Jessie Humphries - Killing Ruby Rose

As they continued to argue about whether or not to get rid of us, I rocked back and forth until I could wiggle my hands under my legs and bring them in front of me. I was relieved to find my bonds were only plastic tie straps—and I had sharp teeth.

But minutes passed and I’d made no progress on the thick ties. My now swollen and bloody gums weren’t helping, either. I was running out of time. If they hadn’t heard me by now, it wouldn’t be much longer.

I looked around for something sharp—a broken bottle, a piece of scrap metal, anything. But after too many minutes of blinking to try to focus past the bars, all I could find to saw the plastic were the sharp, rusty hinges on the cage itself. I swallowed the feeling that the bars were moving toward me as I crawled toward them, and I began sawing. I barely breathed as I used all my strength to grind through the plastic as silently as possible.

As soon as the ties snapped off, I felt around for a way to open the cage. In the top corner was a latch kept shut by a bicycle lock. A bicycle lock? Come on, no proper criminal uses a coiled three-digit-code bicycle lock! If it were a normal lock, I could have picked it with my earring like Dad taught me. But the only way to get this thing off was to know the code. And I didn’t know it.

Wait. Three digits.

Suddenly, I had an idea. Mr. D. S. didn’t seem to do anything without purpose or meaning. I doubted Rick had put me in this cage himself. It wasn’t his MO. He was a vicious criminal who didn’t mind beating people to death with his little bare fists, but as far as my research went, child trafficking wasn’t in his repertoire. Plus, why cage me and not my friends? These bars felt very much meant for me.

The three numbers had to be significant. I mentally ran through all the numbers in my life—birthday, phone number, address—rotating the lock as fast as I could to any three-digit combination related to them. But nothing worked.

My heart thumped three times, as if willing my brain to figure this out for the sake of all the body parts. I let go of the lock and let my head fall against the bars.

I thought back to the text with the photo of the girl on Ninth Street. Any numbers? No. The sketch at the art fair? No. The text from Fake Liam luring me to the warehouse?

That message filtered into the forefront of my sore head: 366 Water Street.

I squinted through the bars and put in the numbers 3-6-6. The lock clicked open, and I broke free.

“They’re on their way,” confirmed Rick’s personal assistant in crime.

The call had been made. Whoever was coming to take us would be here soon. And I couldn’t carry out both Alana and Liam on my back. Even if I could wake them up without making much noise, I had no idea how to get their ankle and wrist ties off in time.

I had to find a weapon, or see if my captors had one and use it against them. Maybe the men had a knife, and I could get back here in time to cut Alana and Liam free.

I crawled through piles of strewn trash, careful not to look too closely at it—and also careful not to cause any noise. Whether it was the drugs or the stress of the cage, time wasn’t making sense to me. It took forever to get to the boxes separating me from the men. I peered over the clumsy piles, cautious not to knock them over like dominoes. Now I could finally see the enemy. Rick could have also been called The Stick because he’d been beaten by an ugly one. Or because he was as skinny as one. He and his coconspirator, who was far chubbier and softer than I was expecting, sat at a flimsy card table, anxiously staring at the door. Like either a dump truck full of money was about to back up through the cargo entry door—or a SWAT crew. There appeared to be only one revolver between them, and it sat untouched on the table. If either of them was packing another weapon, I couldn’t see it.

That shiny gun was my target. I had to get it somehow. I imagined Dad walking me through it all—just like he had with LeMarq. Just like he always would, dead or alive.

Create a diversion. One of them will take the gun and check to see what it is. Take him out by surprise from behind. Grab the weapon and disable him with two bullets to the chest. You already know he will kill you, so don’t let him have the chance. The second man will either flee or attack. If he flees, pursue. He could double back and ambush you before you’re able to find a way to call for help, and you can’t leave your friends in harm’s way. If he attacks, you know what to do.

I took a deep breath. I could do this. There was no time to waver or second-guess. I had to save my friends.

I found an empty beer can nearby and chucked it toward the cage. It hit with a loud clang! Instantly, the men’s chairs screeched backward on the cement floor. I hid behind the stack of crates again so when one man walked past me to check on the noise, I could spring.

“Go check it out,” Rick ordered. I remembered his strange aversion to guns, and most likely the only reason he even had a tagalong with him was to pack it. Or to blame everything on later if he got caught.

“It’s probably that stupid white boy waking up. I’d be happy to knock him out again,” Tagalong said as he made his way to my hiding spot.

I lunged, simultaneously kicking him in the groin and twisting his weapon from his grip. I’d done it dozens of times in training sessions but never in real life. He howled in pain. This couldn’t have been his first swift kick to the balls, but he sure acted like it as he rolled around on the floor with his hands between his legs.

“Rick, it’s the blonde!” he moaned. “She’s got my piece.”

“Shut up or I’ll shoot,” I warned. I had no idea where Rick was. I hadn’t heard him move.

“I knew this was a trap.” He groaned. “Just shoot me and get it over with. I can’t go back to prison. I won’t go back. I’ll kill you and both your friends before I go back.” Real tears came spurting out of his pathetic eyes, and for a second, I almost pitied him. His baby face and purple LA Lakers hat turned sideways made him seem only a few years older than me. The guy should have been in college or working at the mall, not messing around with gangs and a guy like Rick. Dad’s voice cut into my hesitation.

Protect yourself, Rue. Make sure the weapon is cocked, and take the disabling shots. You know he will do it to you, or worse, without a moment’s hesitation if you let him.

As I made sure the gun was cocked, I noticed how familiar it felt. This was no street gun. This was a sophisticated piece. A gun I’d used before.

I heard the terrible cracking noise against my spine before I felt the pain. My knees buckled and I fell to the ground, face first. Either Rick had slammed me with a wooden two-by-four, which had splintered in half, or he’d used a steel beam and the cracking noise was my vertebrae shattering. But how had he gotten behind me?

I checked my senses to make sure I still had the gun. Its cold steel was still wrapped in my white-knuckled clutch. I looked over my shoulder. Rick’s gaunt, pockmarked face loomed above me. And I knew he was hell-bent on making sure it was the last face I ever saw.

“Stop!” I screamed. I rolled over on my back, crunched up, locked my arms out in front, and raised the gun between my legs. “I’ll shoot!”

He raised another two-by-four above his head, ready to destroy me.

I had no choice. He was going to kill me.

I aimed for the largest target area and pulled the trigger. The gun sounded like a bomb exploding in the vast space. His chest ripped open and his body lost momentum. As though in slow motion, he dropped to his knees and the life drained out of his eyes. He would never fight again.