Savage Rites – Episode 39&40

The horse farm in Colts Neck smelled of wet hay and iodine.

It was 3:00 AM when the stolen station wagon skidded to a halt on the gravel driveway. The rain had turned to a freezing sleet that coated the windshield in a sheet of ice.

Dante kicked his door open before the car even stopped rolling.

“Get him out!” he barked.

I scrambled out of the backseat, my legs stiff and cramping. I grabbed Matteo’s ankles while Sloane took his shoulder. Bianca, shivering and useless in the cold, held the door open.

We dragged him into the barn. It wasn’t a rustic red barn; it was a clinical, state-of-the-art facility with concrete floors and high-intensity overhead lights.

A man was waiting for us. He was short, balding, and wearing a quilted vest over pajama bottoms. He looked terrified.

“Sloane?” the man stammered, wiping his glasses. “Your father said…”

“Save the pleasantries, Aris,” Sloane snapped. “He’s bleeding out. Table. Now.”

We placed Matteo onto a stainless steel operating table designed for animals. It was massive, cold, and smelled faintly of bleach.

Matteo groaned, his head thrashing against the metal. His face was the color of gray putty.

“I’m a veterinarian,” Dr. Aris protested, looking at the gunshot wound with distaste. “I fix suspensory ligaments. I don’t treat gunshot wounds on humans.”

“It’s just meat, Aris,” Sloane said, pulling a wad of cash from her bra and slamming it onto the metal tray. “Sew him up. Or I call my father and tell him you let a friend of the family die.”

The vet looked at the cash, then at Dante’s submachine gun, then at Matteo.

“Scrub in,” Aris sighed, grabbing a pair of latex gloves. “I need someone to hold the retractors. My assistant isn’t here.”
“I’ll do it,” I said.

Everyone looked at me.

I was a sight. The gold chainmail dress was tarnished with mud and grease. My arms were bruised. My hair was a matted disaster. But my hands were steady.

“You?” Bianca whispered, horrified. “You’ll faint.”

“I don’t faint,” I said. I walked to the sink and scrubbed my hands with the rough orange soap. “Not anymore.”

For the next hour, the world shrank down to the circle of light above the table.

I stood across from Dr. Aris. I held the metal clamps that pulled Matteo’s flesh apart so the vet could dig for the bullet fragments. I watched the blood pool in the cavity of his shoulder. I watched the needle pierce his skin.
I didn’t look away.

When it was over, Matteo was sedated with horse tranquilizers, his shoulder wrapped in white bandages. He was breathing steadily.

Dr. Aris stripped off his bloody gloves. “He’s lucky. It missed the brachial artery by a millimeter. He needs antibiotics and rest. Lots of rest.”

“He doesn’t have time for rest,” Dante said, checking his watch. “We need to move.”
“He can’t move,” Aris argued. “If you move him, the sutures will tear.”

“Then we stay here,” I said.
I turned away from the table.

I walked out of the surgical bay and into the farm room.

Bianca was sitting on a bale of hay, hugging her knees. She had found a horse blanket and wrapped it around herself. When I walked in, she looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

“Is he alive?” she asked.
“He made it,” I said.

Bianca let out a long, shuddering breath. “Good. That idiot owes me a pair of shoes.”
She looked at me. Her gaze traveled over my ruined gold dress.

“You look like a nightmare,” she said.
“I feel like one,” I admitted.

I walked over to a small mirror hanging on the wall next to a calendar.

I stared at myself.

The girl in the mirror was unrecognizable. Her eyes were hollow, shadowed with exhaustion and violence. The ruby necklace still glittered at her throat, a drop of blood against the dirt.

I reached up and unclasped the necklace.
“What are you doing?” Bianca asked, standing up. “Nico gave you that. It proves you’re protected.”

“I’m not protected,” I said, holding the heavy jewels in my hand. “Nico is gone. The protection is gone.”

I turned to her.

“We need money, Bianca. We need cars. We need weapons. And we can’t access the De Luca accounts because Julian will be watching them.”

I held the necklace out to her.

“You know people,” I said. “Fences. Jewelers who don’t ask questions. How much can we get for this?”

Bianca stared at the ruby.
“That’s a family heirloom,” she whispered. “Nico’s grandmother wore that.”

“Nico isn’t here to wear it,” I said hard. “I’m trading it. For an army.”

Bianca looked at my face.

She reached out and took the necklace. She weighed it in her hand.

“There’s a broker in Atlantic City,” Bianca said slowly. “He owes my father a favor. He’ll give us cash. Clean cash.”

She looked up at me, a newfound respect warring with her usual disdain.

“You really are a cobra,” she murmured.
“I’m learning,” I said.

Sloane walked into the farm room. She had cleaned the blood off her hands and found a bottle of cheap whiskey in the vet’s desk.

“Dante is securing the perimeter,” Sloane said, taking a swig. “But we have a problem. We’re blind. We don’t know where Julian took him.”
“I know,” I said.

Sloane and Bianca looked at me.

“How?” Sloane asked. “Did he say something?”
“No,” I said. “But I know Julian. He’s obsessed with symbolism. He called this a chess game. He called me the Queen.”

I walked over to the window, looking out at the dark, sleet-covered paddocks.

“He wants to prove he’s better than Nico,” I said. “He won’t take him to a warehouse or a basement. That’s too common. He’ll take him somewhere that means something.”
I turned back to them.

“Where did the De Lucas and the Thornes first do business? Where did the alliance start?”
Bianca frowned, thinking. “The old Textile Factory in Queens. That was fifty years ago. My grandfather told stories about it. It’s where they signed the original treaty.”

“And it’s abandoned now?” I asked.
“Condemned,” Bianca said. “It’s a ruin.”

“That’s where he is,” I said with certainty. “Julian wants to destroy the De Luca legacy. He’ll do it at the birthplace.”

Sloane took another drink and passed the bottle to Bianca.

“Okay,” Sloane said. “Let’s assume you’re right. That factory is a fortress. Julian will have the Volkovs dug in like ticks. We have one injured shooter, one driver, and three girls in prom dresses. How exactly do we get in?”

I looked at the three of them.

Sloane, the strategist with the connections.
Bianca, the heiress with the funding.
Dante, the soldier.
And me.

“We don’t sneak in,” I said. “Nico tried to play defense. He tried to protect me. That was his mistake.”

I walked over to the wall and ripped a page off the calendar. I grabbed a pen.

“We stop playing defense,” I said, drawing a crude map of the city. “Julian expects a rescue mission. He expects us to be desperate and sloppy.”

I looked up, my eyes locking with theirs.
“We’re going to give him a war.”

I pointed to Bianca.
“Get the money. Get the cars.”

I pointed to Sloane.
“Call your father. Tell him the Volkovs are in New York. Tell him if he sends men, he gets fifty percent of the Ricci ports.”

Bianca gasped. “You can’t give away my father’s ports!”

“I just did,” I said. “Do you want to live, or do you want to be rich?”
Bianca gritted her teeth. “Fine.”
“And Dante?” Sloane asked.

“Dante is going to teach me how to shoot,” I said.

I looked down at my ruined gold dress.
“Because when we walk into that factory,” I whispered, “I’m going to be the one who pulls the trigger.”

***

The dawn broke over the colt.
Behind the barn, the air smelled of wet grass and cordite.

“Again,” Dante said.

He stood three feet away from me, his arms crossed, his face impassive. He hadn’t slept. None of us had.

I raised the Glock 19. It was heavy, heavier than it looked in movies. The grip was rough against my palm, biting into the skin. My arms ached from holding it up for the last hour, but I didn’t lower it.

I aimed at the bale of hay ten yards away. A paper plate was tacked to the center.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Squeeze.
CRACK.

The gun kicked back, the recoil traveling up my arm and rattling my teeth. The shell casing pinged off the gravel.

I looked at the target. The bullet had hit the edge of the plate.

“Low and left,” Dante critiqued. “You’re anticipating the recoil. You’re flinching before you pull the trigger.”

“I’m not flinching,” I lied.

“You are,” Dante said. He walked over to me. He didn’t touch the gun; he touched my shoulder, pressing down hard. “Your body is trying to protect itself from the explosion. It’s natural. But nature gets you killed.”

He leaned in close, his voice a low rumble.
“Nico shielded you from this,” Dante said. “He kept his hands dirty so yours could stay clean. He was wrong.”

“I know,” I whispered.
“Stop trying to protect yourself,” Dante commanded. “Accept the violence. Let it happen.”

I nodded. I shook out my arms and raised the gun again.

I didn’t look at the paper plate. I looked at the cane striking Nico’s face.
I didn’t flinch this time.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Three shots. Rapid fire.

I lowered the gun, my ears ringing.
Dante walked to the hay bale. He inspected the plate.

Three holes, clustered tightly in the center. A kill grouping.

He turned back to me. For the first time since I met him, the Silent Heir looked impressed.

“You have the eyes,” Dante said.
“The eyes?”

“Killer’s eyes,” he clarified. “Empty. Focused.” He walked back and took the gun from my shaking hand to reload the magazine. “You’re ready.”

“I don’t feel ready,” I admitted, rubbing my wrist.

“You don’t have to feel ready. You just have to pull the trigger.”

The barn door slid open with a groan of rusted metal.

Sloane walked out. She had changed into black cargo pants and a tight thermal shirt she must have found in the vet’s lockers. She looked like a mercenary, holding a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a satellite phone in the other.

“Chicago is in,” Sloane announced, taking a sip of coffee. “My father wasn’t happy about the fifty percent cut of the ports, but when I told him the Volkovs were involved, he changed his tune. The Valentis hate the Russians more than they love money.”

“When do they arrive?” Dante asked, clutching his weapon.

“The hit squad is flying into Teterboro now,” Sloane said. “But they won’t be boots-on-the-ground for four hours. They have to clear gear through a private channel.”

“We don’t have four hours,” I said immediately. “Julian has had Nico since midnight. Every hour we wait…”

“I know,” Sloane cut in. “That’s why I told them to meet us at the perimeter. We go in first. We breach, we locate Nico, we secure the exits. When the Valenti cavalry arrives, they mop up the rest.”

“It’s risky,” Dante said. “If we go in alone, we’re outnumbered ten to one.”

“Twelve to one,” Sloane corrected dryly. “My dad’s intel says Julian brought two dozen men.”

“I don’t care about the odds,” I said. “We have the element of surprise. Julian thinks we’re running. He thinks we’re halfway to Canada by now.”

Gravel crunched on the driveway.
A black SUV an older model, heavily tinted, pulled up next to the barn.

The window rolled down. Bianca was behind the wheel.

She looked exhausted, but she had cleaned up. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she was wearing dark clothes that looked stolen from a thrift store.

“Get in, losers,” Bianca called out. “I got the cash. And I got the hardware.”

We walked over to the SUV. Dante opened the trunk.

Inside were two duffel bags. One was unzipped, revealing stacks of used bills. The other contained weapons, pistols, extra magazines, and a few flashbang grenades.

“The broker in Atlantic City?” Dante asked, picking up a grenade.

“He was very cooperative,” Bianca said, tapping the steering wheel. “Once I told him I was Elena Vance’s business partner.”

She looked at me through the rearview mirror.
“Apparently, your name carries weight now, Elena. Rumor on the street is that you’re the one who burned down the ballroom. People are afraid of you.”

“Good,” I said. “Fear is currency.”

I opened the back door and climbed in. The interior smelled of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener. It was a far cry from Nico’s Aston Martin.

Sloane climbed in the passenger seat, checking the load on a fresh pistol. Dante took the back seat with me.

“One stop before Queens,” I said.
“What?” Bianca asked, looking at me in the mirror. “We have the guns. We have the car.”

“I need clothes,” I said. I looked down at the ruined, mud-caked gold dress. The scales were bent, the mesh tearing. “I can’t fight in this. And I’m not wearing a dead man’s sweatpants.”

“There’s an army surplus store on Route 9,” Dante said. “Opens at 6 AM.”
“Go,” I told Bianca.

As the SUV pulled away from the farm, leaving the sedated Matteo behind with the terrified vet, I looked out at the gray morning.

I touched the empty spot on my neck where the ruby used to be, I felt empty and wished I could get it back.

TBC