by Kahlen Aymes
“How ’bout you blow me, instead?” His eyes continued to ogle her, then landed on her breasts. Angel had no intention of fucking him, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to suck him off. Conviction made her brave. She had to get him at a disadvantage. He had to believe she was going to do as he wanted.
“Come over here.” Her words were low and sultry on purpose, though the man made her stomach turn.
Donnie got up quickly and walked toward her, his hand going to his belt to begin opening his pants en route.
Angel didn’t stop to think. She whirled and connected a round kick to his jaw, making him stumble backward.
The man yelled. “You bitch! You’re gonna pay for that.”
She stood in a fighting stance, her feet wide apart and her arms up to protect her body, fists clenched. Angel’s body was at an angle to Donnie’s, her left side in front of her. She prepared herself to deliver the blow of her life.
“Moron. Did you fucking think I’d let you touch me?” Angel taunted. The noise startled Jillian awake, and the little girl started to wail loudly. “Nasty bastard.”
“Anga!” she cried. “Anga!”
The man charged at Angel again, and she let him in close; close enough to get his arms around her waist, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. His breath was rancid, and his body smelled foul from sweat, cigarettes, and urine, but she couldn’t turn her head away, though his odor made her want to gag. She had to keep her eyes on her target.
She had one chance, and only one. She brought her right arm back and rammed the heel of her hand up and hard into the tip of his nose with all the force she could muster. It was one of the first moves she learned in the self-defense classes she’d taken right after her rape in college. Donnie dropped like a stone, landing with a sick thud in a crumpled heap on the concrete floor. He never knew what hit him. The bones in his nose were shattered and shoved up into the frontal lobe of the brain, causing instant death.
Angel didn’t have time to celebrate or even take a breath; she had to get them out of there while she had the chance. Her breath rushed out in a whoosh as she threw her shirt back on and followed it with her coat, silently thanking God that the men hadn’t been smart enough to take it from her. Ignorant assholes, she thought.
The temperature in the basement dictated that Angel had left Jillian’s coat on the whole time they were down there. She shoved the banana in her pocket and picked up the sandwich. It might not be safe to eat, she wasn’t sure, but it joined the fruit inside her coat.
The plate was glass, and she dropped it on the concrete. It broke into five pieces, and she chose the one with the sharpest point and put it in the other pocket.
She picked up Jillian and ran up the stairs. “Hush, baby. We have to be quiet, okay? It’s very important we are very quiet.”
“Tay.” Jillian nodded.
“We have to be brave, too. It’s going to be okay.”
At the top of the stairs, Angel’s eyes flew around the room. The house was very old, the appliances had seen better days, and there were rust stains on the sink where water had leaked around the faucet. She raced to the back door and opened it. Outside, it was overcast and windy, trees surrounded the large clearing the house sat on. The trees blocked her view beyond, and she couldn’t see the sun, so she had no idea what direction was which. There was one dirt tire path worn through the grass, but there was no way to know where it led or how far it was from a real road. Swanson would assume she would follow it. She looked around and headed for an old barn at the opposite end of the clearing, which was closely guarded by trees on two sides. Maybe she’d find something she could use for a weapon inside, if nothing else. Or, maybe there was a place inside she could hide Jillian.
Angel was torn. She could run, but to where? Getting lost in the woods would mean certain hypothermia and death, but after the dirt road leading out, the barn would be the next place they’d look for her. She pushed through the barn door and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The wood was weathered and splintering; the entire building was dilapidated almost to the point of falling down; a few small streams of light were coming in from two windows and a few cracks in the wood of the walls and roof. Dangerous debris scattered the floor. She’d need to be careful where she stepped.
At least, the wind was less intrusive inside, and Angel put Jillian down gently. “Bean, I have to set you down for just a minute. I’m right here, though, okay? Hush now, sweet pea.”
Jillian was shivering, so Angel zipped up her coat then quickly took stock of her surroundings. There were several old tools hanging on the walls and scattered around. A couple old pieces of equipment and a big seed wagon. Angel had seen them many times sitting in fields waiting to be filled with grain while farmers combined crops. This was wooden and very old. One of the wheels was flat, so it hadn’t been used in years. This place had been deserted for decades. No one would come to find them here, unless they were looking, but she couldn’t take Jillian into the woods and get lost.
She had to trust that Alex was coming to find them. Her decision made, she began her search. An old ice pick and a pitchfork were the most promising. The wooden handle on the pitchfork was broken and splintered; all of the paint was missing. Like everything else here, it was circa early thirties and forties. Angel picked them up, climbed up on the wagon, using the hitch and one of the tires as leverage; and tossed the two items inside. She jumped down and rushed to Jillian’s side.
“Come on,” she whispered. She lifted the little girl and carried her the few feet back to the wagon. “Bean, hold on tight. Wrap your legs around Angel’s waist. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.” Angel repeated her path over the hitch and up the side of the wagon, stepping on the wheel. With Jillian plastered to the front of her torso, Angel knew she wouldn’t be able to climb up and over. Her arms wouldn’t have enough leverage, so she got down.
“Baby, you gotta get on piggy back. Grab around my neck.” She sat down on her haunches, and after Jillian’s arms were around her neck, she hoisted her up on her back. More adept on her third try, she climbed up quickly and had soon pulled herself and Jillian over the top of the wagon. It was dirty inside, and the dust made Jillian cough. Angel tried to wave the dust away from her face, but it was useless.
“Bean, sit down, okay?” Angel said softly. She put her finger to her lips to tell the little girl to be quiet. Angel stood in the wagon; the top of it was over her head. She stood on tiptoe and looked around the barn. There were glass windows on the sides opposite the doors, and one of them was broken. There were two large doors, used to bring farm equipment in or out, next to the regular door that she’d brought Jillian through. With both of them closed, she’d be able to hear if anyone came in. There was another wagon—the flatbed variety—at the back and it had something black lying on top of it. Angel knew it would be filthy, but it looked like a tarp that could be used as a cover.
She squatted down by Jillian. “I’ll be right back,” she said softly. “Stay here.” Angel climbed out of the wagon, holding on with her arms then swinging her left leg up, she used it to pull up until she was sitting on top of the wagon. It was easily eight feet to the floor of the barn, but she hopped down then hurried over to the other wagon.
Lifting the edge slightly, she was assaulted with a horrible stench. She turned her head in revulsion. She gagged, coughing violently as her stomach lurched, and she lost the small amount of banana she’d eaten, vomiting on the barn floor. “What the fuck?” she muttered. Her eyes were watering from the stench and throwing up. The tarp was sticky and stiff, and Angel didn’t want to think about why, but one thing was sure: they couldn’t use it as a cover.
She left it and hurried back to Jillian. When she’d climbed back inside the wagon, she sat down beside her. The wagon was shaped like a funnel with what looked like a hinged door closure at the bottom, which served to empty the grain from the wagon. Angel and Jillian were at the mercy of the slope and sitting in the middle. Ange
l straightened her legs and used them for leverage to hold them up against the side and away from the pitchfork and ice pick, that wanted to slide down to the concave center as well. She pulled Jillian on her lap and took the banana out of her pocket. “Are you hungry?” she whispered.
Jillian shook her head, and Angel put it away.
“I’z scared of those mean mans.” Sad blue eyes looked into Angel’s face. “Is Mama coming?”
“No, baby. But Zander will.” She wrapped her arms around Jillian and rested her chin against her head. It was slightly warmer in the wagon, huddled together as they were, but it was still chilly. “Zander will find us.” Angel knew it in her soul; no doubt, Alex wouldn’t stop until he found them. She just hoped it wasn’t too late.
“When, Anga?” Her little voice was soft, as if she realized the need to keep as silent as possible. It was scary. They were still so close to Mark Swanson and his goons. Far from home free, but the smart thing to do was to hide—and wait. “When will Zander come?”
“I don’t know for sure, Bean.” Angel’s faith in Alex was unshakable, and she would hold on to it, and the little girl on her lap, for dear life. “But he will. I promise.”
*****
The phone finder app led Alex and Kyle to a sparsely populated area of the Ozark Mountains soth of Springfield and at least 300 miles southeast of Joplin. There wasn’t much around, and as they’d gotten closer, the GPS lead to an unpaved path that carved through the woods, winding away from the road. It was apparent to both of them the road would lead directly to their objective, with little chance of an offshoot road to hide Alex’s Audi, and driving in directly would mean losing their element of surprise.
The location posed several other problems. They’d have to walk in, so making a fast escape with Angel and Jillian would be impossible. There was no way of knowing the distance off any main road or how long it would take to walk in. It was getting dark, and the sooner they got in there, the better. And lastly, they’d only have one weapon each. They shoved what extra ammunition they could into their coat pockets, and Kyle slid his knife into his boot.
It was dreary, and though they had on coats and the stocking caps Kyle had brought, it was still cold. The hat was irritating Alex, rolled up as it was so his face wouldn’t be covered. It itched and he pushed it off, discarding it impatiently. They followed along the road, though back under the cover of the trees. They moved swiftly, not speaking, adrenaline and determination keeping them warm and alert. When the roof of an old farmhouse came into view, Alex motioned for Kyle to continue as he was while he moved to the opposite side of the road.
Alex had been in touch with his parents, Becca, and the hospital while they were still driving. Cole was out of surgery, and though still in serious condition, was alive. It was a huge relief. Now, Alex’s insides were on fire in anxious anticipation. His mind was sharp, his focus clear on what needed to be done. This place was so fucking secluded and deserted, the house in a serious state of disrepair; it wasn’t likely anyone had been here in years. Alex was certain it was why Mark Swanson picked it. Maybe his family owned it, maybe the mob did. His promise to Standish dictated the need to find out.
The Camden County Sheriff’s department had located the rented SUV abandoned in a wooded area two hours northeast of where they were now. At least, they’d found something, and it was being dusted for prints. They were on the hunt. Alex had received a call from Kenneth, and though he’d let it go to voicemail, it held valuable information. He was glad they were actually working the case, though his subconscious told him it would make things more difficult. In his gut, Alex knew it would be a fight to the death, and law enforcement involvement would, create more questions and red tape.
Within a few hundred yards of the house, Alex could see no evidence of any vehicles.
“Fuck,” he muttered. The phone finder led them in this direction, but the unincorporated roads made it uncertain at best. It was the general area, but what if this was just an old abandoned farmhouse? Or, what if they’d moved their hideout? This would have been a wild goose chase.
There was a barn on the property, and Alex pointed toward the barn, silently telling Kyle to check inside. Maybe the vehicles would be inside.
He would’ve never imagined he’d be faced with something this dangerous or desperate. Alex was decidedly calm. He was resolved. He’d leave with Angel and Jillian, or they’d all get killed. There was nothing in between those two options that he’d consider. It was all or nothing. It was the way he lived his life, the way his relationship with Angel had been from day one: all or nothing.
Leaning with his back against a tree, which hid him from view of the house, Alex breathed out through his nose and closed his eyes to center himself. His father’s semi-automatic was comfortable in his right hand, and he wanted it to be a precaution, but he knew it was more. He didn’t want to need it because the guns could be traced. The situation was too unknown to know what would be required, and what could comfortably be told to the authorities, but only a moron would go in without being armed. But, he’d keep it as clean as possible.
Alex watched Kyle go behind him in the direction of the barn before he made a crouched run toward the house. There was a covered porch, the walls screened-in on all sides. The screens were dirty, the house almost falling apart, the paint almost non-existent, worn away by decades of wind and weather. Hopefully, the filthy screens would inhibit a good view of anyone approaching through the yard. The yard that was little more than overgrown weeds.
Alex crept up the steps and pressed his back to the wall beside the door. He reached across and wiggled the doorknob. His heart was now thudding uncomfortably in his chest. Surprised to find the door open, he turned the knob slowly, careful to keep silent, then pushed the door open with his fingertips.
He looked in cautiously. There were no sounds. Not one. The place smelled foul—old and moldy.
The place was a complete dump, the furnishings out of date and run down. It was probably infested with vermin. If this had existed within in the city limits, it probably would have been condemned. Plaster was falling away from the slats on the ceilings and walls, and several of the lights were free-hanging bulbs that were rigged up. No, this wasn’t a posh hideout.
Alex walked through the house, and though he found no one, there were ashtrays with fresh butts in them, dirty dishes piled in the sink, and a dirty fry pan and trash scattered around proved that people had been here recently. Very recently.
Alex noticed a half-open door off the kitchen, and it took effort to push it open because it scraped on the floor. The stairs led down, and Alex stopped as dread flooded him. This would be the basement in the video. This is where she was. But now, there was no sound.
“Angel?” Alex called softly. There was no answer. Would he find her downstairs? The video was taken in a basement. “Angel!” he called again, louder, panic clamping down on his heart and lungs. There was dim light coming up the stairs. He had to know either way, but his heart raced as he made his way cautiously down the stairs. He took three steps down and his eyes landed on the cot in the middle of the room. On the floor in front of it lay the lifeless body of a man. Alex had a brief moment of horror at seeing the still form until it registered that it wasn’t Angel. Though he didn’t make a sound, his free hand landed on his chest as his heart lurched.
Was this one of Swanson’s men? And, how did he end up dead? Alex went down further so he was able to check around the square room and get a closer look at the body. He was a greasy, dirty man in his early twenties, his lifeless eyes staring blankly from his bony face. He looked almost emaciated, like he could have been an addict or ill.
Alex nudged the body with his foot, pushing him over to see what killed him. A trickle of blood coming from one nostril was the only visible injury. No sign of Angel. Where was she? Now, he was consumed with a new worry; how would he track her? What if Swanson had her phone, but Angel wasn’t in the same place? His stomach tightened and his
heart fell. He felt like the bottom dropped out from beneath him.
A sudden pain, intense and explosive, burst in his head and light flashed behind his eyes. Alex started to fall, his legs buckling beneath him as he fell to his knees then fully to the floor. His eyes blurred and everything went black.
*****
When Alex came to, he was sitting down, and his head lolled forward. He couldn’t move. When his mind cleared, he registered that his feet were tied to the legs of a chair and his arms behind is back, bound at the wrists. He couldn’t move them at all; when he tried, ropes cut into his elbows, as well. He was immobilized.
His head throbbed so painfully, as if the top of it would fly off with each beat of his heart. His eyes fluttered and tried to focus; his ears registered someone yelling from the floor above him.
“Boss, she’s got the brat; she couldn’t have gone far.” The voice was gruff and had an uneducated lilt. Alex blinked again. He was looking at his lap and trying to lift his head to search for the sound.
“Find her! Now!”
That voice, Alex recognized. Mark Swanson’s voice came from the kitchen above him. And his words gave him hope. Angel was gone. She’d at least managed to escape the house. She had to be the one who killed the kid still lying on the floor where he’d fallen by the cot.
The chair he was attached to was positioned off to one side, the stairs directly in front of him. Alex shook his head to clear it even though it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. He had to get out of here, and he had to find Angel and Jillian. The chair was wooden and, like everything else in the house, very old. It wasn’t anchored to the floor. Alex wiggled his ass in the seat to determine if it was solid or if it had any give. It creaked, indicating it wasn’t that strong, but even if he could stand up, the way his ankles were tied prevented him from being able to walk or back up enough to ram the chair into the cinderblock walls of the basement.
If he wanted it broken, he would have to tip the chair over and hope crashing it to the ground would be enough to shatter the wood. Logically, it would be better to wait until he was sure the second man left the house because the loud crash would alert those upstairs. His biceps and triceps bulged and strained as he tried to pull his hands free of the ropes, but there was little give. He grunted as he pulled harder, the ropes burning into his skin. “Fuck!” he murmured softly, frustration threatening to explode his heart.
