Page 39 of Killer Bones

When I’m done, I stand near the door with him, waiting, and he’s holding my hand and looking thoughtful as if he’s pulled all of himself into one confined spot in his mind.

Concentrating on what he must do, I guess.

I know now he means to help me, but at what cost, and what chance of success?

The door cracks open.

He crushes my hand for a long second then then releases it, steps in front of me.

But the men who come through the door usher him out first. One goes behind me to tie my hands. Zip-ties, nothing fancy, but impossible to break. I hiss when he knocks my bandaged hand.

The man who tied me laughs and bends over me to say, “Did that hurt? You are going to get what’s coming to you.”

“A cock in every hole then a new hole in her head?” the second man suggests.

“Yeah. That. Move!” He shoves me, and I start walking.

Adelmo has been hustled off ahead of me, and I cannot see him.

Fuck this whole fucking day.

In a room on the next deck, they have me sit and wait. Fifteen, twenty minutes go by.

They urge me to my feet and bring me to the upper deck. Though I look everywhere, Adelmo is nowhere in sight.

Dressed in the flimsy white dress that has stains on it from sitting on the floor for hours, I’m guided across the gangway and onto a private jetty.

A crisply designed white mansion overlooks a small bay, where this yacht is the only moored boat. The glass balconies, stone walls, the manicured hedges, and the designer timber accoutrements say this place is built on money. Dark money, money greased by crime and the drug and sex trade.

It’s still pretty.

A breeze ruffles my hair and flaps the dress against my legs, cooling me, while the sun heats my back. What lies before me might be the last beauty I see.

My legs tremble, but I make them be still.

Once inside the house, I’m going to need steel in my spine to stay upright.

“Keep walking.”

I’m poked in the back, and I stumble forward, barely stop myself faceplanting.

The jetty timbers echo with our footfalls. The sea shushes to shore in meek waves. It’s early morning, and I have to walk through a small crowd of men watching their surroundings, sharp-eyed as if for signs of anything amiss.

Their semi-formal pants and shirts, and the guns in holsters tell me Montez has brought a small army to this meeting.

Wherever this is, the law is far away, or it’s here and has been paid not to see anything. Two of the men fall in behind my escort, only to peel off and take up positions further along.

On the walk up to the house on a stone pathway, I ignore the callous threats thrown at me. Thankfully, those are rare. I’m trying not to cry. I don’t want to give these beasts any satisfaction, and some of them would love to see fear on my face. That I can barely swallow due to my throat being clogged with smothered whimpers, that my hands are freezing despite the warm sun, those I can hide. Soon, those signs may be forced from me.

Adelmo must have already entered the house. He’s nowhere on the pathway.

At the door, the weapons of my escort are surrendered to a guard before being placed in a long box on a chic, blue-toned timber bench. This must be some sort of peace zone for these rival criminals. I wonder who is policing this meeting. My shadowy Mr. Smith or someone else?

The double, timber-framed glass doors are propped open. The atrium is a showpiece—a glass box engraved with wave patterns. The floor ripples with yellow sunlight. Further in, a stairway with a golden railing and glass risers sweeps upward to a mezzanine area.

Again, this is perfectly pretty but all I can think is where does he plan to kill me, debase me, torture me?

Instead of ascending, the men escorting me shove me to the right, toward a wide opening that leads into a large room. Two long tables have been arranged facing each other, both with three chairs along one side. A Conference of Crime would be my tagline for this.