Hugging herself, she drilled him with another malevolent stare and refused to answer. “I said, where are the kids?”
She must’ve gotten them out of the house, because they’d been here at some point. The bedding was rumpled; there were impressions on all three pillows. She definitely hadn’t been sleeping in this room alone. How she’d done it, Pretty Boy didn’t know. The windows didn’t look as if they opened wide enough, but maybe they did.
Good for you. He could only hope Mia and Jake were well away from this house. He couldn’t tolerate seeing Ink kill a couple of kids, especially these kids. He’d watched them grow from babies via Skin’s pictures. Witnessing what Ink did to Laurel would be bad enough.
The veins bulged in Ink’s neck. “Answer me, bitch!”
“If you th-think I’ll tell you anything, y-you’re crazier than I th-thought!” Ducking her head, she covered up with her arms as if she expected that to be the last thing she ever said.
Ink grabbed her by the hair and dragged her up against him, placing the gun to her temple. “Tell me, or I’ll splatter your brains against the wall.”
She was hyperventilating, but she wasn’t pleading for her life. She wouldn’t give Ink the pleasure.
Virgil would be proud….
Ink struck her with the gun. “Tell me!”
“N-never!” she said, and surprised them both by spitting in his face.
“You’re gonna pay for that.”
Before Ink could make good on his threat, Pointblank poked his head into the room. “You’re not done? Come on, ladies, let’s finish up and get the hell out of here, huh?”
“The kids are gone,” Ink complained.
Pointblank had wiped off the blade of his knife, but the marshal’s blood still stained the handle as well as his fingers. The artery he’d cut when they lured the guy outside had spurted like a geyser, spraying Pointblank’s T-shirt and face, too. Now the marshal’s body was being used as a doorstop as the ever-widening puddle of his blood fanned out on the back porch. “So?”
“So Shady said to do them all.”
Pointblank grimaced. “They’re just kids.”
“Kids who are related to Skin! We didn’t come this far to do half a job, did we? How do you think that’ll go over with Shady? Besides, this bitch just spit in my face. She deserves to see them die.”
With a curse, Pointblank sheathed his knife. “Fine. They can’t be far. I’ll find them. But don’t make a production out of this.”
“What does that mean?” Ink called after him.
“Kill her now and be quick about it. Who cares if she spit on you? This is a job.”
That was the difference, Pretty Boy realized, the reason he put up with other members of The Crew but not Ink. Violence and crime weren’t a means to an end for Ink. He enjoyed inflicting pain on others.
To make sure Pointblank didn’t find those kids, Pretty Boy started into the hall. But before he could reach the door, Ink thrust the gun he’d been waving around into his hands.
“What the hell?” Pretty Boy tried to give it back. “I’ve got my own weapon.” He hadn’t taken his semi-automatic from where he’d shoved it in the waistband of his jeans, and that was telling, but he’d spoken the truth—he did have one.
“Hold it for me.”
“What for?”
Ink was lifting his shirt and undoing his pants, which made his intent clear.
“Come on, man. Don’t be a loser.”
“She deserves this. And I want Skin to see it. Take out that fancy-ass phone of yours and video it.”
“Oh, that’s smart. If the video falls into the wrong hands, they’ll put your ass back in prison and throw away the key.”
He whirled around. “And who’s going to give it to the wrong people? You?”
“I’m just saying you don’t create shit that can prove you’re guilty of a crime like this, man.”
“Which is why you won’t get my head in the frame, jackass!”
“Fuck you! Here, take your damn gun.” Once again Pretty Boy tried to return Ink’s pistol, but Ink wouldn’t take it.
“Film it!” Throwing her on the floor, he started pulling up her nightgown.
Laurel wasn’t going down without a fight. She was frantic—scratching and clawing and biting—but she didn’t scream. She was probably afraid that would draw the children to her, if they were still within earshot.
Pretty Boy felt just as horrified, enraged and helpless as she did. No way was he filming this. He’d seen a lot of sick shit in his life, could tolerate almost anything—except a man beating up on a woman or a child. Being part of The Crew wasn’t supposed to be like this. In prison, they targeted rapists and child molesters, punished them for their actions. Now they were becoming just like them?
“You getting this?” Ink grunted. She’d hit him, connected with his stomach, but it didn’t really faze him. He ripped her panties while trying to get them off her.
Pretty Boy opened his mouth to try and talk Ink out of what he was doing, but before he could make up his mind about what to say, Pointblank yelled from the front door.
“Found the little bastards!”
Crying filled the house. Pointblank was coming through the living room, bringing the kids to the bedroom—probably so Ink could do the honors. Pretty Boy didn’t believe Pointblank wanted to hurt those children any more than he did. But Pointblank had a better position in The Crew, greater authority, and he’d follow any kind of order before he’d lose that.
“They were standing out on the neighbor’s porch, shivering,” he explained with a laugh as they came closer. “No one was home, but they didn’t have the sense to go somewhere else. They just kept pushing the doorbell.”
What’d he expect? They were kids, man. Little kids.
God, he was in the middle of some messed up shit.
A bead of sweat rolled from Pretty Boy’s temple, stinging his eyes. He couldn’t let this happen, didn’t want any part of it or the kind of people who could do this. Ink and Pointblank—neither of them could measure up to Skin, no matter what Skin had done since being released from the joint.
Ink didn’t seem to care whether or not Pointblank had found the children. What Pointblank said, all the crying, none of it seemed to register. Now that he had Laurel’s panties off, he was too busy trying to force her legs apart to care about anything else.
From what he’d seen so far, Pretty Boy thought Ink should thank him for not filming. Ink was too stoned to do much more than punch and fumble.
“It’ll hurt less if you quit fighting,” he panted, and began to choke her.
She did what she could to free herself, but it was no use. In another second Ink would be pumping away—
A child’s voice, full of fear, broke through the melee. “Mommy? Mommy!” And that was the last thing Pretty Boy heard before he pulled the trigger.
His right arm jerked with the recoil, his ears rang from the blast and the smell of gunpowder burned his nose and throat.
Trying to convince himself that he’d really shot Ink and not just imagined it, he blinked several times to clear his vision. There was no blood, nothing like when Pointblank used his knife on the marshal, but Ink lay slumped over Laurel, motionless.
Pretty Boy expected to feel instant remorse, or maybe fear for what his actions would set in motion. Instead, he experienced a rush of satisfaction, a sense of resolution that put the conflict tearing him up to rest. He’d made his choice. Maybe he’d regret it later, but he didn’t regret it now.
“That’s what you get,” he muttered to the inert Ink. Ink was no better than all the other scumbags who’d been in the hat while he was in prison.