Do Not Disturb by Alessandra Torre
Exposed. Unguarded. Perfect. Marcus steps forward, the syringe ready, jabs and depresses it, in one combined movement, into the man’s neck.
CHAPTER 83
NINETY MINUTES INTO the real world, and I am already chewing my nails to the quick. I sit at a red light, the sixteen-year-old kid beside me breaking every bone in his neck to stare at my car. I turn up the radio and breathe. Try to focus on the purr of the car and the pound of a hard rock beat. I need Mike. Mike would tap into whatever world he belonged to, the one that provides fake IDs and paper trails and illegal firearms without hesitation. As it is, I am relying on Google’s version of a phone book, driving around a town I don’t know like an asshole tourist. I have some items. Are they enough? Or am I creating excuses to avoid heading back home? I should go home. Time is short.
“Hey.”
The word is shouted. Loud. Loud enough to be heard over Nine Inch Nails, which is a feat in itself. I turn my head, pin 16WishesItWasInches with an unfriendly stare. “What?” I don’t speak up, let his baby eyes read my expression and my lips.
“Nice car.”
I nod, smile grimly, and face forward. Will the light to change while considering running the damn thing. He’d get in the car. No problem. It’d be simple. He’d let pussy and horsepower take him anywhere I’d want to go. I could try out my new toys on his hormone-laced body. Afterward, stuff his body in FtypeBaby’s tiny-ass trunk.
The light changes and I floor the gas, leaving twenty feet of rubber on Thompson Ave.
I pull in, the same spot open. I yank the car into park and step out, unlucky enough to encounter Simon, his ripped-jeans self standing one vehicle over. He whistles at the car. “I wondered who that belonged to.”
I say nothing, opening the trunk and shouldering out the cardboard box, stacking the mask on top and looping my fingers through the plastic handles of my Home Depot haul.
“You need help with that?” Simon the Helpful.
“Nope.” I push down on the lid with my chin. Listen to it settle gently into itself, the simple act of the trunk closing beautiful in its own understated way.
He holds the building’s door open, his eyes skipping over my items as he hurries to the elevator and presses the button.
Silence. His eyes dancing. Examining. Probing. I can hear the unasked questions. They are pushing on my skin, crowding around my ears and mouth, wanting to crawl in and rip from my brain answers to satisfy every curiosity of his drug-fueled head, my inclination to drop the box and bags and cover my ears huge. But that would be crazy, because he hasn’t uttered a word.
The doors open and we step, as a unit, onto the elevator car.
“You don’t have to lock me in tonight.”
“Really? But the…”
“The pills will still come on the first. I just don’t want you to lock the door tonight. Pick the normal routine back up tomorrow.” I work through the details for a moment, trying to see if I’ll have need of Simon at any stage in the plan. “Will you be home today—tonight?”
“Yeah. I’ll be around.”
“Around.” Just wishy-washy enough to guarantee that—if I need him—he won’t be there. I could ask for his phone number, but don’t trust myself to have it. Especially now that he seems too interested in friendship. That’s the problem with having a pussy. Every man around wants to dive into it.
I step off the elevator and onto the sixth floor.
CHAPTER 84
MARCUS LEAVES THROUGH the front door, pulling off his ski mask before exiting. Locks it behind him with gloved hands and goes down the worn front steps, his movements confident. Slow. No rush, no need for anyone to give a second look. Passes the boy’s truck.
This golden boy is his insurance policy. If she tries to scream, struggles when he touches her, kicks and punches, and clamps her jaw before his cock, he’ll pull out the magic card. Wave Jeremy Pacer temptingly in front of her and explain the plight he faces. Explain the ticking clock, and what will happen when it counts down to zero. Even a strong individual breaks under the threat of danger to another. Breaks under the thought that their stubbornness will cause another’s death. He’ll attain her breakage. He’ll get her compliance. Will enjoy the evening in the proper fashion. Civilized. With her eyes full of fear and respect.
Several firsts for him, taken care of. First time subduing a man. It was almost disappointing, how easy it was. The injection had done all of the work, the man wheeling around at the contact, his hand going for his neck, by the time he realized what was stuck there, by the time his eyes focused on Marcus and his fists swung into action…
Collapse. The kid had landed one punch, a good one. Marcus rubs his jaw, remembering the jar of the impact, the boy’s fists never making the journey to round two. It is fine. Pain is a reminder of life, of the ability to feel.
Another first. The bomb. Thorat was right. The instructions were incredibly simple. Unwrap package, put into oven. Program oven. Done. A fucking caveman could do it. A caveman with a set of balls. The kid’s oven timer was now programmed for fifteen hours, after which it will heat to six hundred degrees. Thorat’s instructions didn’t indicate how long it would take the ammonium perc to explode, just said to leave at least fifteen minutes’ time to get the hell away. It might happen before the oven finishes heating. It might take an hour. But once it ignites… it’s a beautiful thing. He’d seen it once before, four years ago, still remembers the damage. In this case, a two-pound pack of AP exploding will set fire to all that it touches. The kitchen will go quickly, then the house.
So he’s leaving the house with a fifteen-hour window. It should be plenty of time. To find the girl, incapacitate her, and find out what kind of bitch he was working with. Spend a good six to eight hours celebrating his return to freedom, reaffirming the type of man that he is. To drink in the cocktail of sex and power and to know that he is, once again, all man. Afterward, if she behaves, he’ll swing back by. Turn off the oven altogether. Let the guy sit there in safety until he is found. And if he dies? Starves to death there on the floor? So be it. Life is never as precious as when it is threatened. We all need a little death in our lives to remind us to keep living.
The beauty is, neither of them will ever know who he is. The hacker is clueless; the boy never saw him, and the girl, if left alive, will only remember his mask. It will be the perfect execution, performed with intelligence and planning. Another first for him. He should have taken control of these activities a long time ago. More work but more empowering. This girl will be sweeter than every one before her. This will also be the first time he will use leverage over torture. It will be interesting to see the difference a reluctantly willing participant makes.
Of course, if the plan fails, if she doesn’t submit, then he won’t return to Jeremy at all. Should she fight, be stubborn, fail to treat him with respect? He’ll let the man die on the principle of it. Stay with her, let her watch the news and crumble before he fucks her to death. Her cooperation. Her attitude. That will determine whether Jeremy Pacer burns to death or not. Whether he feels gracious or not. Fifteen hours will give him enough time. Plenty.
Soon. Everything he has waited for, soon. He gets in, starts up the engine, the heat blowing out lukewarm at first blast. He digs in his pocket, pulls out her address, and reprograms his GPS. Six miles; fifteen minutes away. So close. Hopefully, it will be in a nicer area than this middle-suburbia dump. Adrenaline flowing, he turns around, heads left, then right, then left. Gets on the freeway and drives through downtown, the tall buildings soon dropping off, the cityscape turning cheaper and cheaper until he is in what can only be described as the slums of Tulsa. Slums. Not what he was expecting from the bubbly brunette with the nice bedroom. No campus in sight. Frowning, he comes to a stop at her address, pulling off into a metered spot and checking the address. Looks left, at the structure, a worn façade with no balconies, one long box with at least six levels of small windows sporadically scattered on its surface. The entire building seem
This can’t be right. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the hacker lied. But he’s seen the legwork. Seen the proof. This is, to the best of the hacker’s extensive knowledge, her address. But why would a woman with her level of income live in a tenement building? He rolls down the window, puts the car in park, and looks out again, without the obstruction of tinted window glass. Notes what appears to be a drug deal going on one car over. Glances at the building again. Dingy and dark, it squats on the piece of land like a fat hamster someone forgot to put back in the cage. Some windows are covered in newspaper, one in cardboard, and there isn’t a car on the street that has matching hubcaps. Tries to imagine her parking on this street and walking in. She has to make enough to live somewhere else. Hell, he alone had dropped an easy grand on her. Maybe it’s drugs, she snorts her income away. Or has some version of a virtual pimp who takes all of her profits. He stares at the building, doesn’t like it one bit. His visions of tying her down, spending his time fucking her every way but normal… those fantasies had been orchestrated on clean sheets, a place with running water. Not this Dumpster of existence. He sighs, rolling up the window. Adjusts the settings of his seat until he is fully reclined, grateful for the tinted windows, his eyes on the front of the building, flicking once to the locks, to ensure their safety position. If the boy’s neighborhood was rough, this one was Compton. He leaves the engine running, ready to make a quick departure should a street punk decide to try for his car. He’ll wait. Wait till the sun finishes setting. Wait a few more hours, till she is sure to be tucked away inside, getting ready for bed. Then. Then he’ll strike. He rubs his jaw and allows himself to smile.
It is almost here.
CHAPTER 85
THEY SAY IDLE hands are the devil’s workshop. For me, it is not my hands, it is my mind. Without distraction, it dives into dark places it shouldn’t go. Places that make little boys scream and psychopaths celebrate. I’ve spent years avoiding those places. But now, as I sit in the dark and wait for this man? I open the cage and let my idle mind wander free.
Butt on the ground, my back against a box of Jenny Craig cardboard entrees, I run my mind over the plan and hope that I am not wrong. Hope that he is on his way, and that I can act out this stockpile of fantasies. The law says that if my home is entered, that I have the right to defend myself. Self-defense. A beautiful word that opens a world of possibilities. Yeah, let’s call this self-defense. Not that a defense will be needed. I don’t plan on getting cops involved.
I sit and wait. Work through the worst-case scenarios in my mind. He may be a hulk of a man. Might walk in covered in tactical gear. Might open an automatic weapon in the middle of my loft and destroy my well-crafted plan in the course of seconds. I frown, my palms sweating despite the cold room. Whoa. I came up with three disastrous scenarios without even thinking hard. Give me another hour and I’ll have a hundred more possibilities. My confidence plummets, my brilliant plan suddenly full of holes. I bite at my nails and wonder how long before he arrives. Try, for the third or fourth time, Mike’s number. I haven’t talked to MysteryBarbie again, my calls ringing through to voice mail. According to her story, he didn’t answer my calls before because he was tied up. That should no longer be an issue. I don’t like that he is not answering. Maybe she took my advice and chopped his fucking hands off in an attempt to remove the handcuffs. Homegirl didn’t seem real bright.
Now that my anger has subsided, I really need to talk to him. He could tell me if this brilliant plan of mine is for naught—my killer instincts celebrating an event that will never occur. I did kinda jump the gun a bit. Embraced MysteryBarbie’s words and created the perfect scenario in my head. Someone coming for me. Someone I can kill without guilt. I let out a sigh and continue the waiting game. Hope that my badass self doesn’t fall asleep against two weeks’ worth of herb-roasted turkey breasts.
Maybe I should walk away. Now that I’ve gone through the motions, made the plan, outfitted my apartment to the hilt. I could still walk away. Call the police and have them come here, sit in the dark with me. Let them arrest the man should he break through the door. It is the right thing to do.
I should be stronger, I should be able to fight off the blood rush that holds my veins hostage and takes over my body. Maybe I should try to handle this the normal way. Curl into a ball, hold my body tight, shut my eyes and let my mind play out a sick, twisted fantasy. As sick as I want it, as blood-filled as I want to take it. I can be and do anything I want to do in the confines of my mind, with my eyes closed and body controlled. Because I am being good. I am doing the right thing.
Okay, so a new plan. I’ll mentally act out my fantasy and then, in the brief moment of sanity after a fantasy exploration, call the cops. Quickly, before I lose my fortitude. It is a good plan. The right thing to do. Safe for all involved parties. I take a deep breath and mentally prepare myself to give up this opportunity. Mourn, for a brief moment, the death of what was going to be a kick-ass takedown. Then I curl into a tight ball, my arms gripping my legs tightly, my head dropping, eyes scrunched close and imagine the elevator, its announcement of this asshole’s arrival.
For the thirty-first time since I stepped back into this apartment, my arsenal in hand, the elevator suddenly moves, wheezing and screeching its way up the tower of our building. I stop breathing, my tight ball loosening as I raise my head and tense. Wait to see if I am imagining this or if it is real. It is. It’s real and my good intentions are too fucking late.
I tried. I really did try. I had a plan and a goal to be good. I said good-bye to my opportunity and wrapped myself into a ball. I was walking away, was going to let the police handle this. I tried. I failed. Fate intervened and kicked my good intentions’ ass.
I wait, my head up, ears straining. The lights are off. When I first turned them off, it was a shock, my eyes blind in the dark. But now, three hours later, they have adjusted. Even if they hadn’t adjusted, even if I were blind—I know every inch of this apartment, my familiarity a by-product of three and a half years spent in nine hundred square feet. I can jump, crawl, or handstand my way through this space blindfolded. He does not know this space. He will not have any idea of what he is walking into. I hear the elevator shudder to a stop. The sixth floor. Jackpot. This might be it, the chances one in fourteen that he is headed to me. I stand, my back leaving the boxes, and listen. Strain for footsteps, wish that we had a hardwood hall as opposed to silent carpet. Move to the peephole, see a stranger move closer, closer. See his pause at my door.
Then, I see the soft motion of the knob. It’s a new one, swapped out two hours ago for the crappiest one Home Depot carries. It moves gently. Quietly. And I know that he is here.
I ignore the knock when it arrives. I am too busy.
He thinks I am unaware. He thinks I am helpless. He has no idea who he is dealing with.
CHAPTER 86
APARTMENT #6E. MARCUS stares at the sticker on the door. The edges are curled, as if one strong breeze might pull the brittle sticker off. He leans close, lifting his hand and covering the peephole. A presumptuous action, one that assumes she’s sitting on the other side, her eye pressed to the glass, for no reason whatsoever. Reaching down, he gently works the knob, verifies that it is locked. Smart girl. Too bad this knob is shit, one that a credit card could work open with three plastic attempts. It looks new. She was probably trying to be safe. Should have spent more. Should have gone with a brand that isn’t carried in Dollar General. Safety shouldn’t be skimped on. He reaches up and knocks. His mouth curves at the recollection of a prison session, Mikel squatting in the dirt, hands rubbing vigorously on his knees as he spouted the proper rules of home invasion. Marcus had listened with half an ear, relaxing in the sun, occasi
There is no answer. He glances at his watch, surprised at the lack of response, notices the scratch on its face. Wonders if that happened during the struggle with the boy. Fuck. He’ll need a new face. The watch hands point to ten p.m. Maybe she is out. The skank letting some guy grope all over those great tits, someone other than him. He frowns. Her bringing someone home will be problematic. Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, he thinks. Knocks again, harder this time.
He’s been in this hallway too long. It’s just a matter of time until someone walks by, sees him. She’s not home. Three knocks is enough. Two minutes is enough time for someone to get off the toilet. To call out a “just a sec.” He reaches for his wallet. Pulls out a credit card and slips it into the jamb.
It takes less than three tries and the lock pops, the door swinging inward from his weight. Darkness inside. Silence. Marcus grins, sliding in and shutting the door, letting the blackness envelop him, his feet making the only sound, a slick step as they step on what sounds to be plastic flooring. He pulls out his wallet and, by feel, returns the card to its spot. He is fumbling through the process, his back to the door, when everything changes.