The Ice Prince

Chapter 40

Once again, when I came to, Slader was wide awake, and staring listlessly. I could see a trail of tears on his cheeks, and I knew that he hadn't rested or eaten. "Rest. I'll tell you if someone comes." I said.

He looked up, startled.

I tried again. "Rest. You need it." he stared into my eyes for a moment and decided. Nodding sadly, he leaned against my chair and dozed off, finally accepting my offer. He trusted me to warn him and wake him up if anyone came in to check. I was feverish, but the rest had done me some good. My jeans still stuck to me skin wetly, but my shirtless body was dry wherever the skin was exposed. I felt grateful that Slader had ripped off my t-shirt when he did.

Light filtered in through the tiny window, and I noticed the angle cast by the shadows of the bars that intersected it. I realised that the window faced the north, meaning that the wall to my right was the one the garage shared with Jerry's. It helped me to get an idea of my bearings. By now, I was sure that Hayley wouldn't come for me. It had been a long time, and I knew that Arnold Wood was more than convinced that I'd told on Hayley. But then I remembered that by now he would have realised that I hadn't, because if I would have, the gangsters would have already scanned and tossed up his quarters, which they most definitely hadn't, because I didn't tell them.

So I found myself hoping all over again that Hayley had already run away and was safe, and prayed that she didn't figure out that I was supposed to be her bait, now that Carver was out of their reach.

I heard a sound which wasn't supposed to be there, and I woke Slader, who looked at me gratefully as three men strode in. One of them was Ramírez, and the other two were Domingo and Marc. He's Stellan Karpov, not Marc. I reminded myself.

I didn't have to remind myself, because he yanked my head back by my hair so painfully, that my breath hitched. It made it easier for me to think of him as Domingo's second man, and not my friend. Anyway, he wore a black tank, which clung to his form and revealed a single tattoo on his right upper arm, which continued to his shoulder. I could look at it and remember that this was Stellan Karpov, a dangerous gangster.

He spoke in Spanish with just a hint of a Russian accent, and it sounded so genuine that I couldn't believe that he was the same French-American jovial guy who hung out with us across the wall in Jerry's. It was even better for me to keep pretending that I didn't know him. I wasn't even acting when my face betrayed that he was scaring the living lights out of me.

"Vere is the girl?" he growled, and I almost believed in his non-existent Russian ancestry.

Ramírez cocked his gun and held it to my temple. "You're leaving us with no choice." The gun should've scared me. Instead, I noticed that he was speaking in Spanish. This was a trick. I didn't know why, but I knew it was. I suddenly realised what the whole thing was about. It was still a gang rivalry, although the two gangs seemed to be working together on this. Ramírez still had to act tough in front of Domingo. I let my jaw slack, trembling, pretending not to understand his words. I played along in his little skit.

"He doesn't understand Spanish." The support came from the most unexpected source. Slader.

Ramírez glared at him, silently, and Slader spoke up. I arranged my face to look like I didn't understand anything they spoke in Spanish. "I riled him enough in the language." Slader shook his head. "He is not the boy."