I close my eyes, something akin to a tear falling from them. I don’t know if it’s sweat of what, but I feel sorrow, and that’s what matters. I don’t often feel that way.
“How are you doing in there?” Bheka’s voice says from a few feet away.
I don’t answer.
I don’t care to entertain him.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” he says, raising his voice.
He kicks the plastic box and I topple to the side. My body is too shaky and weak to keep myself up, but I still don’t give Bheka the satisfaction of a response, especially not a complaint. I’m sure that’s what he wants to hear. He’d love it if I begged, but I’m not a beggar. I’m a rich man and a brave man. That’s the way I’ll go from this earth.
“Alright, you little punk. You’d better not be dead yet,” Bheka snarls as his hand comes down on the top of the plastic box.
I look up to see the outline of his dark palm on the roof, doing little to provide relief from the sun shining through. I hear the sound of a knife sawing through the ropes, and it dawns on me that this is it. These are the last moments I have on this earth.
A flood of adrenaline hits me. It’s not acceptance, as I expected it to be. I feel aggressive, energetic, and slightly insane, like I could take on a whole army with my bare hands, all the while smearing blood across my face like an ancient warrior. I know I’m not in any condition to do such a thing, but the spirit is in me, fighting to get out.
The door opens to allow blinding white sunlight to spill in like water, except it doesn’t bring relief. The air outside is barely any cooler than the air inside the plastic box, and it’s much drier. I’m not even sure I want to leave this place, but I don’t have a choice.
Bheka reaches a hand inside and pulls me out by my shirt, using so much force that I fall face-first into the hot sand outside. It burns into my skin like white coals, causing me to let out a raspy shout and roll over onto my back. My hands burn against the sand now, each grain sending pain into my skin as I squirm helplessly.
“Pathetic,” Bheka says, standing over me in sweeping black linen desert robes, a cheap rifle held in one hand. I recognize the type, commonly used by poor cartel members and paid-by-the-hour thugs, and it’s nothing special. I would expect better, even from him.
I smirk, shaking my head while I squint up at him through the blinding sun. “You’ll never be a mafia boss,” I mutter, my voice weak and dry.
“You’re one to talk, Carter. You walked your friends right into my trap, and now they’re dead. They’ll all be dead - Henry, Amy, but not Dean. No, Dean was one of the good boys. He listened.”
“What?” I ask, confused. “Dean is dead.”
“No, he’s not. He’s on his way here with your wife, actually,” Bheka says with a wicked smile, his yellow teeth bright against his dark features.
“That’s impossible. I saw him with my own two eyes. Dead,” I say, wondering if I’m starting to lose my mind from the heat.
“You’re easy to fool, Carter. A little makeup, some fake blood, a pile of animal guts… It’s all theatrics. Nothing is real.”
“And George?” I ask, part of me hoping that he’s still alive, despite seeing his body dragged away.
“Oh, the old guy that got shanked by mistake? Yeah, he’s dead,” Bheka says with a chuckle. “You can’t be 100% accurate, you know.”
“Fuck you,” I spit.
“I’m not that type of guy,” Bheka says with another chuckle.
I kick my foot out, intending to hit him in the shin, but he jumps out of the way, immediately jabbing his rifle toward me. “Don’t you dare touch me, fuckhead,” he snarls.
I’m about to attempt another kick at his shin, hoping he’ll just shoot me and get this over with, when I hear the sound of tires against the sand. I look over to my right, where camels are parting ways for a white police van, except I know that it’s fake. It’s not the police. As Bheka said, nothing here is real.
Bheka stands proudly above me, grinning at the approaching vehicle.
This can’t be good news.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Honey
The black bag comes off my head suddenly, unexpectedly. I’m slouched against the back door of the van, looking up at a man that I was told was dead. It’s Dean. His eyes are wide, and he keeps laughing. He won’t stop laughing.
“It’s Carter! It’s Carter’s head,” he shouts, laughing and pointing at the bloody sphere that I’ve dropped at my feet.
I look down, but it’s not Carter’s head that leaks blood on my white tennis shoes. It’s Henry, his brown eyes staring back at me lifelessly. He swore his life to protect me, and now he’s dead. What does that mean for me?
“Henry,” I say to the head, my voice quivering and my eyes watering. I don’t even want to think about what they did to Amy.
“He’s dead, you stupid brat,” Dean shouts, his expression going cold as he slaps his hand across my cheek, hard.
His open palm stings against my skin, and I feel tears welling up behind my eyes. I don’t want to cry, but the shock of the slap is enough to release the emotions that I’ve been piling up inside of me since my father died. I begin to cry in big, ugly, pitiful sobs.
“Pull yourself together,” Dean says, rolling his eyes at my grief. “We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“Bheka’s compound. We’re going to get to watch your husband get his head chopped off on live TV! Henry boy here was just a little preview. I have issues being patient. I almost had to do the same to Amy, but I think
