Torn by Chris Jordan

Author:Chris Jordan
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2009-06-28T16:00:00+00:00

8. MC Popsicle

They kick him loose at dawn, twenty minutes after his public defender drags her saggy, underpaid butt onto the premises. No arrest, therefore no hearing, no bail. Nothing more than a stern warning not to leave the area.

Right.

“Why would I leave?” He smirks on his way out, not even bothering to thank the P.D., who stands there with her jaw slack and her eyes still sleepy.

Screw ’em both. Cops and lawyers, two sides of the same stupid coin. Why should he be grateful? Because she mumbled a few words, did her job?

F-bomb that.

G-Man’s very jaunty as he strolls into the big bad world, heading for his wheels, his breath coming in cold little puffs of steam. Thinking he will have to quit his job, stay away from the airport. Hanging around, taunting that pig of a cop would be fun, but he’s no fool. Out of sight, out of mind, that’s the way to go. Also he needs to be careful with the money. His crew finds out he’s green, they’ll be all hands out gimme some of that love.

The money is for personal use. It’ll buy him four or five sessions in a real studio, let him find the right beats, put down his flow, do his own slim shady thing.

His wheels, a faded box of dents that used to be a Chevy Impala, waits in the employee lot under an inch-thick dusting of fluffy snow. He’s thinking if the mutha won’t start he can always ask the public defender bitch for a jump start.

G-Man unlocks the door, creaks it open as fluffy snow cascades to the ground. Cold and dark in there, he’s thinking, but before he can climb behind the wheel something happens. Something big crushes him into the seat. Hands like steel grappling hooks shove his face so deep into the cold, tattered foam-stink of the seat that he can’t breath. Steel hands that lock on his jaw and squeeze so hard that he feels the lower half of his face dislocating, creating an explosion of pain so totally awesome that he wants to scream like a girl, if only he could.

Twenty seconds later he’s wrapped like a mummy in silver duct tape, arms pinned to his sides, everything but his eyes and one nostril slathered in wraps of adhesive. Then he’s rudely flipped into the backseat, crashing faceup, unable to do anything but squirm in a writhing panic.

“My advice, don’t fight it,” suggests the big dude, looming over the seat like a neatly bearded monster, all angry eyes and flashing teeth. His big steely hands encased in surgical gloves. “All your air has to come through one little nostril. Concentrate on that. Fight it and you’ll smother.”

The big dude chilling next to the fat cop, didn’t say much. Big dude holding up the roll of duct tape.

“Love this stuff,” he says. “Better than cuffs. Way more effective. With handcuffs the victim can still scream, maybe even bite. Did you know the human bite can be more deadly than a dog bite? Fact.

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