Inveigle

Chapter Eighteen: Inside the Speakeasy

"Not even a threat. We are merely stopping a problem before it even exists." It wasn't the voice of either Pathos or Logos this time, and the voice wasn't in my head. I opened my eyes a slit and saw dark blue heels click away. I recognized that voice from countless news conferences and speeches, President Persim. The door shut and new voices rose up.

"I've never met her face to face. She's...she's everything we need in a leader," there was admiration dripping from this new voice.

I heard the high pitched noise of someone's nail tapping glass, "Yes. She's what this country needs," it was the voice of the man in the trench coat.

Plant doubt. I recognized Logos' voice.

"I must be speaking the truth if the president had to come here personally," I whispered and looked up at the voices. I cleared my throat. I had meant to sound more authoritative than the whisper that had come out. A middle aged woman and the man in the trench coat stood above me. My head pounded behind my eyes as the bright fluorescent bulbs burned overhead. I tried to move my hands to rub my eyes, but found them tied together behind my back with what felt like zip ties. I tried to sit up, but was pushed back down by the rank brown shoe of Mr. Trench Coat.

"She asked to be called if you were found," he sneered.

"But why?" I said into the white, perfume scented carpet. "Don't you think her methods are a bit extreme?"

"No, our country can't sustain such a high population. Those that can't contribute should sacrifice themselves for the better," he stated.

"Does that include you?" I asked, changing the tone of my voice.

He grabbed my arm, spinning me to face him and readied the needle. "I am contributing."

"For now," I could feel my heart racing. It took all my strength to look him in the eyes and not at the blue liquid poised above my neck. He hesitated for a moment, and that was all I needed. Gunfire echoed from above our heads. Footsteps ran down the stairs, as the blood in my captors faces ran down into their legs. The man in the trench coat dropped my arm and flew across the room to lock the door, but that was his mistake. At the sound of his haste across the floor, the footsteps headed toward this room at a trot. A single shot resounded in the room, and the handle hung lamely at a strange angle. The trench coat man let out a startled yell and backed against the smooth, white wall.

Sam's rough edged face rounded the doorway. A .45 in his hand swept the room. The door swung open wider and two more men appeared. The three stormed into the small space. Trench coat dropped the syringe and raised his hands. Sam walked over and stepped on it. The cracking of glass was all that was heard for a second and a wave of relief washed over me as I watched the liquid stain the carpet.

"Take them out, eh, bro?" said the taller of the two to Sam.

"We're not armed," shrieked the woman in a panic. Her arms were over her head and shaking.

The tallest man shoved the gun up against her forehead in reply. She shook and sputtered, but kept her mouth shut.

"No." Sam took a knife out of his pocket and walked across the white carpet. I looked up at him from the floor. I couldn't read the expression on his face as he bent down to cut through the bindings on my hands and feet. I stood up and rubbed my wrists, relishing in the freedom of simple movements. I stared at Trench coat; a white hot anger boiled inside me, but I knew I couldn't act on it. Underground murders were Persim's thing, not mine. I felt a thankfulness that wasn't my own deep inside me. Pathos' compassion for all living things.

"Not really The Disciples' style to leave 'em livin'. Or have you forgotten, Tank?" The question was directed at Sam.

Part of me agreed. These two didn't deserve life. But deep down, and I mean deep down, the part of me that could still reason behind the anger knew that wasn't the only solution.

"Let them live," I said unblinkingly before Sam could answer.

The guns were lowered instantly by the two men. They didn't question the order again, and that surprised me. I was tiny in comparison to all of them, a whopping 5'6", but they instantly obeyed me without question.

Sam rummaged through a white drawer until he found a bag of zip ties. He tossed them to the shorter of the two men. The taller of the two trained the gun on the woman and the trench coat man as the shorter one began to bind them. Sam looked at me and gestured toward the door. Up the stairs I went, feeling shaky. Sam had his hand on the small of my back as I walked up in case I fell. At the top of the landing there was the old woman. She stared at the ceiling with her eyes glazed over. A shotgun was in her still closed fists. Blood pooled on the floor from a shot in her chest. The slightest wave of nausea churned in my stomach, but I swallowed the sensation and kept my face straight as we walked out onto the darkened porch.

My mouth shook as I exhaled, and I felt fear drain from my body because I was so grateful to be out of that house. I could feel Sam's eyes on my back, but I continued to stare out into the night. This was now the second time an attempt had been made on my life. When I could finally breathe without trembling, I turned to face Sam.

"Thank you. I'd probably be dead if it weren't for you."

Unlikely. You could have talked your way out of that one with those two simpletons.

I chose to ignore Pathos and continued, "Whatever is going on is big, Sam. I'm a danger to everyone I come in contact with."

"So? That's how I felt for years in The Disciples. Cora, if you need help I'm there for you," he blushed as he finished his sentence.

"I just don't want anyone else to die. Pam was a friend to me, and I brought that man to her."

Sam shifted nervously. I got the feeling that he wanted to move closer to me but shied away at the last second.

"I joined The Disciples to have a family, to have protection. Cora, let us help you. They are good guys, just rough around the edges.

I laughed, "Did you just offer me help from a gang?"

He smiled and nodded.

"Would the offer still stand if I told you the person who authorized my murder was the President of the United States?"

The smile faded from his face and his eyes darkened before he responded, "You just sweetened the pot."