Edith looked from the belt, to the tool that Smalls held in the fire, and her heart thumped, taking off like a locomotive. Her eyes watered and her hands shook as she gripped them together, as though still in prayer.
But prayer hadn’t worked.
She squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth.
Trunk bent over and slipped the belt between her teeth. “That’s a good girl,” he mumbled.
“Smells like chicken, Boss,” Backfire said, and laughed.
“Shut up,” Smalls screamed at him. “Have some fucking respect for her. She’s taking it better than you would.”
Trunk gave them both a silencing glare while Edith screamed through her clamped teeth—her wails bloodcurdlingly quiet, but no less awful than if at full volume—her teeth were leaving deep impressions in the belt.
Her chickens scattered, squawking as though it were them being held over the fire.
She writhed in agony, her head swinging left to right. She felt like her entire body was on fire and like her hair was standing on its end. The pain was so deep and hot, it moved past all levels of red and felt absolutely white. Her head frantically rolled back and forth as Trunk held the steaming branding iron to her upper arm, the skin sizzling under it like bacon.
“Hold on, Miss Edith, it’s almost done,” Smalls said under his breath, and then gritted his own teeth. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of her skin cooking, and squeezed her shoulder in support. “There, it’s done, Trunk. Stop.”
Trunk held the hot metal tightly to Edith’s arm as it melted her skin like butter, barely sparing Smalls a sidelong glance. “Really, dude? Man the fuck up.”
The tiny bit of kindness from Smalls was lost on Edith anyway. She couldn’t hear a thing. She was deaf to the world as the red-hot metal burned through layers of her already-papery skin. Tears cascaded down her face like angry twin rivers. She worked hard to not fight the men, or her binds, afraid of what might be worse than this, if she angered Trunk further.
Smalls and Backfire each kept one strong hand on her shoulders—one gentle, and one rough—pinning her to the chair, but it wasn’t necessary. Not only was she tied to it, but she couldn’t have got up even if she’d tried, so complete was her torture. All she wanted to do was curl up and die.
She sucked in a huge lungful of air around the belt, panting as she filled her lungs, and howled once more and this time screamed loudly, her howl taking the form of a word… the only thing that would soothe her now, “Elllllllll… merrr!”
33
“Give it up, boys. If you make us pull, we’ll put ya down.”
Tarra startled at the serious voice who echoed Marshall Raylan without a hint of humor, and risked a glance over her shoulder. A group of four men flanked the front of the store, coming closer every second. Three of the men carried rifles, sights already trained on the gang. They walked hunkered over, fingers hovering over triggers, as though stalking prey.
The owner of the voice didn’t carry a rifle; he wore two pistols, one strapped to each hip. As he sauntered slowly through the broken glass toward Tarra, his hands hovered light and easy over his guns. His gait was slow and methodical, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. With his ball cap pulled down low, wearing a torn Winthrop University T-shirt with a ballistic vest over it, khaki cargo-pants, square black-framed glasses, and a closely shaved beard, he could’ve been out for a leisurely hike—other than the vest.
She raised her eyebrows at his cool, collective demeanor. “Big fan of Justified, huh?”
Ignoring her stare and her comment, and not breaking eye contact with the gangbanger directly behind Tucker, he spoke quietly and calmly to his own group as he walked closer. “Claim your man, Chuck.”
“I call the guy in ink, John,” the man to his right said in a gravelly voice; he resembled a modern-day hippie with light brown hair that fell in loose waves long past his shoulders, and a mountain-man beard, dotted with gray. He also wore body armor. He kept his one open eye sighted in on the man not wearing a shirt.
John—the name of the man leading them now revealed—nodded. He came to a stop beside Tarra, still not making any moves to draw his own pistols. “He’s yours,” he answered.
To his left, another man in his late-forties, sporting a short white beard streaked in brown, took a knee on the other side of a register counter, and set up his shot, at the ready. He wore tactical pants and a button-up shirt with the name ‘Pete’ embroidered over the pocket. “Dibs on BLM, John.”
John positioned his feet further apart, keeping eye contact with the gangbanger that held the gun on Tucker. “He’s yours.”
Bringing up the rear, a younger, stocky guy clearly enjoying their sport, easily handled an AR15 pressed up tight against his chest rig with a sardonic smile on his face. His eyes twinkled behind wire-rimmed frames, contrasting with a beard that looked like it’d been dipped in the blood of his enemies.
Without looking back at him, John said, “Ralph? Your pick.”
“Basketball fanboy for the win,” Ralph said, and smirked.
The gang’s smug smiles disappeared; replaced by nervous sweaty lips and darting eyes.
John snickered. “He’s yours. I guess that leaves me the wife-beater.”
“Fuck you!” the boy with the dirty tank-top spit out, waving his gun in the air to emphasize his point.
Tarra flinched at his outburst.
The gang tittered nervously amongst themselves, trying—but failing—to seem unconcerned.
A loud voice thundered from behind, startling everyone. “Hey boy! Watch your manners in front of the lady!” A split second later, after the voice had all of their attention, it was followed by a gun shot that echoed through the nearly empty story as it cracked like lightning through the space.
A fifth gangbanger, previously unseen, toppled from the top of a high-shelf, landing hard—and dead—on the floor between the two groups, directly in front of Tucker, the sound of his head hitting the floor like the thump of a watermelon. His rifle clattered to the floor beside him.
Momentarily distracted as they tried to find the voice, the gang was stricken with panic. WifeBeater stared at his friend on the floor for three seconds and then screamed at the top of his lungs and lifted his gun, aiming at the back of Tucker’s head.
Before he could squeeze the trigger, John pulled his pistols and squeezed the triggers in unison. One in his head, and one in his heart. The gangbanger fell to his knees as blood and brains splattered behind him, and then did a face-plant. John reholstered his guns, ignoring the other gang members. A second later, they too went down like dominos, as Ralph, Chuck and Pete met their targets with one killing shot each, almost in unity.
The air filled with gunpowder and lead.
Tucker lay on the floor face-first, his hands over his ears.
Tina whipped around wild-eyed, her weapon up and ready, only to see Grayson stepping through broken glass with an AR15 tight against his shoulder. He stalked closer, keeping his eyes on the tops of the aisles. “Come on, Tarra,” he yelled, moving his eyes—and gun—to the dead gang members—making sure they stayed dead. “Let’s get out of here before we have more company.”
Finally, John spoke to Tarra. “I think he thought you needed saving?” he asked, a grin on his face. “I’d say he was mistaken.” He gave Tarra a wink and a polite nod, and then turned and flashed a hand signal to his crew.
He stalked away, deeper into the store, as his three buddies followed.