Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 74668 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74668 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
The phone in front of me showed the man drag my daughter out of the room by her hair; I watched it until I could no longer see another thing.
“Keep the line open,” I said to my wife. “I’ve got to make some calls.”
The first call was to the police.
While I was getting dressed and then heading to Downy’s place, I made many calls.
I called in every single fucking marker I had in the entire country. Markers I’d had since I was a rookie on the force. Old money. New money. Old acquaintances. New acquaintances. Feds. You name it, I called them.
And they’d be fuckin’ sorry, because I was about to bring the wrath of the whole fucking world on their shoulders. One way or another, they’d pay. And I’d be there when they did.
The final call was to Big Papa.
“Hello?” Papa answered.
“Someone has Memphis,” I said without preamble.
With his reply, I could tell that the roughness in his voice, and the sleep I could feel clouding his mind, cleared, “I thought you had the cop on her. Wasn’t that the deal?”
“Yeah. He’s taken, I assume, too,” I said roughly.
My heart was beating a mile a minute, and I was finding it hard to breathe as I raced to Downy’s place.
“I’ll meet you out there. We’ll get her back,” Papa said harshly.
I knew we would. I just hoped she was all in one piece when we did.
That man of hers, though. Well, he’d have some things to answer for.
Chapter 22
I know how to load more than a washer and dryer.
-Memphis to her captors
Memphis
They beat him with a police baton for nearly twenty minutes before he finally came to.
At first they’d tried just slapping him to wake him.
When they couldn’t accomplish that, they tried water. When it didn’t work, they started beating the shit out of him for ruining their ‘grand plan.’
The grand plan being that Downy was awake to witness our dog’s fighting, to the death, against their dogs.
My heart was pounding, and not just with worry for Downy who was getting the shit beaten out of him.
But also for worry for our two babies, who despite being brave, looked incredibly scared.
They were in a pen that was covered in blood, piss, and shit.
I’d witnessed the first fight between the dogs.
I’d learned, in the last hour, that they fought nearly ten dogs at a time. The ‘winner’ was the last one standing.
Even though this last time, the winner wasn’t necessarily standing at the end, but they just scooped him out right along with the losers.
To get the ‘losers’ out, they got a Bobcat and pushed them out using the small bucket arm, scooping them up and pushing them out through the gate where Mocha and Peter were now pinned. Letting their lifeless bodies drag on the ground covered in their own blood.
It was a senseless loss of life that was nearly debilitating to me, especially when I had to think about my own dogs going in next.
God, even thinking of Downy waking up to see his dog getting torn to pieces like those other dogs were having done to them, scared the crap out of me. Which was why I was torn. I didn’t want him to wake up, just so he wouldn’t see what was about to happen. Yet I did, just for the simple fact that I didn’t want to see him beaten anymore with his own baton.
Another vicious hit from Downy’s direction, followed by Officer Prescott’s self-deprecating, ‘You like that?’ Had me cringing.
I’d never wanted to kill somebody more in my life.
His eyes, though, didn’t match his mouth.
I could tell with each slam of the baton that he didn’t want to be doing it.
He’d wince, and surreptitiously look at his father, Ronnie Prescott, to make sure he wasn’t being observed before he’d follow it up with a lighter hit. Then when his father would turn his attention back to him, he’d hit Downy a little harder, albeit doing it in a less vulnerable place.
If you could call getting slammed in the ribs less vulnerable. At least it wasn’t his face anymore.
The first time Officer Prescott had slammed the baton into Downy’s face, I’d heard the definite crack of bones breaking.
“Jesus Christ, Adrian. How much Ketamine did you give him? I told you to give him enough to knock him out until we had him where we wanted him. Not so much that he couldn’t fuckin move for three hours. He’s going to miss everything!” Ronnie bellowed. “And I can’t postpone the time. I have over a hundred people here to witness the finale. What a fuckin’ clusterfuck. You’re worthless.”
Ronnie continued to tear Adrian to pieces, with the power of his words alone, causing Adrian to lose control. Adrian turned to his father with fists clenched, staring at him like he wanted to murder him where he stood.
Well, that made two of us. But I wouldn’t stop at just Ronnie. Adrian would be going down, too.
I’d beat the ever-loving shit out of him just like he’d done to Downy. And I’d do it gladly.
“I’m not your fucking puppet, father. If you wanted a puppet, you shouldn’t have killed Limos!” Adrian roared.
Ronnie moved forward, pressing his pointer finger in Adrian’s chest so hard that he had to take an inadvertent step back to stay on his feet. “Let me tell you something, worm. I got you that job you’re so fucking proud of. I gave you a house. A car. Everything you have right now, is because of fuckin’ me! If you don’t like my methods, you’re more than welcome to take your worthless little self out of my city and never come back.”
The altercation had drawn attention, but instead of the men around the room paying closer attention, they stepped out of the living room, and then out of the house completely.
Ten men in total, exited as if this happened often, which it probably did since the men hadn’t even raised a brow at the altercation.
Which was what Downy, who finally popped his eye minutely open, was waiting for.