“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 * 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 *. 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.