Huntsman, p.26
Huntsman, page 26
A chair.
No Eshe.
“Where is she?” I growl, fury and panic rolling through me, nearly fucking swamping me. I pack it down and focus on Abena, who strolls in front of the chair and sinks down onto it, crossing her legs. “Where the fuck is Eshe?”
“Oh wow, Huntsman.” She smiles and props her elbow on her thigh, leaning forward. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had feelings for my niece. Please don’t tell me the infamous Huntsman has fallen for Eshe Diallo? Makes sense though. Why else would you be here, ready to trade your life for hers?” Her smile widens. “Oh God, I hope so. That would make what’s coming even more delicious.”
She stands, the smile dropping from her lips and leaving a cold, blank mask.
“Put him down.”
A side door opens, and two more soldiers roll in a gurney. My muscles tense, but I still don’t see Eshe, don’t know where Abena is stashing her. And until I lay eyes on her, I can’t afford to fight. So I allow them to strap me to the gurney, and as the cuffs tighten across my chest and arms, I can’t help but compare this to the last time I was chained to a bed. Can’t help but compare the woman who gave me the darkest, sweetest pleasure with the edge of her knife to the bitch who stands over me now, wielding a dagger and staring down at me with lust shining in her dark eyes.
Can’t help but think how that time catapulted us here to this moment.
We’re full circle.
“What was that shit you talked when I offered to fuck you before?” She draws the blade of the knife over the edge of my jaw, down my neck, then slides the tip just under my skin at the base of my throat. “‘Try it,’ I believe your words were,” she purrs, gloating.
The bite of pain is negligible, doesn’t even warrant a flinch.
But my stomach roils, and bile churns, searing my chest and throat. Because this feels wrong. Dirty.
“While I was waiting on you to get here, I passed the time imagining all the ways I could ‘try it.’ Too bad sloppy seconds aren’t my thing, but damn, you make me almost reconsider.”
She leans over me, presses an open-mouthed kiss to my throat, and it requires every bit of control in me not to strain away from her touch that burns my skin like acid.
I’m going to kill her.
I don’t know how. But even if I have to pull a Jesus Christ, I’m ripping this bitch’s throat out and spitting in that hole.
“The only thing that would make this better is if Eshe were here to witness this.” She grips my chin and jerks my face toward her. “Too bad she’s not, Huntsman. Too bad she’s never been here. That video? A little clip of my niece’s kidnapping from years ago. Who knew it would come in handy? Glad I kept it.”
A sheet of ice slicks through my veins, and for a moment, my lungs cease pumping. I yank my gaze from the ceiling to glimpse the triumphant glint in hers, and the rage starts to eat away at the shock.
She’s never been here.
Abena didn’t have Eshe? The fucking cunt tricked me. And for the first time, blinded by emotion, I fell into the goddamn trap.
Yet, under the anger … relief threads through me like silver filaments.
Eshe’s okay. She’s not hurt, hasn’t been tortured like an animal. If my being here means she avoided that fate, then I’d still do it again.
I smile.
And I turn my head back toward the ceiling. But not before I catch the bewildered shock that slackens Abena’s face.
“Oh no, muthafucka. You’re going to give me what I want. Where the fuck is Eshe? You two left the obodo together, so don’t try to tell me you don’t know. Give her to me, and I’ll make your death quick,” she snaps.
When she doesn’t get shit out of me, she emits a low, vicious snarl and jams her knife into the meaty portion of my arm. Red-hot pain flashes through me, but experience informs me the injury isn’t life-threatening. I grind my teeth, not releasing a sound.
Or an answer.
That enrages Abena more.
“Where, Huntsman?” she demands, this time plunging the knife through my opposite arm, the same place.
And she gets the same result. Nothing from me. She’s wasting her fucking time. I was raised on fucking pain like a baby reared on their mother’s breast milk.
The bitch played her card. And lost.
Over and over, she slices my body, drenching me in blood, cocooning me in agony.
By the time she drops the knife to the silver table, she’s splattered in crimson and sweat, and I’m weakened from blood loss but still silent. In the half hour she’s worked me over, I’ve inhaled the searing ache, the sharp, blinding pain. Consumed it until I’m almost high like an addict. I teeter on a needle’s edge, caught between scorching pleasure and agonizing pain, my body strung tight like a bow.
But I remain silent.
“I can do this all night, and there are plenty of places on your body to run through.” Abena leans over me, slicing my shirt down the middle and baring my chest. “I’m not going to kill you, because you’re too fucking valuable alive. But I can make you pray for death.”
I dip my head, meet Abena’s manic gaze. “Fuck. God.”
Her face darkens, and for a moment, I think she might break that vow not to kill me.
“You want Eshe so bad, you can be just like that bitch, then,” she sneers, picking up the knife once more.
With a sharp, brutal swing, she hacks off my finger—the same finger Eshe’s kidnappers took. The blowback of pain crushes my spine to the gurney, and I damn near bite off my tongue, trapping the roar that barrels out of my throat. Abena grabs a blowtorch and aims it on a metal disc. Once it glows red, she jams the disc onto the stump where my finger used to be, and my body shakes as I almost pass out from the agony. Black claws at my vision, gnawing at my consciousness, and I scrape and fight to stay alert.
My chest heaves up and down, my breath deep rasps in my ears.
“You’re so ready to die for my niece,” Abena goads. The smell of my burned flesh taints the air, as does my hate. “Let’s see if she’s willing to do the same.” Without looking away from me, she raises and waves a hand, beckoning someone forward. In seconds, one of the soldiers from outside appears at her side. “Go ahead.” Abena impatiently dips her head toward me, and he lifts a phone, focusing it on me and scanning my entire bloodied body.
The bitch is gonna be pissed when she finds out that shit is useless. Eshe’s cell is under a pile of rock and cement. No way that video is getting through to her.
Sucks for Abena.
After several moments, he hands the phone over to her. She watches the recording, and satisfaction blooms over her face. Her gaze returns to me over the cell.
“What’s the saying? A picture’s worth a thousand words? Looks like I don’t need you to answer my questions after all, Huntsman. Once I send this to my niece, we’ll both find out if you mean anything to her, won’t we? If you’re lucky, you’ll get to see your precious Eshe again before I slice you open from one end to the other in front of her. You might say ‘fuck God,’ but she’s going to meet him screaming your name.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Eshe
I close the door of the apartment behind me and wait to hear the locks engage. Only then do I shift away from it, scanning the hall for any movement. But the entrances to the other two homes on the third floor of the building remain closed, and a perusal of the floor doesn’t betray any shadows beneath the doors.
Striding for the end of the corridor, I continue to visually sweep the area until I bypass the elevator, twist the knob on the exit, and step into the stairwell. It was probably foolish to visit Penn. Selfish even. But I had to lay eyes on her, had to make sure she was safe. And she is. Thank God. At least I can wipe that sin from the slate. Or at the very least cross a line through it. The doctor with her promises a full recovery and the relief at that news removes some of the pressure from my chest. I can breathe just a tiny bit easier.
Now, hopefully, Malachi’s car still affords me an extra layer of protection from the assassin on my ass long enough for me to visit Sienna at her safe house and then make it to Ma’s cottage. If this Poison is as good as Malachi claims, then I can’t avoid her forever. But this will grant me some time to form a solid plan before the three-day deadline Tera instituted.
Tera.
Penn.
Sienna.
The rest of my Seven.
Malachi.
Drawing Poison to the cottage means she will be away from my people. The people I love. My fingers clench around the railing, and I briefly pause on the steps before forcing myself to continue. Malachi. God, I want to be angry. I want to scream, yell, throw the tantrum to end all tantrums just to release this … pain. The pain of rejection, of loss, of grief.
I don’t close my eyes, and I haven’t since leaving his loft. When I did, I too-vividly saw the cold rage in his face, the bright steel in his eyes. Heard the contempt in his voice. Felt the heated disdain that rolled off his golden skin.
The first person I’ve said I love you to since my mother … The first person I’ve ever fallen in love with … And he wants nothing to do with me or the damaged heart I have to offer. For the first time, I wonder if there’s something defective in me. Something so abnormal that stalking a man and claiming him as mine seems acceptable. Something so flawed that it renders me unlovable and broken beyond repair.
Is that what Malachi sees when he looks at me? I’m good enough to fuck but not to love?
Pain, bright and sharp as a dagger’s blade, stabs me in the chest, and I halt again, nearly stumbling on the step as I suck in a shallow breath that tastes of orange and turpentine.
I open eyes that I didn’t realize had closed and stare at the freshly painted mint walls. How pathetic does it make me that I’d still run for him? Still pin that red-and-white bullseye on my back for him?
Fucking very.
Forcing my feet to move, I descend the rest of the stairs and don’t stop until I push through the bottom door into the apartment building’s spotless lobby. As soon as the door closes behind me, I pull out the burner phone Malachi gave me and turn off the Do Not Disturb. Glancing down at the screen, I notice three missed calls. I frown, not recognizing the number. Before I can decipher who it could be, it rings again. And it’s the same number. Who the fuck is this? It’s not from one of my Seven. And they are the only ones who would call the cell …
Maybe it’s Malachi.
The thought, with its hopeful tone, jumps in my head before I can quash it. But I slide my thumb across the screen with a bated breath anyway.
“Hello?”
“Eshe?”
“Who’s this?” I demand, jerking to a halt in the middle of the vestibule and frowning down at the black-and-white diamond pattern on the floor.
“Jamari. Remember me?”
My eyebrows lift but not my confusion. And a band tightens around my rib cage, shortening the breath in my lungs.
“Yeah, Jamari. I remember. Why’re you calling? What’s wrong?” I ask, moving again and pushing through the building’s entrance. I jog down the front steps, aggravation flaring like a struck match at the sight of some asshole wearing a backpack leaning on the rear of the Camaro. “The fuck?” I murmur. “Hey, muthafucka—”
Jamari straightens and turns to face me, lowering his arm. I follow suit, briefly glancing down to end the call since I’m staring at the person on the line.
“Hi, Eshe…”
“Jamari.” I slide the burner into the back pocket of my pants and ease my gun out of its holster. “How did you find me?”
His eyes widen, and he pops up his hands even though I haven’t pulled my Glock completely free yet. “Hey, wait, wait. The Camaro. Before he left, Malachi told me he loaned you the Camaro. He wanted me to track it down and bring it back. But you’re not supposed to be with it.”
Unease skates down my spine, tingles at the base. Leaving my Glock at my back, I take a step toward him.
“What do you mean, ‘before he left’? And why wouldn’t I be with the car? Where else would I be? Or better yet, where do you think I’m supposed to be?”
He slides his hands in the front pockets of the bomber jacket and glances around. Maybe he senses the same disquiet I do.
“Get in the car.” I unlock it with the key fob, and we both slide in. As soon as his door closes, I turn to him. “A’ight. Talk.”
“A few hours ago, H received a video of you.” His brown gaze roams over my face as if searching for … something. “You were being tortured. There was blood. So much blood. And your screams.” He swallows, and the look in his eyes … “Abena gave him an address and ultimatum: Show up and exchange himself for you, or she would cut you in pieces. I saw the video myself. But now, up close…”
“I’ve been here since I left Malachi’s loft earlier today. Abena hasn’t—” The fuck? Tortured? Screams? My pulse starts to race, and without my permission, I stroke the too-smooth skin flap where my pinkie once was. “Jamari, I need you to think carefully, okay? What was I wearing? Or what did you see in the room? Anything you can remember.”
“I don’t need to remember. I can just show you.”
He pulls out his phone, and in moments, I’m staring at footage of sixteen-year-old me strapped to an all-too-familiar chair, in a room that I still see in my nightmares. When that video ends, he plays the one of Abena with the instructions she left for Malachi.
“That fucking bitch,” I whisper.
“I don’t get it,” Jamari says as I pass him back the phone. “Why would she go through all that trouble to get him? He didn’t have anything to give her.”
“He is what she wanted. If she has him, she has me.”
“Fuck,” Jamari breathes. “She’s using him as bait to trap you.”
“Yeah.” I chuckle, sightlessly staring at the apartment building through the windshield. “If it worked once, why not try it again?” I shake my head. “Only, it’s been hours since she’s had him. Why hasn’t she…? Shit.” Dread and fear twist my stomach, which cramps so hard, I almost double over. “Jamari, my phone was lost in the explosion at Elysian. Is there any way you can access the phone company’s records and get my texts or phone calls?”
“Hell yeah.” He zips open his backpack and pulls out a laptop. After I give him my info, he has my records pulled up in an alarmingly short amount of time.
“Holy shit.” I gape at him. “You’re like a Black Penelope Garcia.”
He smirks. “Nah, ma. Don’t get shit twisted. She a white Jamari Scott.”
Turning the laptop toward me, he taps on the most recent message at the top of the column. All amusement flees his face when he clicks on the attachment included in the text. His low, pained whimper mirrors the one I trap before it escapes me.
Other than that sound, silence fills the car as we watch the short, shadowed, but startlingly clear video of a bloody, injured Malachi. My attention zeroes in on one wound in particular. She cut off his finger. That evil muthafucka cut off his finger. The scream that surges up from the depths of my soul—from the soul of that tortured sixteen-year-old girl—gathers in my chest and explodes. Only years of discipline imprison the enraged, anguished howl, but it ricochets in my head, temporarily deafening me.
I failed. I failed him.
The sole reason for me walking away from Malachi was to protect him, and yet … the very thing I sacrificed to avoid happening occurred. Abena got her hands on the one person who has the power to bring me to my knees.
“Eshe?” Jamari’s soft, hesitant touch on my shoulder snaps me from my plunge into madness and rage. “Eshe. Did you see the rest of Abena’s text?”
“No,” I say, my voice a hoarse rasp. “What does it say?”
“That you have until tomorrow night to come to the obodo, kneel before her, and confess to treason in front of the family. If not, she’ll kill H.”
I wrap a hand around the steering wheel, squeeze until the leather creaks a complaint. “Okay.” I nod, then glance at Jamari, my heart lodged at the base of my throat. I swallow, but cotton fills my mouth. “Thanks for your help.”
“Yeah, no problem. What now?” he asks, shutting his laptop down and returning it to his backpack as I start the car.
“Now you tell me where to drop you off.”
He shifts in his seat, leaning against the passenger window, gaping at me. “What? No, no way. I’m not going anywhere but with you.”
I shake my head. “Nah, Jamari. That’s not happening. I’m not heading to the fucking mall. I’m walking into an ambush. I couldn’t protect you. Shit, taking you with me would be a guarantee of your death.”
“I’m not asking you to protect me. H is my friend—no, he’s family. I’m not sitting my ass at home while you go into that place. Alone, too? Nope, that’s not how this is going down. Either we can go together and work on a plan on how we’re going to save H and you, or I can find a way in there on my own. But I think our chances of everyone surviving would be higher if we work together.” He flinches when I glance at him, but he doesn’t back down. “And technically, it’s not an ambush because there’s no element of surprise and all parties are expecting each other.”
“How the Huntsman hasn’t drowned you in the nearest puddle speaks a lot about that man’s level of self-control,” I growl with more frustration than anger. Thrusting a hand through my curls, I steer the car out onto the street and try to reason with a goddamn teenager again. “Look, the last thing H would want is you in harm’s way. Since he’s not here to protect you, that shit falls to me, and I—”
“No offense—and I really mean that because I bet you know fifty-seven different ways to kill a person and dispose of the body. Did you know there’s a whole dark web chat dedicated just to you? No?” he babbles, and if we weren’t discussing his stubbornness in the face of Malachi’s, my, and his impending deaths, I’d find it adorable and amusing … And that chat flattering. “Anyway, no offense, but there’s nothing you can say that’s going to change my mind. I’m in this with or without you. He’s done too much for me and my moms. Ain’t no way his life is on the line and I’m not helping to save it when he’s saved mine.”
