Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PETER

C leaver hammers the big metal door as if it's going to cave in. It sounds thick and heavy. I knew something was up the second we walked in here. It looks like a remote cottage from the outside, but the moment we busted through the door—this is the address Cleaver's Mexican associate gave him—I saw we were fucked. The inside was gutted. Then, all the windows and doors slammed closed with metal shutters. A soft red light fills the room.

"Mother fucker ," Cleaver grumbles, kicking the door.

He was so cool when I was younger, around fifteen or sixteen. Cleaver . What a badass name. I thought it was awesome how he let me do blow and other shit with him. It was so much better than being at home and being Dad's punching bag. When Cleaver broke my dad's nose, I left with him and never looked back. Maybe I'm getting more mature, but Cleaver seems a little pathetic lately.

Six feet tall but strung out, not as bulky as he once was, his eyes bloodshot. He kicks the door and then falls back, his mop of black hair falling across his eyes.

"Fuck . "

"I think it's locked," I say dryly, tossing my gun from one hand to the other.

"You think, Petey?" he snaps.

Petey . I used to like it when he called me that, too. It made him seem almost like a father figure, but that was a mistake. I've been trying to get sober lately, get off that filth , and he's been making fun of me. Mocking me for trying to do better with my life. What sort of so-called father figure does that?

"What is this shit?" Cleaver grunts, turning around the gutted red-lit room.

"I don't know. It's a trap, clearly, but other than that… What did your friend say?"

"There would be two men and a woman. We were supposed to hit them hard and fast before they could react. That was really important. He said some fella called Rafael wanted it slow, but the Cartel wanted it fast, so we do it fast ."

"The Cartel? " I snap. "That's way over our pay grade."

He pouts. "That's you being small-minded. Have some goddamn vision."

Cleaver thinks naming himself after a butcher's tool and cooking meth in his aunt's RV makes him dangerous and cool. I used to believe that, too.

"So we have no idea who this person is," I say.

"No," Cleaver grunts. "The only thing for us to do is to wait for these doors to open, then go at him with everything we have."

"Jesus Christ," I snap. "That's not much of a plan."

"It's all we've got now," Cleaver hisses.

"Who is this Cartel contact, then? How did you meet him?"

"On the forums."

I cringe, hating the way he phrases it on the forums . That's something else I've tried to bury, something I can't ignore. I caught him on his laptop once. My hand clenches into a fist. Beaten as a kid, and then, this so-called father figure turns out to be… That's where he met his contact —the forums .

"Don't even mention them," I snap.

Cleaver usually wouldn't let me talk to him like that, but now, he glances away. The sick bastard. Or am I the sick one for not doing something about it?

"You think you're some brand new coin, Petey? Newly minted, is that it?"

Cleaver likes to talk high and mighty like this. He thinks it makes him impressive. "I've dealt some shit and done some shit. I've been hurt and hurt people, but not that ."

"Don't criticize a man's pastime."

Suddenly, my vision starts to blur. My balance begins to rock from side to side as if the world is trying to topple me over. That's a good thing for Cleaver because I was about to shoot him to shut him the hell up. I'm sick of this life and of being nobody. I'm sick of earning my living by doing stuff like this.

When I peel open my eyes, I'm tied to a chair, sitting opposite Cleaver. He's tied up too, shirtless, hands behind his back, and blood streaked down his chest. He's got wide, terrified eyes, looking behind me. My hazy mind catches up to what's happening. The bogeyman, whoever sprung this trap, is right behind me.

"You're awake," he says, walking into view, a tall, broad unit of a man. He's older with salt-and-pepper hair, but he looks cold and tough. He looks like he could be in the NFL. He sighs, tossing a bloody hammer to the floor. "Your friend has already given me the information I need: the name of the Cartel goon who set him on me and my family."

He says family like he's ready to tear us to pieces with his bare hands. Before this moment, I thought I'd been around dangerous men. Men like Cleaver and the other dealers, but I was wrong. This is truly a dangerous man. He makes Cleaver look like a child.

Walking over to me, he kneels, staring directly into my eyes. His eyes are a pale green shade that is haunting somehow. "Peter McCauley," the man says. "You've had a hard time of it, haven't you? I get it. My folks weren't great, either. It's easy to think men like him are the answer."

"How do you know my name?" I ask.

"Your wallet," he says.

"But, no, who I am. Not my name." I shake my head, trying to clear it. "About my folks."

"Did a quick background check. From your father's series of arrests, it was easy enough to put it together. I've seen this dynamic before. Listen, kid, there's only one way you get out of this. You have to be honest with me."

Behind him, Cleaver moans, but the man leans forward, staring at me with an almost fatherly aura around him. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," I whisper.

"Not one goddamn lie, understand?"

"Yes."

Cleaver moans again, and the man turns, grabs some tape from his pocket, and wraps it layer after layer around Cleaver's mouth and head. Then he returns to me, sighing. "Have you ever killed anybody?" the man asks.

"No," I say.

"Have you ever assaulted anybody?"

"I've been in fights."

"Was anybody seriously injured?"

"No."

"But you're a drug dealer?"

"Yes," I say, feeling compelled to tell him the truth. Lying to him would be like lying to the devil. His aura is downright terrifying. "But I only ever wanted to survive. I didn't want to hurt anybody. I just want… something. Something else." I swallow, tears springing to my eyes. I never realized how badly I didn't want to die until now.

"Then tell me this." The man points at Cleaver. "Do you know what kind of monster he is?"

I almost lie, but the man's unflinching eyes won't let me. He stares brutally, leaving me no option except to tell the truth. "Yes."

"How long have you known?"

"Recently."

"Be specific."

"This month."

The man grinds his teeth.

"I was going to kill him," I say, and Cleaver moans from behind him, muffled by the tape. "Right when you gassed us… I was thinking about it. I feel trapped. Please. I don't want to die."

"Peter McCauley." The man leans forward. "If I let you leave here alive, what will you do?"

"Stay clean," I tell him, "and do something worthwhile with my life." I'm finding it difficult to speak. I've never been in the presence of anybody more frightening. He's like a force of nature.

"Are you ready to kill this perverted sonofabitch?" the man snaps.

"Yes," I tell him. "I'll do it."

The man looks at me for a long time. It's like he's staring into my soul. Finally, he stands, reaching into his pocket and taking out a pistol. "I'm going to keep tabs on you for the next few years, Peter," the man says, casually cocking the pistol as Cleaver starts to shift and moan in the chair. My mind flashes to what I saw on his laptop. Cleaver was never my father figure. In a fucked-up way, this man is. At least, I think my life would've been better if I'd had a figure like him.

"It leaves a mark on a man," he says, "even if the bastard deserves it. You can do better, Peter. I'm giving you a second chance. Make something of your life."

He pulls the trigger, the gunshot blinding me, my ears ringing from the closeness. Then he marches over to me, grabs a black bag, and puts it over my head.

"Count to one thousand, then leave this life behind. No more drugs. No more dealing."

"I swear." I'm panting, a fight-or-flight instinct trying to take me over, the gunshot still ringing through my mind. "I will."

"If you don't, you'll be seeing me again."

A shiver of pure dread runs through me at that. I count to myself: one, two, three, promising myself I'll do better; four, five, six, promising I'll make a positive impact; seven, eight, nine, so I never have to see him again. The devil without a name. Cleaver . What a joke. He was never powerful. From now on—ten, eleven, twelve—whenever I'm tempted to take the easy path, I'll think of him . I'll think of the gunshot. I'll think of how badly things could've ended up.