by Lynn Lorenz
“Shoulder holster.”
“Aren’t these concealed weapons?”
“Yes, but I’m licensed to carry. You’re not. Hence, the stealth.”
Mitchell nodded and watched through the windshield as they approached the high-rise. They pulled into the garage and parked in a visitor spot next to a large white van.
They exited and Mitchell followed as Brian walked over to the van. The door slid open and a cop dressed in SWAT gear got out and shook Brian’s hand.
“This is Pete. Pete, this is Mitchell Collins. It’s his friend who’s being held against his will upstairs.”
Pete, a man built like a tank, low to the ground but powerful, nodded to Mitchell. Mitchell wondered how much Brian had told Pete about who Sammi was and what he meant to Mitchell. He worried it might make a difference.
“Has Brian filled you in?”
“He said you have a warrant.” Mitchell nodded.
“That’s right.” He held up a paper. “Search and seize.”
“I just want Sammi free. He won’t be arrested, will he? He’s been kidnapped and held against his will.” Mitchell glanced from Pete to Brian for assurance. This would be for nothing if Sammi was arrested and jailed. The idea of Mitchell being the cause of relocating Sammi from one prison to another turned his stomach. He’d wanted to free Sammi, not send him to jail.
“Sammi should be fine. We’ll need his testimony against Donovan and Moretti. Yours too, in the assault and in the break-in at your apartment.” Pete put his hand on Mitchell’s shoulder and gave it a small squeeze.
Brian nodded at the reassurance.
“You got it. I’ll do anything to put those two bastards where they can’t do this to anyone again. I don’t care about what they did to me, but we have to stop this sex slave business of theirs.” Mitchell frowned and touched his nose. Still tender, he winced, then dropped his hand to his jacket pocket. The gun hidden there felt very heavy and he wasn’t sure he liked carrying it at all, despite the image of ‘hard-boiled P.I.’ it evoked.
What would he do if confronted by Donovan or Moretti? If his actions were the only thing standing between them and Sammi? Mitchell set his resolve and released the gun. He’d do whatever it took to get Sammi away from those bastards.
Brian gave Pete a grimace. “Guess we should get this over with.” He glanced at Mitchell.
“Let’s do it. I want Sammi back. A.S.A.P.” Mitchell wasn’t sure he felt as sure as he sounded, but he knew whatever would happen, he would be right there in the middle.
Pete opened the back of the van, and several cops dressed in black with bulletproof vests that said ‘HPD’ filed out and joined them. After several quiet conversations, the group headed to the elevator.
Mitchell’s belly gave a roll and for a second his feet were glued to the ground. Then his world straightened and he strode forward, matching Brian step for step, bringing up the rear of the group.
Anything to free Sammi.
* * * *
Absolute darkness.
The walls touched his bare skin and he flinched as if burned. Sammi shivered and licked his lips. Telling himself that he could do this, that time would pass quickly, he inched forward to stand in the middle of the closet. That he could ride this out, just like the other times. He’d be no good to Donovan if he were reduced to a gibbering idiot, an emotional wreck of a man. Who would want that to fuck?
Sammi inhaled, counted to ten, then exhaled. He cleared his mind of those thoughts of being sold, of losing the one person he loved more than himself. He repeated the breathing exercise, using it to steady himself and to ensure he didn’t hyperventilate. Last time he’d sucked down so much air, he’d passed out, only to awaken slumped on the floor of the closet with a small gash on his forehead. His body had touched the sides, felt how very close they were to him, and he’d started to panic.
Which had started the cycle all over again.
Closing his eyes, he could pretend the walls were far away and there was plenty of room around his body. That he was in Mitchell’s car, the new one, a convertible, and they were cruising down a road, heading to the beach. The wind blew in their hair. Mitchell wore sunglasses and flip-flops. Sammi had on a garish Hawaiian shirt, open and fluttering in the wind.
The sun beat down on them, warm and happy. Sammi glanced over at Mitchell. Mitchell stared straight ahead as he drove.
No need to panic. See. Everything was fine. He could get lost in this vision of the future. Of him and Mitchell and they life they could have. They would have. Sammi smiled. He had this under control.
Donovan would let him out soon.
And with that thought, reality slammed into Sammi and his perfect imagined scene vanished with his sharp exhale. He closed his eyes tighter, tried to regain the picture of him and Mitchell and the car, but nothing came to him.
He counted to ten, taking those deep, slow breaths.
Control was necessary, but fleeting. He’d never been able to keep control, sustain the image of a larger space, of a larger world than the tiny closet. This time, he would do it. He had to do it. Had to survive, because he wanted out. He wanted Mitchell and that life. But his image dissolved like a wind-blown mist.
Instead, another image formed. Sammi gazed up into a young woman’s face. She smiled at him with pale blue eyes, then frowned. She gathered him into her thin but strong arms, and together they rocked. “Shhh, it’s okay, baby.” His hand curled around a strand of long black hair. She smelled like…cinnamon and vanilla. Like cookies.
The only memory Sammi had of the woman he thought might have been his mother teased him. He never knew if he imagined it, or if it was real. He’d been just a little kid. Too young to know anything except that she had gone and someone had come and taken him away. To a new home. One of so many homes. Why couldn’t he remember more about her or what her name was, or even his real last name?
“Mommy?”
The weakness returned. Sammi swayed. He opened his eyes. Darkness surrounded him. The walls were closer than before and it was harder to breathe. He gulped down air. Instead of deep breaths, his became shallow and fast.
Sammi lost count of his breathing so he closed his eyes against the blackness. Trembling, he began again, inhaling, counting to ten, exhaling. Five times. Ten times.
Twenty times.
He cracked open one eye. Darkness, thick and heavy surrounded him. His heart thudded in his chest, like when the bass on Donovan’s sound system was too loud. It crept into his head and his eardrums pounded with the staccato beat.
He put his hands up over his ears to try to block the sound, but it came from within him. Hot tears burned his eyes. He blinked and they spilled and his lips quivered as he fought the urge to let it all out, his fear and his doubt and his certainty that he’d never have that perfect life with Mitchell. He tasted the salt and the bitterness and his own fear leaking out.
The walls were definitely closer. He was going to use up all the air in the closet if he kept breathing like this but, if he didn’t breathe, he’d panic. If he didn’t breathe, he’d die.
Sammi sucked in another ragged breath and wiped his face with one hand, smearing tears and snot and sweat. He struggled to pull enough air into his lungs. Dizzy, he began to fall, and without thinking, he reached out a hand to stop himself. It slammed into the wall and his fingers bent back. Sammi cried out.
“Mitchell! Help!”
His voice boomed and echoed. Sammi reeled, staggering backward. His shoulder touched the wall and he gasped. He lost track of which way was the door, which the back of the closet. He might reach out, but he cradled his hurt hand with the other. Spinning around, without using his hands, Sammi tried to get back into the center of the closet, back to the safe spot, back to breathing as if each breath were his last.
He was losing it. He would die here in the white door hell room.
Sammi opened himself.
“Mitchell.”
* * * *
In the e
levator, Mitchell felt the elevator tip sideways. His throat tightened and he sucked in a deep breath. Next to him, Brian turned to him.
“Mitchell. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t breathe.” Mitchell clawed at his throat, gasping for air. The elevator was too crowded, too many men, not enough space.
Mitchell lurched forward and the cops around him stepped back as they raised their guns. He had to get out. Now.
“What the hell’s wrong with him?” Pete frowned, but he waved the men down.
“I don’t know.” Brian shook his head and grabbed Mitchell’s arm. “Mitchell, what the hell is going on?”
Fear poured into Mitchell and he broke out into a sweat, coating his forehead, upper lip, drenching his underarms. His desperate gaze darted around the elevator cabin. Too small. Too small.
“I have to get out. Let me out!” Mitchell groaned and pushed forward past the men in front of him. They stepped back as their gazes darted to each other. Mitchell fell against the control panel and he jabbed at the buttons, hitting several of them, before Brian pulled him away.
“Easy. Calm down.” Brian’s tone softened. Mitchell wanted to smash his face in. Wanted to get out. Get free.
The elevator stopped. The doors opened on floor seventeen. Mitchell broke away with Brian on his heels. Pete stood in the door, holding the elevator.
Brian grabbed Mitchell’s arm. “What’s going on?” He stared into Mitchell’s eyes.
Mitchell knew where Sammi was, and it scared the shit out of him. Sammi had re-established contact and if he’d done that, he must be in major trouble. Just the feelings swamping Mitchell told him that much.
“It’s Sammi. He’s in the closet. They put him in the closet,” Mitchell whispered to Brian, so the other men wouldn’t think he was nuts.
Brian leaned closer to hear him. “You can feel it? Sammi?”
“I’m feeling what he’s feeling. The panic. He’s scared to death. He can’t breathe.” Mitchell knew it sounded wild, but if anyone would believe him, it was Brian.
Brian took Mitchell by the arms and shook him, just once. His lips drew thin and tense as he furrowed his brow. Brian’s serious-as-shit face.
“Do you believe me?”
“I believe you. Listen to me, Mitchell. You have to help Sammi. You have to help him calm down. You’re not claustrophobic, so you can rise above this fear. Help him.” Brian stared deep into Mitchell’s eyes.
“He needs me to help him.” Mitchell nodded.
Closing his eyes, he steadied himself and reached for a calm spot in his mind. His breathing slowed and the panic dispersed. Then, he pushed outward, searching for Sammi.
“Babe, it’s me. I’m here. Hang on. I’ll be there soon.”
“Help me.”
“Listen to me. Hold your breath and count to five, then take a slow deep breath. Hold it and let it out to a count of five.”
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Sammi’s breathing eased as well-being and calm filled him. He’d reached Mitchell, and Mitchell was giving him this gift of calm, sharing his peace of mind, pushing Sammi’s fear from the dark corners of the closet he was trapped in.
If what Mitchell said was true, then he was coming back for him.
For him.
No one had ever come back for him. Not his mother, not any of his foster parents.
Tears welled in his eyes, but these weren’t tears of fear or sadness, but happiness. His need for Mitchell and wanting to keep the man he loved safe warred deep inside him. But locked in this closet, Sammi wasn’t much good to anyone.
“I’m with you, babe. You can do this. Just hang on.”
He had to be strong for Mitchell and for himself. The calm and peace filling him was real, not an illusion. He breathed easily now, letting the air in and out at an almost normal rate.
Now that he could breathe, he needed to give his aching body rest. Standing and straining for so long had set every muscle in his body on fire. His only relief would be to sit on the floor of the closet.
And to do that meant to touch the walls.
He swallowed, closed his eyes and reached out to touch the wall in front of him. He had no idea if it would be the door or a wall.
He touched wood. The door.
Okay. He could do this.
“I’m doing it, Mitch.”
“I knew you could, babe.”
Sammi put his other hand out to the side. Wall. Using them for balance, he crossed his legs and bent down, letting his hands slide down the wall and door.
Slowly, Sammi lowered himself to the floor, as he touched the walls he once feared as if in a caress. His butt hit the ground and he sat. He pulled his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and rested his chin on them.
He could breathe easier now. With Mitchell’s help, he could survive.
“He’s good now. Under control.” Mitchell smiled at Brian. “Thank you.”
“Hey, I get it, buddy. You two got a thing.” Brian grinned. “Now, we got to get up there, okay?”
“Okay.” Mitchell turned to Pete. “I promise. No more interruptions.”
Mitchell followed Brian back onto the elevator and Pete let the doors go. They arrived at the top floor a few moments later. Pete leaned out of the open door and scouted the foyer. With his signal, the cops poured out of the cabin and spread out, flanking the door to apartment A. Brian and Mitchell stood back behind the officers.
“Remember, this is their show,” Brian whispered in Mitchell’s ear. Mitchell nodded, concentrating on sending Sammi soothing feelings. From the response he felt from Sammi, it was working. Mitchell touched the gun in his pocket, then pulled his hand away.
Pete knocked on the door and stepped to the side.
Mitchell waited and held his breath as he curled his hands into fists. He wanted them to just break it down, get in there fast. A flutter in the bond between him and Sammi brought him back. Those thoughts weren’t helping Sammi. He exhaled, cleared his mind and took up his regular breathing. The bond smoothed out.
The door opened. Moretti filled the entry.
“Police! We have a warrant to search the premises.” Pete waved the piece of paper.
Moretti took one look, swore, and threw his weight against the door to keep them out.
Pete stepped back and two cops on either side of the door took his place. They used their shoulders to force it open, throwing Moretti back. The rest of the men swarmed through.
Brian and Mitchell were the last ones to enter the penthouse.
Donovan came out of his study. “Moretti, what the fuck’s going on?” With one look at the cops, he turned and raced back through the door, but one of the officers was quicker, catching him before he could retreat into the room.
“Get his computer! Don’t let him touch it!” Pete shouted. The cop who’d caught Donovan pushed him to the floor and cuffed him, pulling his arms behind his back.
It took two cops to hold Moretti against the wall as another searched him. They found the gun immediately. “He’s carrying.” The cop held the semi-automatic pistol out to Pete.
“I got a license to carry that.” Moretti struggled, but they held him tightly.
“We’ll check into that later at the station. For now, you’ll wear these cuffs for your own safety.” With a quick twist of his arm, the cop had Moretti’s wrists bound and began to read him his rights.
“Is that everybody?” Pete swiveled his head around. “Where is your friend?”
Mitchell strode into the middle of the room.
“Where are you, Sammi?”
“The white door hell closet.”
Mitchell rushed to the hall and tried the first door. A clean, sparse bedroom. He backed out and shut it.
Another stood farther down the hall. He prayed this was the one. Mitchell took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and tried the knob. It turned, but the door wouldn’t open. Shit. He leaned back, jerking at the knob, but it didn’t budge.
�
�Fuck!”
A deadbolt sat at waist height above the knob. He unlocked it and threw the door open so hard it hit the wall and bounced.
The closet was dark and empty.
Mitchell’s heart sank. He wanted to scream and beat his hands on the walls.
“Sammi?”
“I’m here.” Sammi’s soft voice came from below him.
Looking down, Mitchell found Sammi sitting on the floor of the closet, his hands over his eyes to block the blast of light from the hall.
“Thank God. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Mitchell let out a shuddering sigh. Aware of all the cops around him, he refrained from pulling Sammi into his arms and kissing him.
“Come out of there.” Mitchell put out his hand for Sammi to take.
“I can’t. I’m naked.” Sammi blinked up at him, and rolled his eyes. “Everyone will see.”
“Okay. Wait here. I’ll get your clothes.” He disappeared.
“They’re in the kitchen, I think.” Sammi sat up and rubbed his eyes. He peered out of the doorway. A room full of cops stared at him. With one hand he covered his genitals and he held the other up to shade his eyes.
Brian crouched down to Sammi. “How’re you doing?”
“Brian. So good to see you. I’m fine.” Sammi lowered his voice so only Brian could hear. “Mitchell helped me stay calm.”
“I know.” Brian winked at Sammi, then stood as Mitchell returned.
Sammi took the jeans Mitchell held out, turned around and pulled them on. He stood and zipped them up, then Mitchell handed him a fresh shirt. Sammi leaned against the wall as he put it on. Then he faced them all.
With Brian leading and Mitchell at his side, Sammi walked into the front room a free man at last.
“I’m going to get you for this, you little bitch!” Donovan jerked, as two cops dragged him to his feet. Sammi flinched, but Mitchell placed his hand on the center of Sammi’s back to steady him, letting him know Donovan would never touch him again.
Moretti, hustled by a cop on each side, glared at Sammi, then disappeared out of the front door. Pete gave a few last orders to some of his men, and led his prize Donovan, shouting for his lawyer, out of the penthouse.
