“We might have something,” Cheeto said, gesturing at the list. “MacReady’s ‘HIP’ might stand for hippocampus. It’s part of the brain.”
“But somebody traded the brain,” Trent said, pointing toward WKBRA at the bottom of the list. “That ‘BRA’ has to mean brain.”
“Could mean brainstem if the stem is separate.” Cheeto scrolled through his phone. “Or it could be the brachial artery. Or even the brachial plexus.”
“Why not just call the owner?” Trent asked, growing impatient.
“Already did,” Ash said. “Lady hung up when I mentioned the Traders.”
“Then you’re wasting time. We can’t dick around anymore. We gotta get leverage over Candace.”
“How?” she asked. “By taking Mick hostage? All nine hundred pounds of him?”
“Not Mick.” Trent leaned forward and tapped the list. “Rosita Werner.”
“Which one’s she?” Cheeto asked.
“Co-owner of the burrito shop. She has the eyes.”
Ash sighed. “Trent, I get why you want her, but how does that help us? Why would Candace care?”
“Because she’s all rah-rah about protecting the Traders. Plus, Bill Werner will throw a shit-fit if we nab his wife. That’ll get us leverage.”
“Maybe.” Ash squinted, evidently deep in thought. “It’ll be tough, though. The Werners always host Thanksgiving at their shop. Rosita won’t be alone.”
“Then we’ll get her alone.” Trent thumped his cane. “Once we grab Rosita, we’ll hit the highway and call Candace.”
“Then what?”
“Then we’ll threaten to drive the burrito queen outta the zone. If we’re convincing enough, Dad’ll get cut loose. Once he’s safe, we’ll follow through on our threat.”
“Follow through?” Ash said. “Are you implying—?”
“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Cheeto sat up. “You gonna blind her?”
“Damn straight,” Trent said. “My son deserves those eyes.”
“Dude,” Cheeto said. “Blinding an innocent lady? That’s some cold shit.”
Trent gripped his cane, wanting to whack Cheeto for questioning him. The guy just didn’t get it. Maybe if he had a kid instead of a Tinder profile, he would. “My son is eight, Cheeto. Eight. He’ll get ninety years out of those eyes. Ninety. Can you even count that high?”
“Don’t insult me, man.”
“Then don’t insult me by saying Jake deserves to stay blind.”
“Nobody deserves that,” Cheeto said.
“Well, Jake is. Three months and counting!”
“Enough,” Ash said. “Both of you, chill.”
“Chill?” Trent said. “Time’s running out, and we should just chill?”
“She’s right, dude.” Cheeto pushed hair from his face. He looked like he’d been up all night. Probably out drinking and drugging. Maybe even got lucky with Ash. If you could call that lucky. “Another thing. If you get caught, kidnapping carries a twenty-year sentence.”
“Oh, you’re a fucking lawyer now?”
Cheeto shrugged. “Just facts, dude.”
“Here’s a fact for you, dude. Candace abducted our father. Now we need a counter-punch.” Trent looked to Ash for support. “My plan is win-win. We get Dad, and Jake gets the eyes. It’s our only move.”
Ash slowly nodded.
“You’re not actually considering this?” Cheeto asked, shaking her shoulder. “Say it ain’t so, Ashes.”
“Shut up, I’m thinking.”
“Listen.” Cheeto slid an arm around her. The way he reeled her in against him confirmed Trent’s suspicion about them banging. “I love breaking rules as much as anybody, but this is nuts. You get caught, you’ll never have a career from prison.”
“Won’t have one if we sit here, either.”
“We’ll figure something out,” he said. “But don’t kidnap this lady. That’s not you.”
“I’m getting those eyes,” Trent said. His head throbbed harder than his busted leg. “This is the nicest way of doing it. Or would you rather kill Rosita? I could just ring her doorbell and wham!” He swung his cane overhead and nicked the ceiling. He wasn’t expecting the impact, and it knocked him off balance. He grabbed a nearby bookcase to keep from falling.
Cheeto smirked. “Good luck with that.”
“He won’t need luck,” Ash said, rising from the couch. “Trent, let’s get her.”
“No!” Cheeto said, taking her arm. “It’s not worth it. If you get caught—”
“We won’t get caught,” Trent said.
“Exactly,” Cheeto said, yanking Ash down to the couch. “Cause you’re not doing it.”
“The hell we aren’t.” Trent hobbled to the front door and ripped it open. “Come on, Ash.”
“Wait!” Cheeto said. “There’s still time.”
“Not for me,” Trent said, and stepped outside.
47
Fire.
Knees. On. Fire.
Karl could barely think beyond that. Bad as he needed to cook up an escape plan, the pain kept flushing away his thoughts. Usually when he hurt himself—a cut, bruise, whatever—the pain dulled over time. Here it didn’t. Here it tugged as if Snare had buried harpoons in his knees. One minute she pulled hard, then she took a breather. But quickly she found her second wind and—
“Arggh!” Karl roared through the tape sealing his mouth.
He’d lost track of time. Lost track of reality. In the dark storage unit, he couldn’t tell day from night, life from death. It could be midnight, noon, late July, his own funeral—anyone’s guess.
The only productive thing he could do was roll along the ground. When he reached the metal door, he hammered his head against it, hoping someone outside would hear him. Thud. Thud. Thud. He kept knocking until his head ached as badly as his knees.
Skull throbbing, he rolled back to the center of the storage unit. He bumped something brittle. Cardboard. A box. He bumped it again and heard a clattering noise—maybe there was something useful inside? He rolled onto his hip so his back faced the cardboard box. He punched backward with his elbow again and again. He put a good dent in it, until another box toppled from overhead.
It landed with a metallic crash. Once the jingling stopped, Karl rolled over and reached back with his cuffed hands. He felt spoons. Forks, too. Candace stored banquet supplies here, it seemed. Maybe he could find a knife to cut the extension cord wrapping his ankles. When he rolled over, something pierced his thigh.
“Arrgggghhh!”
Something hard and pointed was stuck in his leg. Seemed he’d found a knife, although not the way he’d wanted to.
His heart racing, he rolled onto his chest. The blade slid free of his leg. He didn’t sense any serious blood loss, only a faint stinging. He rolled onto his side, his back toward the utensils. He extended his cuffed hands outward, searching along the concrete floor. His thumb grazed a serrated edge. He found the handle and secured the steak knife in his hand.