by Kim Jones
“Hey!” His big, thunderous voice shakes me into silence. “Shut up. I’m not listening to that shit.” Wrapping his meaty fingers around my arm, he drags me from the trunk. I don’t fight. I’m not much help either. Not that it matters—he’s throwing me around like a rag doll.
I squint my eyes and look up at him. He’s hard to make out in the sunlight, but what I see is exactly what I remember. He looks like a hit man—big, mean, cold and lethal. “I have only one rule,” he says, his tone a little quieter than before, but still loud enough to be felt in my bones. “Don’t. Fucking. Scream.” Each word is delivered with an underlying promise: I’ll kill you if you do.
“I won’t scream,” I whisper. Unless I see someone…
His lip turns up at the corners in an evil smirk. It’s almost as if he knows what I’m thinking. Of course he knows—he’s a professional. “You’re in the middle of nowhere, girl. No one is going to hear you. But like I said…” His face falls and his eyes narrow. “I’m not listening to that shit. Drives me fucking crazy,” he mutters.
I hear a click a second before my eyes are drawn to the shiny reflection of his knife. The sunlight bouncing off the blade is nearly blinding. My lip quivers and I feel the scream pushing up my throat. Luckily, I manage to hold it back when it occurs to me he’s just cutting the ties that bind my ankles.
As I look down at his crouched body, I have the instinct to try and break away, but he’s straightening and forcing me to walk behind him before I can do anything. The feeling starts to rush back to my feet, and the unforgiving rocks beneath them have me hissing between my teeth on every step.
When we stop walking after several feet, my brain finally decides to take note of the shit around me. A grassy levy surrounds us. Beyond it is nothing but water and tall pines. Dust still hangs in the air from the gravel road we’d just driven down. It’s the only one I can see, and it dead-ends at a beat-up old camper trailer. There are no other vehicles. No more houses. And the only signs of life are me, hit-man and a vicious looking pit-bull chained to the end of the camper.
Hit-man points to the dog. “That’s Bull. On command, he’ll chew your hand off. Or your leg. Or your face, depending on what order he’s given.” He opens the door of the camper and looks down at me. “If you’re wondering what will happen if you scream.”
Shit. Poor dog. Even as he snarls at me—slobber dripping from his massive jaws—I can’t help but feel sorry for him. I know what it feels like to be tied up—your life at someone else’s mercy. I look into his evil, blue eyes, and promise him if I make it out of this, he will too. His answer is a low, threatening growl.
The inside of the camper is dirty and cramped. It smells like mold and stale beer. There’s a table next to a window with booth seats on each side directly across from the door. Next to it is the kitchen that’s no more than a small sink, stove, refrigerator and counter. To the right is a futon that’s stretches the width of the trailer—about six feet. The other side of the camper is barricaded off by a sheet that’s hanging from the ceiling.
“You gotta piss?” I nod my head, happy that it seems to irritate him so much. He flips open his knife again—causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up, before cutting the ties around my wrists. I let out a whimper when pain shoots to my elbows as I roll my shoulders forward. I rub the indentations on my wrists, then shake out my fingers. All the time, hit-man watches me. I look up to see if there’s a hint of pity or regret on his face. There’s nothing.
“You got three minutes.” He pulls the curtain back and the door to the bathroom is open—partially obstructing my view of the back of the camper. From what I can see though, there’s nothing there but an unmade bed.
I duck under his arm and slip in the bathroom. Quickly, before he can object, I close the door behind me—not surprised to find the lock doesn’t work. Inside, there’s barely enough room to turn around. A tiny shower and toilet take up the space. There’s not even a sink or mirror. Nothing in the room can be used as a weapon. And unless I lose a hundred pounds in the next few minutes, I’m not going to fit through the vent in the ceiling.
I look around for something to clean the toilet seat, but there’s not even any toilet paper. I check my pockets for a napkin or tissue—discovering for the first time that I’m still wearing my clothes from last night. Or this morning. Or last week for all I know. With a sigh, I push down my pajama shorts and squat over the smallest toilet ever—thankful that it’s not as disgusting as the rest of the place. Actually, the bathroom looks like it hasn’t been used in a long time.
“One minute!”
I jump at the sound of hit-man’s voice just outside the door. I start to ask him for some tissue, but figure the last thing I want is for him to come barging in with me half naked. At least I’m wearing a hoodie. It’s not that cold outside, but if I’m still here tonight, it likely will be.
Even though the temperature is comfortable, my feet are freezing. I gaze down at my dirty toes with chipped nail polish, and for some reason I want to cry. Years of facing my fears. Months of training. Weeks spent forcing myself to be strong and independent. And look where it’s gotten me—barefoot, dirty and drip-drying on a toilet in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t have to be a genius to know I was somewhere in the Mississippi Delta. Which confirms that I am indeed, in the middle of nowhere.
“Time’s up, girl.”
I don’t bother looking up at hit-man as he stands in the door—glowering down at me. Hell, maybe he’ll be good to me. Maybe he won’t kill me after all. Maybe he’ll want to keep me for himself. He’ll treat me like shit, but I’ll develop Stockholm Syndrome and learn to love him. I’ll find him attractive. Loving. Tender in the moments after he beats the shit out of me. Then, when I’m rescued, I’ll choose to stay. And we’ll live happily ever after.
“Move, or I’ll move you.”
“Can you please step out and let me dress?” I ask, crossing my arms over my stomach and chancing a look at him. Those black, soulless evil eyes hold no mercy as they glare into me. “Fine,” I mutter, hunching over and covering myself the best I can as I pull my shorts up—cursing myself for not wearing panties. Hell, I’m not even wearing a bra. Bummer. If I were, maybe I could use the underwire to make a shank and stab hit-man in the neck.
I find a little courage from somewhere, and stop in front of him—narrowing my eyes, hoping I look intimidating. “Why did you kidnap me?”
“Because I was paid to.” I’m shocked I got an answer. I wasn’t expecting one, though I try not to let it show.
“Who paid you?” He doesn’t answer. “Why do they want me here?” Silence. I let out a huff of frustration, even though I already know the answers—William Deets. Because he warned me to stay away from Claire. And I didn’t.
Ho-ly shit.
“I’ll always come for you…”
Did Marty set me up? Is this his plan? Is he here? Hiding in the woods, waiting for nightfall so he can kill hit-man, rescue me, then we wait together until William arrives? And then kill him too? I snort, and fight the urge to slap my head. He’s brilliant.
“Something funny?” Hit-man’s face remains hateful and mean, but I swear I see a sparkle of something in his eyes. He must be in on it! And it might not be pride I see, but he’s got to be impressed. At least a little.
I smile up at him, and the corner of his mouth twitches. I ignore the sadistic look he wears—chalking it up to him being unable to express any other emotion. Opening my mouth on an “O,” I exaggerate a wink—just in case there’s some kind of listening device in here.
“Strip.”
My smile falters a little as I process his demand. I look around us, trying to locate a hidden camera with a blinking, red light. Then it would make sense that he’s only telling me this because he’s “supposed” to. When I don’t locate one, I let out a breath of nervous laughter—trying like hell not to let the panic I feel surface.
“What did you say?” I can barely make out m
y own voice, so I’m not sure if he heard.
“Strip.” He heard. His lips are no longer twitching, they’re now curled into a cruel smile. He leans in, bringing his face so close to mine I can smell the tobacco on his breath and see the stains on his teeth. “That’s something else I was paid to do.”
I swallow hard. My eyes well with tears. I shake my head. I take a step back, only to hit the wall behind me. Every ounce of hope I had vanishes. There is no way Marty is in on this. He would never allow me to be hurt—much less raped. Which I feel is exactly what hit-man’s plan is.
“I-I’m pregnant,” I lie, hoping it will bring me mercy.
“You’re lying. Even if you weren’t, I wouldn’t care. Strip, or I’ll strip you.”
He’s relentless. I’m frozen. When he reaches for me, I close my eyes and strain hard to hear that one word from that familiar voice that belongs to the man who promised to come for me. It doesn’t come. So I scream.
I scream so loud my ears ring. Even when hit-man slaps me—hard—I still scream. I fight. I kick. Punch. Push. Fall to the floor. Yell until my throat burns. But it does me no good. It only earns me more wrath from him.
I’m dragged across the dirty floor by my hair. I slap at the hands holding me, dig my heels into the cheap, cracked linoleum floor. My efforts are pointless. By the time I’m on the futon, I’m naked except for my pajama shorts that are bunched at my thighs. Hit-man keeps his hand on my throat, pressing hard enough to cut off my air supply and silence my screams. I claw at his fingers that tighten as he reaches for something on either side of me.
Black spots begin to dance in front of my eyes before he finally releases his hold. I’m too busy gasping to catch my breath to fight against the restraints that are attached to each of my wrists. With a jerk, my shorts are pulled roughly down my legs. Something surrounds my ankles. I move my feet in an attempt to break free, but to no avail. After a few more attempts, I finally give up—my body unable to continue the struggle. It’s not the unforgiving hold of the binds that have me sagging in defeat, it’s the sound.
Chains.
Heavy, cold, metal shackles clasped tight around my ankles—the other end bolted to the floor. My arms hang limp at my sides. I lift one—feeling the weight of the chain as I examine it closer. It’s the same as the ones that confine my feet, only these are bolted to the wall. I look down at my naked body—bruised and scratched from my fight. Some of the scratches beading with tiny drops of blood.
I feel my captor’s eyes on me. I shouldn’t even look at him, but I refuse to give him the benefit of not having to look me in the eye while he does whatever he plans to do. When I meet his gaze, I’m terrified, but I try like hell to not let it show. I lift my chin, determined not to think about the fact that I’m nude, chained and completely at his mercy. Which I already know he doesn’t have.
“I’m not going to rape you,” he says, taking a seat in the booth. I stifle a cry of relief at his admission. The result of my heaving body might be due to the fact that I’m trying to regain control over my breathing, but it’s also an act of reprieve. He, on the other hand, is not even winded. He still looks evil, but no angrier than before.
“You could have told me that,” I choke out, my voice hoarse from screaming. Blood rushes to my pulse points—making my head, neck and wrists pound with every beat of my heart.
“You could’ve asked.” His answer is deadpan. He looks a little frustrated that I didn’t ask. I make sure not to mistake this for compassion.
“Then why am I naked?” I spit. He quirks an eyebrow at me.
“You disappointed?”
“Fuck you.” I move to cover my breasts with my arms, but the chains make it impossible. When I try to cross my legs, I find I can’t do that either. It’s as if he knew just the right amount of slack to give me to keep me from covering myself.
He lights a cigarette, then blows the smoke in my direction. The scent alone has me craving the nicotine. “Since I have to sit all trussed up here for your viewing pleasure, you could at least give me one of those.”
His eyes narrow, and he glares at me a moment before pulling one from the pack and standing. He places it between my lips, then lights it—making damn sure to make a show of raking his eyes down my body.
“Even if I do enjoy the view, this ain’t for me. I’m doing what I was paid to do.”
“So someone paid you to kidnap me from my house, drive me to the delta, strip me and chain me to a futon?” I ask, not bothering to keep the malice out of my tone. “Then what? You’re supposed to just sit here and stare while you wait for further instructions?”
“Exactly.”
Once again, I’m a little shocked at his honesty. Come to think of it, he’s been pretty open about all of it. The only questions he hasn’t answered are the ones I already knew the answer to. Curiosity getting the better of me, I search for a reason. “Why are you telling me all this? Why are you even speaking to me?”
He takes a pull from his cigarette—turning his head slightly to the side as he studies me. I take a drag too—straining my neck so my fingers can pull the smoke from my lips. “I don’t see the point in not telling you.”
“Then tell me what happens next.” I wanted to demand it. I wanted my voice to be strong and determined. Instead, it was a whisper laced with fear.
The sick bastard smiles at my reaction. “Nah,” he says, looking at his cigarette. He puts it to his lips and takes a deep drag before blowing the excess ashes off the end. The long cherry glows a bright red even in the light. “I’ll just show you.”
He stands and slowly stalks toward me. My eyes stay fixed on the cigarette he holds between his fingers. When he inches it closer to me, I try to back away. But there’s nowhere to go. I remain as still as my trembling limbs allow as he stubs out the cigarette against the thick, metal cuffs. A few of the embers fall to my hand, but quickly die out. It burns, but somehow I manage not to move—afraid if I do, it’ll only fuel him to hurt me more.
“I’d hurry up and finish that if I were you.” He points to the smoke dangling from my lips before opening the door and walking out.
I’m confused by his words until I see him walk back seconds later with a five-gallon bucket in his hands. Before I can plead for him not to, or prepare myself for what’s to come, I’m doused with the freezing water. It’s so cold it takes my breath. I’m still trying to find it when he slings another bucketful at me—drenching me and the futon. This time, I manage to let out a gasp that’s quickly followed by a loud yelp.
I don’t know if he’s had the water on ice or in a freezer, but I’m breaking out in goosebumps and shivering uncontrollably. I’m so cold, I don’t bother jerking away as he pushes the wet, matted hair out of my eyes. The heat of his hand feels too good.
Blinking the water out of my eyes, I force my head up to find him zeroed in on my chest. My nipples are so hard they hurt, and he notices. Something sparks in his eyes, and a new fear takes over. He said he wouldn’t rape me, but that doesn’t mean he was telling the truth. And I’m more terrified of his hands on me, than I am of dying.
“Such a waste,” he mutters, licking his lips. My stomach rolls. I wonder how attractive he’d find me if I barfed all over his face… He slowly meets my gaze. His features harden. His jaw tightens. And I’m sure it’s at his own weakness.
He stands abruptly, giving me one last menacing look before stomping out. A few moments later, I hear his car start. After the sound of his tires crushing against the gravel fade, there’s nothing but the sound of my breathing and the rattling of chains from my shaky limbs to keep me company.
“Okay, b-bitch. Get it together.” My pep talk to myself is followed by some deep breaths, images of a sunny beach and reminders not to panic.
I look around the small trailer—trying to find anything I can use to aid my escape. “Dumbass,” I mutter. “Doesn’t matter what you find. It’s not like you can get up and get it.” I wrap my hands around the chains and pull har
d. The walls seem fairly thin, which should make it easy to rip the bolts out. But no matter how hard I pull, they don’t budge. He must have them reinforced somehow.
I try the same thing with the shackles on my feet. Nothing. They too have no resistance. It’s only been a few minutes, and already I’ve given up on trying to escape. There’s no chance. If there were, he damn sure wouldn’t have left me. So that leaves me with only one thing to do—think.
My thoughts immediately drift to Marty. Does he know I’ve been taken? Did he promise to come get me because he knew I would be? Or did I imagine that? If this is part of the plan? When is he coming? Tonight? Tomorrow? Ever?
“Whatever,” I say to the walls, because it seems to keep me sane. “There’s no friggin’ way he would allow this to happen. I mean, sure it’s possible for me to be kidnapped on his watch, but for him to arrange it?” I shake my head. There’s not a chance in hell. I know it just like I know my ass is stuck here until A: someone shows up to rescue me. Or B: I die.
Squaring my shoulders, I make a promise to myself—out loud, because, dammit, it makes me feel better. “Dying is not an option.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Maddie
I’m going to die. I just know it. It’s dark. Cold. I’m still wet. Still shivering. And still alone. Except for Bull who hasn’t made a peep.
My emotions have been everywhere. I’ve been angry—yelling and thrashing around which ended in me inflicting more pain on my already tired and sore body. I’ve been in denial—convincing myself this is all a dream and I’ll wake up any minute. I even went through a temporary state of delirium—laughing like a maniac at the universe while I assured myself this was just a joke. Some ploy of Marty’s to convince me to stop being so reckless.
I don’t know how much time has passed, but the sun set a long time ago. Now I’m starting to feel what I was hoping to avoid. As reality starts to creep in, and dread begins to take over, I find myself right where I knew I’d be. Terrified and weak. I try to close my eyes to sleep, but even it refuses to rescue me. After multiple failed attempts, I finally give in to my weakness. Tears I’ve been forcing back now fall freely down my face.
