Fate Book by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
“Where are we going?” I asked. I knew Paolo had intended to take me somewhere in Texas, given the direction we’d been heading and the fact he’d said it would be a two-day drive. But Derek had gotten onto Highway 25, north toward Albuquerque.
“A safe house, a few hours from here,” he replied.
Paolo had said it was the first thing he did: establish a level one safe house. And he made it clear that no one else would know its whereabouts, so it made sense that Derek would take me somewhere different.
“I guess my dad didn’t give you a lot of time to prepare,” I said.
“Prepare what?” he asked.
“The safe house.”
“We have people who take care of all that,” he replied.
Shit. He was lying. Paolo had specifically said that they never trusted anyone with that work.
Maybe you misheard Paolo. Maybe he’d said only he did all his own safe house prep?
Ask another question.
“Thank goodness,” I said. “I can only imagine how busy you guys get with all of your spying and killing people. My dad says he can’t keep up half the time.”
The guy bobbed his head. “Yeah. Well, comes with the territory.”
Holy crap. Paolo had been very, very clear; my dad’s people were not spies or assassins. They were very skilled information gatherers. Yes, that sounded like a spy to me, but he saw a distinct difference. In any case, whoever this guy was, I was pretty sure he wasn’t on my dad’s team. What was I going to do?
Think, think, think…
“Derek, I’m so sorry, but I’ve really got to use the bathroom. I drank way too much coffee this morning. Can we stop? I think I saw a sign for a gas station at the next exit.”
“We need more road behind us first. You’ll have to wait.”
Don’t panic. Don’t panic…“I really can’t. Have the bladder of an acorn. It’s really annoying.”
He glanced at me with those cold, blue eyes. “Sure. No problem.” From the corner of my eye, I saw him reach into his pocket and slam something into my leg. The needle stuck out like a porcupine quill, and whatever he gave me was potent. My hand didn’t even make it to my thigh to pull it out.
I am so screwed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Time is one of those funny things. When you’re busy enjoying life, it seems to pass by so quickly that hours can feel like minutes. And when you’re terrified, waiting for the inevitable, minutes can feel like days. I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but when I woke up on the floor in the windowless room with a single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, the dankness in the air telling me I was likely in some basement, well, the minutes felt like weeks.
Paolo had said that if my father’s enemies ever got a hold of me, they’d remove my head and ship it off in a box. Every breath I took, every beat of my heart would be my last, I thought. I may never see my mother again and have the chance to hug her. I may never see my father or Paolo again either, which meant I may never get to kick them in their man baskets.
Frigging men! This was all their fault.
Well, culpability aside, I needed to get myself out of this, starting with a way to defend myself. I slowly got up and looked around for something—anything—for defense, but there was nothing in the room except a mattress on the cold cement floor, a small, doorless bathroom with only a toilet—no lid on the tank—and a sink. Nothing else. If I were strong enough, I could throw the toilet at my captors, but sprouting Hulk-like powers wasn’t going to happen to me.
Hopeless.
And hopelessness only turned into utter despair as I thought through the events that led me to this place. Paolo had handed me over to go into hiding. He’d said that in my case, when there was a leak, all communication would be broken. Possibly for months.
He wouldn’t know I’d been taken.
No one would come looking for me.
I was a dead woman.
The door opened, startling me from my deep, dark thoughts. When I looked, however, it wasn’t Derek, but a very familiar face. “Mr. M?”
“Dakota.”
I was about ready to run over to him and hug him, but one obvious question prevented me from doing that. “What the hell?”
He pointed toward the mattress. “Please, sit.”
“Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“Sit!” he screamed. That’s when I noticed the wild, desperate look in his eyes bloodshot eyes.
I was already past the point of terrified, so his screaming didn’t intimidate me exactly, but I did want to hear what he had to say. Simply put…why the hell was my English teacher holding me hostage in a basement?
I sat cross-legged on the mattress and waited for him to speak. Mr. M paced across the cement floor, mumbling frantically and running his hand over his thinning hair. Usually, his clothes were a wrinkled mess, but now he looked worse, like he’d been sleeping in them for a week. Then he began to do a disturbing little dance, wiggling his hips, making the number one sign with his index fingers.
I simply stared, unable to believe my eyes.
He twirled on his heel and pointed. “Gotcha! I got her! The best-hid girl in the world, and I,” he pointed to himself, “got her! With a fucking pen! Ha! Take that, Mr. Dane!”
With a pen? My pen? I suddenly remembered what Paolo had said about tracking devices. It was the reason he hadn’t wanted me to take anything personal from my dorm.
Mr. M laughed like a madman, the veins popping from his forehead as he did. “I’m not going to lie to you, Dakota, you are going to die. The only question is how.”
Holy shit. Not good. “And I’ve done what, exactly, to deserve this?” I asked.
“You’ve done nothing. Nothing. But that bastard father of yours ruined my life, so now I’m going to ruin his. I’m going to make it hurt while I do it.”
“If you plan on torturing me,” I said quietly, “I can save you the trouble. I only just learned who my father is, and other than knowing he’s some high-powered information broker, I barely know the man.”
He laughed again, howling at the ceiling. “Is that what he told you? Your evil bastard of a father is much, much more than a librarian. The CIA and Interpol are his lapdog whores! He’s the man behind the curtain,” Mr. M waved his red, sweaty palms through the air like a magician at a border town carnival, “who decides who lives or dies.”
“But he’s the g…g…good guy,” I mumbled.
“Is he? Is he good? Because I worked for him for years, my dear Dakota, and there are a few hundred thousand people who’ve died who might not agree. He’s a ruthless, fucking animal.”
I couldn’t believe that.
Okay, okay. I didn’t exactly know the man, but he wasn’t psycho. He worked hard, loved me and my mom, and tried to keep us away from whatever crap he was mixed up in.
Yeah. And has a secret life—an army at his beck and call, including the police, and people who are scared shitless of him. But “fucking animal”?
Crap. Had that been the real reason Paolo resisted getting involved with me?
My jaw dropped. Paolo said that my father would kill him for touching me. I assumed he’d meant it figuratively, but perhaps not. Add the fact that my father had some very determined enemies, and, well, maybe he wasn’t such a good guy.
“Then why did you work for him?” I asked.
“He’s the lesser of evils. But a good guy? Not a fucking chance, my dear Miss Dane. And his luck just caught up with him.”
I swallowed hard, wondering what they would do to me. Then I remembered poor Christy. I now had to assume the fire had been meant for me. “So what’s next? Are you going to burn me alive like you did that poor girl?” They’d probably videotape it for my parents, or something sick like that.
“That little fire was just to get you on the run, away from your other guards so we could easily take you.”
Other guards? Why was I surprised?
“I plan to sel
“How can you do this? I thought you cared about me.” I’d seemed to be making that mistake a lot.
“Your father fired me after that little bitch Janice ran you over. I spent my entire life in his service! And just like that,” he snapped his fingers, “he turned me out. I lost everything!” Mr. M screamed. “Because I don’t fucking exist in the real world! I can’t get a normal job.”
“So you’re going to get even by killing me? How will that solve anything?” I asked.
He shook his finger in the air. “Ah! It won’t. But selling you to the highest bidder will. There are people who’ll pay millions just for the pleasure of sending your body, piece by piece, to your father.”
If I ever got free, I made a mental note to ask my father, What the fuck? I wasn’t sure I believed he was the spawn of Satan; however, he had to be doing a lot more than simply gathering information and protecting a few people if his enemies were willing to pay millions for the joy of chopping me up.
Christ. What a bunch of sick, evil bastards. No wonder Paolo was paranoid.
Now, so was I.
“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “I thought you were the best teacher I’d ever had. I cried when you retired—wasn’t even sure how I’d get through the rest of my senior year without you.”
Anger flickered in his eyes. “Then you know a fraction of the pain your father has caused me.”
He left the room and promptly returned, tossing my backpack on the floor. “Get comfortable, it will be a few days before we find a buyer.” He left, and I heard him bolt the door.
I stared at the floor for what seemed like an hour. Maybe two. A little over five months ago I was just about to turn eighteen, sitting in Mr. M’s homeroom, pining for a cute boy, and wishing my life would change. I was a girl—naive, awkward, lonely. A few months had changed all that.
I grabbed my backpack and riffled through it. My clothes were still there along with my toothbrush—Oh goody. Wouldn’t want my teeth to be dirty when they are shipped off in that nice FedEx box—and my notebook. The frigging pen was still in there.
I unscrewed the top and shook out its contents. There was the inkwell attached to the ballpoint, and inside the cap was a tiny little wire, about the length of a grain of rice. I chucked it into the toilet. “Asshole.”
I reassembled the pen and opened up my book. I wrote about how Paolo had unknowingly handed me over to my father’s enemies, who drugged me and took me to some horrible dark basement. I wrote about how Mr. M was behind it all and crazy as a loon, seeking money and revenge.
But sitting here alone, I wrote, in this dingy basement, knowing that in a few days I’ll be sold to the highest bidder, I still can’t bring myself to be mad at Paolo for this when he only did what he thought was best. He thought he was saving me. If anyone ever finds this—if you, Paolo, ever find this, please know that I don’t blame you. In some twisted way, I find myself appreciating you even more. Your fatal flaw is loyalty. Perhaps, even, devotion. Both are things I’d always hoped to find in the man I’d love forever. But I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. My only regret is that I never had the chance to tell you that I think our ghosts, our fears from the past aren’t there to hold us back or to make us feel afraid, but to teach us to value what we have. To fight for what we love. Losing everything has taught me that.
I love you. And if you find this, I want you to know that I will haunt you, but only so you’ll remember not to let the next woman slide through your fingers.
“Damn it. I’m so corny!” Was this really what I wanted to leave behind?
I scribbled wildly over my words, blacking out every letter.
Dear Paolo and Dad,
If you find this. Give those bastards hell and make them pay.
Love,
Dakota
P.S. Mom, I love you.
I sighed with contentment. That felt much better. If the world was full of sick, evil people who enjoyed kidnapping and dissecting the innocent, well, I was damned glad there were men out there ready to take them down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Two days later…
“Get up.”
Cold water splashed on my face, bringing me out of my deep sleep. Mr. M stood over me, holding an empty glass.
“Thanks,” I grumbled, and wiped my damp eyes.
“You’re welcome. Now, go do what you need to do; we have a long drive.”
I stood up and looked at Mr. M. He still wore the same filthy clothes after two full days.
“How much did they offer?” I asked. If I was going to die, I wanted to know what my sad little life was worth.
“Three million,” he replied. “Two million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand dollars too much.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You’re a scrumptious, charming man.”
“I’ll give you two minutes,” he said with disdain, giving me a little privacy to wash up and pee.
Two minutes on the nose, he was back. He dragged me up the creaky, dark stairs, through the dilapidated ranch-style house and outside toward a green sedan parked on a long gravel driveway. The surrounding trees and cactus garden hinted that we were still in New Mexico or Arizona, but I didn’t know for sure.
As we approached the car, he told me to put my hands behind my back.
“Going to drug me again?” I asked.
“I’m going to handcuff you. I want you awake for your new owners; they plan to send lots and lots of videos to your father before killing you.”
I winced. “Nice, Mr. M. Really, really nice.”
He frowned. “Turn.”
I did as he asked. After all, what was the point in fighting him when he might change his mind and stick me with another needle, leaving me completely helpless? This way, I might see an opportunity for escape and be awake to take it.
He opened the back passenger side door and shoved me inside before moving to the driver’s seat. Derek was nowhere to be found. “Where is your friend?” I asked.
“He’s gone on ahead to secure—”
Blood exploded over the interior of the car and my face. I screamed. A chunk of Mr. M’s head was gone, and his body bucked violently as what I assumed was another silent bullet hit him in the chest. Then another.
My door flew open, and a man in a black ski mask dragged me from the car. I screamed again and tried to fight, but my hands were tied back.
“Shit, Dakota. Calm down. It’s me.”
“Paolo?”
The man removed his mask. “Yes.” He looked over his shoulder. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”
I’d never been so relieved in my life. And so terrified.
Paolo dragged me across a small field at the right of the house and through a standing of trees to where a motorcycle waited. Panting, he asked me to turn around. He freed my hands and then took off his black jacket and removed his shirt. “Clean your face with this.”
I wiped away what I could and threw the shirt on the ground before he popped a helmet on my head. “Just hang on.” He put his jacket back on and started the engine.
I jumped on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and basking in the comfort of feeling safe, of being with him. I wasn’t letting go this time.
~ ~ ~
Taking only back roads, Paolo didn’t stop for hours. He could have kept driving forever for all I cared. Just as long as I was away from that place and those men. I didn’t care that my face was still smudged with Mr. M’s blood or that my back and arms were numb from being on that bike and squeezing Paolo as if he were my lifeline to sanity.
When he finally pulled off at a small gas station near the Oasis State Park in New Mexico, he had to pry my hands off him. “Dakota, it’s okay now.” He removed his helmet and looked at me with his dark eyes. “You’re all right.”
How could he be so calm and collected?
“Nod if you understand me,” he said
I nodded.
“That’s my girl.”
My girl. My girl. My hands balled into fists.
He must’ve seen the rage in my eyes because his expression hardened.
“Don’t,” he warned. “Not here. I know you’re angry and traumatized, but you need to hold it together, all right? Just until we’re somewhere safe, and then, I promise, you can scream at me all you like.”
I didn’t respond.
“Please, Dakota?”
I nodded.
“Good. There’s a bathroom. Go inside and wash up. I’ll get you something to drink. Are you hungry, too?”
“No,” I murmured.
He ran his hand down my arm. “I know how you feel.”
How could he possibly know how I felt? I dismounted from the bike and walked to the exterior entrance of the bathroom, keeping my helmet on. When I locked the door, I removed it and looked at my face in the foggy, scuffed up mirror. I didn’t recognize myself. I looked like a creature from a horror movie. Chunks of dried blood were matted in my hair and stuck to my brows. I washed and scrubbed, but I still felt dirty. The image of Mr. M’s head exploding kept replaying in my mind. I rinsed my mouth with soap several times, remembering how some of his blood got inside it. I’d never forget that taste. The taste of death and salvation. And terror.
“No. You’re not doing this, Dakota. He got what he deserved. You’re alive. That’s all that matters,” I told myself, and sucked back the raw emotions.
There wasn’t much I could do about the blood on my shirt, so I finished drying my face and met Paolo outside.
When his eyes met mine, the air left my lungs. He was so beautiful, a vision of fierce masculinity, standing there next to his bike. But that look…Something in his dark eyes gripped me deep inside and threatened to unravel the shred of sanity I clung to. Was it rage I saw? Or love? Perhaps both? Maybe it was the look of a man who simply wanted revenge.
“I bought this for you inside. Put it on.” He handed me a sweatshirt with a giant saguaro cactus on the front. It looked like a green pickle, and if we were in any other situation, I might have laughed. But we weren’t, so I didn’t. I slipped it on, and he handed me a Gatorade, which I chugged.