Golden Burn (Songs of Crime #1)

2. Etta

2

Etta

‘Tough Guy’ - Benee

I don’t brace myself like the man suggested. And I know I’ve made a critical mistake when a familiar face enters, swinging the doors of the clinic open and pausing on the threshold with a shivering chihuahua in his grip. Greg is in his late sixties, short and slightly rounded in the middle. Gray hair, black eyebrows, wearing a white button shirt and dark trousers, as if he just came from his desk job.

His face transitions from pale olive to bright beetroot as his eyes move from me, to the stranger, to the retriever, who wags her tail as if she recognizes him. I watch in horror as the chihuahua jumps and wrestles out of Greg’s hold. The animal lands on its feet and darts into the parking lot like it can’t get away fast enough. He doesn’t even try to get it back, he’s so focused on Juniper.

“Sir! Your—”

“Who do you think you are, stealing my dog?!” I’m rooted to the spot, my mouth snapping closed. I’m utterly shocked by the sheer ferocity of his voice, the magnitude. He’s never ever spoken like that to me. He barely speaks to me at all. Just names the price, checks the amount in the boxes and stands by his car as I load them into the trunk behind the clinic, where the cameras are faulty.

What the fuck is going on?

My head swings toward the man with the sunglasses, waiting for him to say something in regards to finding this man’s dog. Or stealing the dog.

He remains silent. Eerily silent. I hate that I can’t see his eyes because it’s impossible to know what he’s thinking. Hello! Say something!

Tension as thick as soup begins to fill the space between them.

For some reason, I decide the quiet is almost worse than the screaming. “Um, maybe we can talk about—”

Greg interrupts me again before I can finish. “Give her to me.” He steps forward, arm extended toward the lead dangling casually from the man’s hands. Time slows as his fingers reach for the piece of leather, his body bent slightly, chest puffing with annoyance. The man who found his dog remains completely unmoving.

Seemingly out of nowhere, the handsome stranger lifts his leg and kicks Greg straight in the chest.

A screech flies from my lips, my hands flying to cover my mouth.

Greg tumbles backward and crumples into a ball, crashing hard on the unforgiving floor.

Oh my God.

“What the fuck!” I scream. The man re-adjusts his stance, appearing completely unaffected by the fact he just booted an old man across the room.

Greg jumps to his knees in a flash. “How dare you!” He charges, his injuries forgotten. He reminds me of a bull, the way he drops his head, squares his body, using his legs as momentum. It’s barbaric.

I scream again.

With brutal efficiency, the handsome stranger punches Greg right in the nose and kicks him again in the ribs, sending him flying to the wall where he lands with an audible oomph . Blood oozes from his nose as he struggles to get his breath back.

“Stop this!” I screech.

The man looks at me and says casually, “Don’t feel bad for him. He deserves it.”

“Why—what? What is going on?” My thighs bump into the reception desk. The phones! My eyes stay pinned to the brutal man as I race around. I have to call the police. I have to call the police.

No, you can’t. They might start to ask questions, they might discover what you’ve been doing.

A battle wages subconsciously about whether it’s worth being caught. In the end, my fear overrides my pride. I pick up the phone, my heart racing so fast it hurts, and dial 911. The line doesn’t respond. It’s completely dead. I try again and again and again. What is happening?

My mobile phone is in the break room charging. Shit.

“Harriet, come here,” the man demands. I look up, completely startled.

White-hot panic in my chest seizes control of my lungs. I shake my head. “No. No fucking way.”

He turns his chin in my direction. He removes his sunglasses in one smooth motion before placing them into a pocket inside his coat.

I can see his eyes now. Well, his eye. The other is covered with an eyepatch decorated in what appears to be gold. Is he a demon or something? I don’t have time to process, because Greg starts to cackle like a hyena with a fresh kill.

The man with the eyepatch returns his attention to his victim. “Remember me, old man?”

Greg continues laughing, filling the reception with the horribly unnatural sound. “If it isn’t the Bolt Bastard.”

“Good to know your memory is still intact.”

My hands and knees shake in a harmonious rhythm as I watch on. “You need to leave. Now,” My voice cracks with panic. “I’m calling the police.”

“With what phone?” eyepatch guy asks. How does he know the phone line is dead? He may appear as though he is unaffected by this scenario, but I can tell there’s a minute layer of anticipation, of glee. My breath turns haggard, like shards of ice sawing through my chest. Before me, the stranger I deemed handsome morphs into something terrifying.

“Come here, Harriet,” he beckons me. If this was any other situation, I would go to him like a bee hunting for pollen. But we are not standing in a bar watching live music, or meeting in a park to have a picnic, or sitting across from each other on a date. We are at my place of work, and he’s awful.

“I said no!” I roar. How dare he come in here and order me around!

His eye narrows at me. “I need you to mind Juniper while I deal with this.”

“Take it outside,” I say again and jab my finger at the door for added effect. “Please, just take it outside.”

He shakes his head, tsking under his breath. “Then you’ll miss all the fun. ”

Tears are beginning to pool in my eyes. My system is boiling with adrenaline, and yet, when he holds the lead out toward me, my feet move of their own accord. I don’t want to see him do anything to hurt Juniper.

I run so fast my new shoes slip on the floor. I grab the lead, ignoring the fact that when I brush the man’s hands they register as warm, not ice cold. Once I’m back safely behind the desk, Juniper tucked between my legs, he straightens and rolls back his shoulders. “Stand up, Gregory. Take your final moments like the devil you are.”

“Fuck you,” Greg barks. “What took you so long, huh?”

“Vengeance isn’t a race. It’s a slow stride toward salvation.” Greg doesn’t respond to that. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and spits the rest of the blood in his mouth on the floor. “There’s no need to make a mess.” The Bolt Bastard, whatever that means, releases an annoyed sigh and begins the trek across the room toward where Greg sits slumped against the wall. He leans down and grabs him by the collar, whispering something into his ear that I can’t make out. Gregory kicks out his legs, but it’s no use.

The peachy yellow walls of the room press in. The numerous posters, with happy animals and smiling owners, mock me from every angle. Every patch of skin underneath my worn scrubs is covered in a thick layer of sweat, as if I’ve been standing in a steam room for far too long.

I predicted he was athletic, and he proves his form now as he drags Greg across the floor. He lifts him up in front of me and gives Greg a few mocking taps to the face. Greg snarls.

“Get out. Both of you. Just leave,” I beg, though my voice is barely a whisper.

“Not yet. I haven’t introduced you to your father,” Bolt says. “Harriet, meet your biological father, Gregory Lombardo. Gregory met the daughter that was taken from you—and for good measure—Harriet Lewis.”

I gasp.

My vision turns hazy around the edges. My legs buckle just the slightest bit causing me to have to lean on the reception desk and place some of my weight on Juniper.

What is he talking about?

“No.” Greg looks me up and down, honing in on my eyes last. That’s the one thing I remembered about him between visits. How similar they are to mine. Maybe a shade lighter. Piercing and cold. But I never ever thought it would be because we were blood related.

Greg confirms what I am thinking. “It’s not her.”

I’m not his daughter. My father is dead.

“Oh, it is. You’d be proud, Gregory. She’s following in your footsteps. Drug trafficking and money laundering. What a small world.”

My heart stops beating.

He can’t know that.

There’s no way.

Gregory tries to wrestle out of Bolt’s hold, clawing at the fingers bunched around his collar. Even I can tell it’s no use. He gives up after a few seconds and asks, “What do you want?”

The entire building seems hollow, void of sound. The dogs kept out the back aren’t barking; the cats aren’t meowing. The life in this place has been snuffed out within seconds, replaced by a severe, deadly chill.

Bolt leans in close to his victim’s face. “I want your business. Your legacy. I want to burn it all to the ground. I want you dead.” The depth of his voice makes me swallow. “Oh, and I’m taking your daughter, too.”

“What?”

“Times up,” Bolt announces and drops Gregory without a care. And then Bolt does something I truly could never have predicted.

He pulls out a gun.

My gasp is so loud it could shatter the windows.

Both men ignore me.

Gregory tries to stand, puffing out his chest and lifting his blood smeared chin. He’s trying to be defiant, but even I can tell he’s been beaten brutally and hanging on by sheer force of will.

Bolt raises his gun a little higher, pointing it at the old man’s chest. “Hey, Gregory?” he mocks. Gregory’s eyes are twin pools of fury as he pulls the safety back.

No. No. No.

Don’t do it.

Don’t do it.

“You’re a piece of shit,” Bolt spits.

He does it.

Bolt shoots. The sound of the bullet flying from the canister is silent. But it hits Gregory’s chest with a loud whack.

He falls to his knees.

Bolt closes the distance and presses his shoe into the seeping wound he made in Gregory’s sternum, forcing him to the floor. He collapses backward like a sack of grain.

I’m frozen.

I watch as Bolt applies enough pressure to Gregory’s chest that he can’t quite take a full breath. More blood bubbles onto his clothes, staining his skin. He jerks beneath him like a fish caught on a line and yanked from the water.

“It gives me peace knowing I’m the last thing you get to look at,” Bolt murmurs.

He inhales and pulls the trigger one more time.

Gregory Lombardo flinches from the impact of the bullet, then ceases to exist.

It’s then that my shock starts to waver. My hands begin to shake. I think I’m on the verge of vomiting. And my skin is so blanched of color it must resemble that of a bone picked clean.

But some twisted part of me can’t help acknowledging that Bolt’s confidence and sheer domination are transfixing in a way villains are always more interesting than the heroes.

He just killed a man.

And I’m pretty much stuck between swooning and screaming in terror.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Out of nowhere, two men enter the space, stepping through the door like they were waiting on cue. The first is burly and White, the second slim and Black. Any other defining features become a blur behind the water leaking from my eyes.

I’ve seen a lot of death. A lot.

But this is something entirely unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. And I don’t know what to do with myself.

Luckily, the choice is made for me.

While the two men busy themselves putting a plastic sheet over Gregory and tying up his body, Odin stalks over to me, his single eye crisp with resolve.

I try to step away from him. But it’s no use.

He grabs my upper arm and pulls me toward the door.

“I’m not going with you,” I say as I try to slip out of his hold like a child throwing a tantrum.

He just grips tighter, pulls a little harder. “Yes, you are,” he grunts.

“Wait! Wait! You can’t—You can’t just—Let go of me right now!”

I’m brought to a halt as he spins and gets up in my face. “You have two options right now, Ms Lewis. Comply or fight.” My first thought is to fight. My muscles even twitch with the first motions of kick. But Bolt continues before I can answer. “If you comply, you can board my plane without injury. Fight, and I’ll haul you over my shoulder and tie your hands behind your back.”

Well… shit.

My answer remains trapped behind my lips.

“Comply it is,” he says and takes my arm again. This time, I notice that his fingers are calloused, his palm round and large, and still a little bloody.

It smears across my skin.

I stumble after him, my feet dragging, staring at the redness he leaves on me like a brand.

He shoves me into a fancy dark Mercedes and slams the door, leaving me alone.

Inside the clinic, the two men bring out the body and Juniper hooked to a lead, and place them both in the car in front of us.

Whatever happens next, I don’t know.

I watch my clinic through the drizzling rain and wonder whether I’ll ever see it again.