Pike (The Pawn Duet #1) - T.M. Frazier Page 0,14

hear the sound of breaks. Nine’s earlier question repeats in my head. What kind of driver did they hire?

We chase the van for close to an hour. It turns into a field, and we lose it in the corn stalks.

I slam my fists on the steering wheel as a realization slams into my brain. “Fuck!”

Nine glances down at his computer. “They’re moving our shit. Our fucking van just pulled out.”

We are way too far to catch up to them now. “It was a diversion. This entire fucking chase was a show to distract us.”

Instead of digging ourselves out of the fucking shit storm, we’ve managed to bury ourselves in deeper.

Chapter Five

Mickey

I never thought I would ever find out what my own flesh smells like as it burns, yet today is that day.

At first, it smells a lot like charcoal on a grill. Oddly enough, once the skin burns away, the sizzling of melting fat and the blistering of muscle smell a lot like the kitchen used to after my mother pan-fried ground beef.

My stomach rolls from the stench, but it’s the least of my problems, and unfortunately, how it smells doesn't distract from how it feels. It's excruciating, like molten lava flowing down my back.

My teeth chatter, and my entire body convulses. I drop my chin to my chest, my head feeling too heavy for my neck. My hair falls into my face. The muscles in my back are jumping all over the place. It's as if they're unsure of how to handle the infliction of such an injury.

As the searing pain grows, so does the rolling in my stomach. It heaves and lurches. I bite down on my lip to keep the vomit at bay, drawing blood, tasting the copper that floods my mouth, coating my teeth.

I try breathing through the pain, but my body is responding out of sheer panic. I only manage to draw in several shallow punctuated gasps.

Pinching my eyes shut, I attempt to block out the image of the smiling men surrounding me to focus on staying conscious. Unfortunately, I can't close my ears and drown out the sound of the laughter and cheers as they witness the mutilation of my body.

"It's done," announces a masculine voice I could recognize anywhere.

The scorching heat lifts away from my flesh. Steam rises from the sizzling water bucket beside me, blurring my vision. The scent of cooked meat, my flesh, is too much for my stomach. I lurch to the side, and vomit gushes from my mouth like a broken pipe. The fresh wound on my lip stings as the contents of my stomach splashes onto the grass.

The lava has turned to ash, but it's still burning. The wound is only on my back, but I can feel it radiating throughout my entire body.

Before I can feel any relief, I'm violently ripped from the chair by several sets of arms and passed around to the crowd so the men can each take turns congratulating me with a hard thump to my newly burned back. I see stars with every touch, but somehow I manage to stay upright. I still feel the searing pain. I'm not sure if it's the memory of the pain or if it's real, but I still feel it deep in my spine. My nerves are firing off in every direction, causing my entire body to contort. With each crooked step, I jerk and jolt as if possessed by the devil himself.

And maybe, I am.

Because I volunteered for this.

I asked for it.

The crowd parts to reveal the bald man standing in front of the towering bonfire, his dark eyes locked on mine.

I lift my chin to him in acknowledgment. His thin lips curve upward in a crooked smile, reminding me that what I'm feeling in my body is a prick on the finger compared to the pain in my heart.

It's that pain that propels me forward, staggering until I'm standing beside the bald man.

The firelight gleams off his scalp as he yanks at my wrist, causing me to see stars. He raises my arm proudly in the air. "Welcome to the family, Michaela," he announces proudly.

The crowd erupts once more.

I glance around at the blurred faces of the men and imagine what a bullet would look like between their eyes.

I manage a small smile.

"You did well, child," the bald man says, his words scratching on my nerves like a cat’s claws.

He puffs up his chest in satisfaction as the imaginary bullet hole between his beady