Blake Crouch - Birds of Prey

It didn’t make sense. Why would five people break into a shooting range and use the owner for target practice? From what little I’d seen of them, it didn’t appear to be a gang initiation. These were adults, some of them well-dressed.

When the owner, Mr. Porter, regained consciousness, he didn’t say a word. Not a damn word. Refused to even admit anything happened.

As for me, I was going home. Both Clay and Tequila wanted to continue hanging out, but all of the sudden it felt less like harmless flirting and more like cheating. My boyfriend and I were having problems, for sure, but I wasn’t the cheating type. I was the try to work things out type. If I got on the road right now, maybe I could make it back home early enough to do some damage control.

Hell, maybe I’d even get lucky.

I gave each of the boys a handshake goodbye, then headed out to the parking lot. My car, a Chevy Nova, was next to a sleek, new Infiniti G35. I gave it a quick, admiring glance, wondering if I’d ever be able to afford something like that, then climbed into my beater.

As soon as I started it up, I heard a knocking.

The engine? Was my classic telling me it was ready to croak?

I checked the gauges on the dash, but nothing unusual was lighting up. The knocking continued as I pulled out of my spot, but quickly faded as I drove away.

I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like I’d just dodged a bullet.

One of many, actually.

Alex

Alex Kork snuggled up next to her brother as he drove, her lips brushing his neck.

“Dammit, Alex! I’m driving.” Charles took another glance in the rearview mirror, his tenth in the last ninety seconds.

“You’re so damn paranoid,” she said, pulling away. “You weren’t like this before you got married.”

“Don’t start, Alex.”

“Is that what I’m doing? I’m starting?”

Charles shot her a quick, angry glance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. But don’t treat me like I’m your wife. I’m not your wife, Charles.”

He laughed, an ugly thing. “Is that your problem? You want to be married? You’re my fucking sister, Alex.”

“Let me out.” Alex tugged off her seatbelt.

“What?”

“Let me out here. On the side of the road. I’m sick of being next to you.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere. How are you supposed to get home?”

“I’ll hitchhike. Like that girl we passed up a mile ago, the one with the pink shoes.”

“Don’t be stupid. Hitchhiking is for psychos. Some maniac might pick you up.”

The words hung in the air, and then both of them began to laugh.

Tequila

While Porter had been unconscious, and Jack and Clay busy chasing the shooters, Tequila had taken the liberty of emptying out the shop’s cash register. Technically, it was Mr. Dovolanni’s money, but Tequila figured Porter owed him for leaving a leg intact.

When Jack and Clay came back, they called the police, and Tequila bid a quick adieu. He didn’t want to answer any questions, and Jack seemed to understand. He made a small effort to get together with her later that night, have a nightcap, but she begged off.

No biggie. She wasn’t really his type, anyway. Too much class. Tequila didn’t like to admit it, but he preferred his women to be on the trashy side. Other side of the tracks kind of gals. Biker chicks. Strippers. Druggies with tattoos. There was something about lost causes that appealed to him. Maybe he just loved being the white knight in shining armor, although truth be told, his armor had its fair share of chinks.

He checked out of his room, deciding against staying an extra night. Not a smart idea to make it easy for the authorities to find him, considering all the commotion.

He was carrying his duffel bag out to his car, when he heard something strange.

A thumping sound. Rhythmic. Like someone knocking.

It took him a minute to locate the sound. It was coming from the trunk of an Infiniti G35 in a bank parking lot twenty yards away. Unless the spare tire had magically come to life, which was unlikely, there was probably someone in there. And from the sound of the frantic knocking, that someone wanted out.

It took three swift kicks with his powerful legs before the trunk unlatched, yawing open.

A woman lay sprawled across the interior of the trunk. She was beautiful—curly, black hair, dark eyes, pale skin. A gag was jammed into her mouth. She wore only a nightgown, which hugged her ample breasts and was riding up over a pair of very nice legs.

The night was looking up.

“Miss, is this your car?” Tequila asked.

She shook her head, slowly. He guessed she was drugged.

“Are you tied up and gagged in this truck because it’s something you enjoy doing?”

Another headshake, languid and slow.

“Do you need me to rescue you?” Tequila asked.

A half-speed, yet still emphatic nod.

“If I do rescue you, you want to go grab a bite to eat somewhere?”

She stared at him, eyes wide.

“Sorry. Hold on a second.” He undid her gag. “So, you interested? I save you, we go out?”

“Uh, sure,” she said, a slow smile creeping across her face.

Tequila figured it was heroin. He pulled a folding knife out of his chinos and cut her bindings. As he did, he noticed a butterfly tattoo on her hip.

Tequila held up his hand, which had a butterfly tattooed on the back. “I’m Tequila,” he said.

She giggled, high as a kite. “I’m Candi. With an I.”

“Are you a stripper, Candi?”

“I’ve done some dancing.”

“Do you like bikes?”

She swallowed. “I love them.”

“I’ve got a Harley softail and a pocketful of hundred dollar bills. Interested?”

Candi with an I nodded.

Tequila reached in and swept her out of the trunk.

She hugged him, hard.

“Thanks for saving me, Tequila.” She breathed hot into his ear. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

Yes, indeed, the night was definitely looking up.

The One That Didn’t

Michigan, 2004

Moni has the shakes. The shakes, and gut-wrenching nausea, and a jackhammer headache, and a dry, metallic taste in her mouth that makes her tongue seem twice as big. She looks down the alley, dark, wet, smelling like something died there, and doesn’t even hesitate to walk down it. She needs the fix so bad she’s come to this empty hull of a town just to get it.

How the fuck did I let this happen?

She’d been so good for a time. After she’d escaped that freak and his sick-ass video dungeon of horrors, Moni had gone legit. No more hooking. No more drugs. Moved out of the city, got a job at a health food store.

Out of the life. Respectable. Clean.

But the goddamn nightmares…

She shakes her head, as if that’s enough to rid it of the memories.

It isn’t.

She tried a free clinic, talking out her problems with some overworked shrink who got stuck doing community service. Was told she had post traumatic stress disorder, like soldiers get.

But knowing what her problem is doesn’t make the problem go away. Neither does the prescription shit the shrink told her to take.

Moni knows only one thing can dull the horror. Only one thing can wipe that freak’s leering face out of her head.

Glass crunches under the soles of her tennis shoes. Laces long since gone, the tread worn away. Above the stench of this alley, she smells something else—herself.

Something strange about knowing you’re at the low point of your life, and for her, that’s truly saying something.

But at least I’m not tricking.

And she could have. The motivation was there. So much easier to score a twenty-spot sucking some guy off for five minutes than stealing a purse. The one slung over her shoulder belonged to an eighty-year-old only four hours ago. She ripped it off the woman’s arm and sprinted off down the sidewalk. An older man had come after her, but he’d been too slow. She can still feel the burn from that run in the backs of her legs.