Reckless

"I've killed before; what makes you think I wouldn't do it again?"

When Spencer is offered a chance at her own place, she jumps at it without a second thought about the previous owner's dark past. It isn't until four masked guys bang down the door to her new apartment and drag her off for a ransom that she's forced to face the consequences of someone else's choices, at the hands of NYC's most notorious gang. Can she convince them that they've made a mistake, before the darkness consumes her?

Growing up in foster homes on the wrong side of the city Justin Bieber has learned a thing or two about mistakes, and how to keep yourself from repeating them. It's simple really; you get rid of the problem, before it gets rid of you. So why can't he get himself to make this one go away?

"Nothing's completely good or bad, because one can't exist without the other - just like the dark needs the light to survive."

Are you ready for the darkness to take over?

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6. The Shooter

5. The Shooter

// Spencer // 

 

***

 

There’s the sound of shackles and a key being turned in its lock outside of the door. Before that there was the sound of rapid footsteps on the staircase in the other room, going thump, thump, thump as whoever approached. And before that, if I held my breath and concentrated on listening I could hear the faint squeak of floorboards in the distance, somewhere above.

I hold my breath and prepare to be reunited with the jerk from earlier. I’m ready, my head drawn back, saliva filling my mouth and my eyes narrowed at the door, ready to take aim at the intruder.

Then the door falls open and I’m taking aback when a new guy enters the room, his eyes intently set on me.

He moves across the room towards me, his body radiating with determination and something else. Anger. It’s burning in his deep brown eyes, and it’s directed at me.

He reaches me in seven long strides, rounds the chair and tugs at my restraints, until they fall from my wrist, releasing me for the shortest of moments. I try to calculate my time, to see if I can make it to the door and up the stairs, before he can catch me. But before I can blink he has taken hold of my wrists and yanks them, in one swift tug, to my front, rewrapping them in the rope from before and pulling until the restraints are biting into my naked flesh. 

“Walk,” he snaps, yanking me from the chair and pushing me towards the door. I stumble and he must have taken it as a sign of my hesitation, because he’s quickly at my sight, his fingers digging into the skin on my arm, his breath causing chills where it spreads over the exposed skin on my neck, as he growls, this time in my ear; “Walk. Damn it.” And I do, this time without stumbling, but I’m too slow for him, so he uses his grip on my arm to pull me alongside him as he rushes to the door, his strides each matching two of my own. 

He pulls me up the staircase, leading the way and not slowing down to allow me to catch up to him. As soon as we reach the top he pulls open the nearest door and rushes through it, closing it before I can get any bearings on what the upstairs of my prison looks like. 

The guy reaches in the blind darkness and finds what he’s looking for, basking the room in light with one simple flick of a nearby light switch.

We’re in a garage, larger than the one I grew up with. It fits three cars, all of which are parked nicely in a row, like sitting ducks, waiting to be taking out. He pulls me forward to the farthest one from the door, pulling a set of keys out from his jean pockets as he goes along. 

He rounds the car, with me in tow, and yanks the door to the passenger side open. With one final tug at my arm he forces me into the door and down in the seat, finally releasing his grip on my arm. I expect him to slam the door in my face, lock it and make his way back around to the driver’s side, but he doesn’t. Instead he bends down into the car, grabbing the seat belt and leaning over me to attach it in the latch on the other side of me. 

He’s so close to me I could probably pull my head back and slam it down into his, causing severe damage, but I don’t. I’m frozen in my seat, taken aback by his presence and the gesture; the action more expected for a child rather than a prisoner. 

I sit frozen in my seat, afraid to move, for fear that he might think of it as a retaliation or attack and hit me, or worse drug me up again. 

He fumbles fumbles with the latch to the seat belt, cursing under his breath and leaning in further over me to get better access. He’s pressing into my side, and I can smell him. His scent is intoxicating, filling not only the car but me. I hold my breath, wanting to push it away. It’s a reminder of everything that he is, and if I let it, the mere scent of him, get to me there’s no reason he couldn’t get to me in other ways. I need to resist; everything about him.

Just as I think I can’t hold my breath any more and will have to give in to breathing in; breathing him in, I hear the click of metal locking into metal, and he retreats away from me and out of the car.

He rounds the front of the car in five long strides, allowing me enough time to inhale a fresh batch of air, before he’s back in the car, filling up the space again. 

Without another glance at me, he slips the key into the ignition and turns it; the car comes alive. With a touch to a button, attached to the roof of the car, the door to the garage door starts sliding up, disappearing into the ceiling of the garage. The moment it has cleared the roof of the car we’re pulling out and away from my temporary prison. 

As we speed down the road I catch a quick glimpse of the house attached to the garage, in the side mirror. It’s a large brownstone, located in the middle of an old, quiet neighborhood, and surrounded with houses equivalent to it. 

I bite back the gasp threatening to escape me at the sight. It’s the complete opposite of what you would expect for a neighborhood housing a gang that isn’t opposed to kidnappings. 

“Thank you,” I tell him, when I recover from my shock and finally find my voice. 

The thanks takes him as much by surprise as it does me and once it’s out there I almost take it back.

It’s such an absurd thing to say to a guy whose taken you, by force, from your home, dumped you in a shady basement somewhere and are now driving you off to heaven knows where, probably to discard of your body in some way only seen in old fashion gangster movies. 

I’m not so naive that I think he’ll let me go. I’ve seen his face, I know where he lives. Everything less than killing me off would be a severely dumb move on his part. But maybe, just maybe he could be reasoned with, if I found the right motivation. 

My insides are a turmoil of emotions that I can’t find the beginning or the end to. The only thing that stands out from the wild roar of the rest are the fact that he took his time to buckle me up, before pulling off and even now, on the streets and with me secured, he doesn’t drive like hell on ice, as I’m sure he would be normally. He seems like the type. 

“Safety first,” he mumbles under his breath, tightening his grip on the steering wheel to the point where the skin on his knuckles turns a sick shade of white. 

I want to stare at him in disbelief. It’s such an odd thing to throw out there, when I know exactly where he’s taking me. I’ve overheard my dad talking about enough cases that he’s worked on throughout the years to predict how this is going to end.

Dad.

My stomach turns at the realization. 

“Yes,” I mumble, casting my gaze out the window next to me, as the thoughts run wild within me.

How will he take it when they find me? Will he be forced to work on the case? 

Of course not. They don’t allow personal ties to interfere with cases. But even so, would he pick it up away from work? 

I feel sick at the thought, and the silence in the car is only making it worse.

“How’s this going to work?” I ask, ignoring the growl in the back of my head telling me not to poke the sleeping bear. But I can’t help it, I can’t stand the silence, so even though my question is completely pointless, it’s at least not silence.

I glance at the driver. He’s staring at me out of the corners of his eyes, looking surprised at my question.

“I mean,” I start, twisting my hands in my lap as I continue, “do you do this often?” 

Holy shit. WTF. Well done Spencer, let’s just ask a criminal, whose obviously taking you to your death, if this is an everyday occurrence or if it only happens every second Tuesday.

The guy doesn’t answer me, he just stares daggers at me from the corners of his eyes, like I’ve sprouted a second head and it’s started to serenade him in Italian.

It’s obvious that he’s not going to answer me, so I sigh and slump back in my seat, returning to gazing out of the window. 

We’re driving out of the city, leaving the street lights and tall buildings behind, and etching into a wooded area. 

We drive in silence for another ten minutes, before he pulls the car to a stop, and gets out.

He’s by my side in a blink of an eye, forcing the door open and pulling me out of the car, with the same steel grip to my arm that he used to get me into it. Once I’m out, he slams the door behind us and leads me into the tree line, his pace just as fast as back at the house. 

I have to half run to keep up with him, and more than twice I’m closed to tripping over branches or large rocks in the forest bedding, but every time his hand on my arm steadies me and keeps me up.

We continue on for another ten minutes, my heart galloping in my chest, to keep up with his fast pace and because I know where we’re headed.

When he’s satisfied that we’re far enough away from the road not to get spotted, he pushes me forward and releases his grip on my arm. I desperately want to rub the spot on my arm to release the pain from where his fingers have been digging into me, but I’m still bound and there’s greater things at stake.

“Kneel,” he commands me, his order thrown at me through clenched teeth.

His command leaves trembles rushing through my body. My fight or flight impulses have been kicked into over gear. The flight mode is telling me to fall to my knees and get it over with, but the fighter gene within me keeps me from doing so. Instead I remain standing before him, my eyes meeting his, watching as they flare with fury.

In one swift tug he pulls a gun from the back of the waist band of his pants, and aims the barrel at me. “Kneel,” he growls again, his nostrils flaring with fury at my disobedience. Knowing what will happen either way I obey, falling to my knees, figuring that at least this way I have a few extra seconds to think. I need to think of any way that I can get out of this mess. Any ticket out.

It’s been raining; the ground is wet and the water is seeping into my jeans where my knees and legs are touched to the forrest bedding. 

Oddly enough that’s all I can think about. The rain, and how I’ll never experience it again. How I’ll never hear the sweet tickling of dusty rain or the loud roar of a storm rolling in. 

I wish it was raining. 

“Goodbye, Spencer Sutton,” he growls, taking his aim. And just like that a light bulb goes off in my head.

He knows my name. Knows who I am. Knows what I can do.

“Wait,” I exclaim, raising my hands, as if reaching out for him. “You know who I am?”

“Of course,” he snaps, seemingly angry that I’ve interrupted him; that I’m keeping him from the task at hand.

“Then you know what I can do,” I rush to say. 

He stares at me, confusion clear in his features as he shakes the gun from side to side. “You’re Sutton, can’t see you do much but cause trouble for us.”

“Yes, I’m a Sutton,” I say, “I can be your insider.”

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