and shut like he’s drowning. Seconds stretch into minutes. I stand over him, watching as the world is rid of a monster. Andie Brentwood’s face flashes through my mind with her curly blonde hair, wide brown eyes lit with pain, and two missing front teeth. This is for her, and every other innocent life destroyed by monsters like Jimmy and Carl Suco. They were worth saving.
I’ve been witness to so much violence and devastation at the hands of selfishness, and all I could do was clean up the aftermath. I’ve had to patch up women and children, only to send them home to their abusers. Back then my hands were tied by protocol and medical laws—this time I can do something about it. I’m no one’s savior, but I can be this man’s karma.
I have no delusions that I’m fighting for the greater good or some bullshit like that. I know how twisted it is to hold a man’s life in my hands and choose to let him die. Just the idea should make me sick. Honestly, I’m expecting the guilt and devastation to hit any minute, to suddenly have a ‘what have I done?’ moment. But the remorse never comes.
When Jimmy’s breathing finally stops and his head falls forward, his half-lidded eyes lifeless, an overwhelming sense of satisfaction washes over me. It settles deep into my bones until it’s part of who I am. Pressing my fingers against his neck, I double check that there’s no pulse. “He’s dead.”
Good fucking riddance.
“Lexie.” At some point Callum moved to stand beside me, so close my arm brushes his when I turn to look up at him. He’s staring at me like I might break—something I can’t blame him for. I wasn’t exactly sure how I would handle it either. So far all I feel is relieved. Jimmy brought this upon himself.
“Do you need help disposing of the body?” The words leave my lips before I can think twice about them, and a flicker of concern crosses Callum’s face. Or was it confusion? Both are justified, I guess.
“No.” It’s Roscoe who responds first. “You don’t need to touch any of this.”
“Okay,” I say, pulling my eyes from Callum to glance at the enforcer. His expression is grave as he regards me. It’s for the best, honestly. The idea of getting rid of a body is gross, I don’t know why I even offered. I got caught in the moment.
“Come on, Dewdrop. Let’s get you out of here,” Callum says deeply, reaching for my hand—his strong fingers linking with mine. I can feel the weight of his eyes on me as I walk out the door without a glance back at the body.
At the man I let die.
