Opposing Forces

by Adrienne Giordano

  That depended on whose sense they were talking about.

  “I understand,” the guy said, “Taylor Security has certain government contracts up for renewal.”

  He’s the one. He’d stalled the contracts.

  “Contracts,” the man continued, “I assume, your superior would like very much to keep.”

  Jillian drew her eyebrows together, leaving a hard line splitting her forehead.

  The man bent over, eye to eye with Lynx. “Don’t be stupid. I can give you those contracts. Plus a few more.”

  Lynx met his stare. “Great. Now who the hell are you?”

  The man straightened. “You won’t know me. I have politically powerful friends. I keep their greedy pockets fat.” He reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket, pulled out a small white medicine bottle. The kind that would hold tablets. He tossed it into Lynx’s lap. “Pockets fat and bodies satisfied.”

  The bottle had no label. Didn’t need one. He knew what this was.

  A corner of the man’s mouth quirked. “I’m told you like the Vicodin.”

  Yes. “Not lately.”

  “Ah, that’s right.” He snatched the bottle back. “If things go well for you here, you won’t need them.”

  “And if things don’t go well?”

  He shook the bottle. “Then you’ll beg for it. We’re not there yet. I still believe an agreement can be reached on the contracts.”

  “Jack,” Jillian said. “What’s he talking about?”

  The man jerked his head toward her and his lips spread further into a greasy smile. “He didn’t tell you?”

  She kept her eyes on Lynx. “What?”

  “This is wonderful,” the man said to Tractor Arms. “He never told her.”

  “Told me what?”

  He tsk-tsked. “Oh, my dear. Your hero has three hundred million dollars of Taylor Security’s government contracts sliding from his grip.”

  Jillian turned to him, questioning. “Jack?”

  What a way for her to find out. Lynx closed his eyes for a second and reopened them. “When I asked around about Stennar Pharm, Mike got a call that the contracts might not be renewed.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  The man spread his arms. “Your god can’t help you now. I’m the only god in this room. You tell me what you did with that vial and your contracts stay intact.”

  “Horseshit.”

  The man got eye to eye again. “Tell me where the vial is and you keep your contracts, plus a little extra for yourself. A win-win, as you Americans say.”

  Lynx paused. What he and Jillian needed was time for someone to track them down. But with the only other people who knew they’d been at the office injured—possibly dead—he wasn’t counting on being found.

  The sight of Vic and Janet sprawled in that hallway, blood seeping from their unmoving bodies, bore into him, and seized his breath. Gina would be a widow all over again, their children fatherless. All because of a few calls Lynx had made.

  All because he inserted himself into a situation that was none of his goddamned business.

  “Jack?” Jillian said.

  And her, staring at him with those big dark eyes, wondering what he was thinking, if he was considering the offer. Wondering if she could trust him.

  Maybe that was the problem. He’d spent all this energy, energy that should have gone to staying the recovery course, trying to help her and she still didn’t trust him. He’d seen it in the hospital when he’d accepted the Toradol. After he’d gotten the hit she looked away because she was sure, despite the doc’s assurance the drug was non-narcotic, that he’d relapse.

  Now again, she stared at him with those same intense, questioning eyes. Wondering what he’d do.

  By now, she should’ve known. The fact that she didn’t proved to be a wicked jab.

  Slick suit guy stepped closer. Lynx shook his head, let out an exasperated laugh. Should have stuck to the recovery plan. “No deal. Fuck off.”

  The man continued to stand over him, his face a blank mask. No spark of hesitation, no smirk, no creased forehead. No reaction at all. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he finally said. In one fluid, almost elegant move, he faced the big guy. “Get me my information.”

  Tractor Arms stayed silent, but waved his partner to the door. The three men filed out and Lynx’s body roared with energy. Under his skin, his arms and legs flicked and snapped. He fought to maintain control. To relax and keep his mind clear.

  Jillian lunged for the knotted rope. “I need to loosen these knots.”

  “They’ll be back any second.” He spoke quickly, but his voice was steady. Not a crack or hiccup. No sign of weakness. Couldn’t allow that.

  She gave up on the knot and squatted next to him, her arms resting on his good leg. He’d have to keep her centered. Concentrate on the end game. “They’re gonna use us against each other. My guess is they’ll come at me first.”

  She looked up at him, her gaze moving left and right. “What are you saying?”

  “They’re gonna make you watch.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The hallway door squeaked open and the huge guy stepped through carrying a metal bucket. His buddy was hot on his heels, his meaty hand wrapped around the handle of a gallon jug of liquid. The big guy dropped the metal bucket next to Lynx and took the water from his partner. Inside the bucket sat a hacksaw with rusted edges, a black cloth, a hammer and a couple of wrenches.

  Here we go.

  The second guy grabbed Jillian from behind, locking her arms in place.

  “First,” Tractor Arms said, “we try water. Then I start taking fingers.”

  “No,” Jillian screamed.

  Lynx, his heart racing in full-out ballistic mode, swung his head to her, mentally pleading with her to remember what he’d said. Their eyes connected for a brief second. “Calm,” he said. He kept his voice steady, but her eyes were wild again, bouncing all over the place. Already, she was gone.

  A cloth bag was thrown over his head, smothering him in darkness. His chair tipped back and he flinched. Slowly—almost gently—Tractor Arms lowered him to the floor.

  Shit, shit, shit. His breathing was too shallow. If he could keep his mind centered he’d probably survive, the midair suspension and knowing he was completely helpless rattled him.

  “No,” Jillian screamed again.

  A drop of water touched his face and he jerked his head. A giant hand pressed his head into the floor, the weight holding him in place. Another drop of water. Then, slowly, a steadier stream. He clamped his mouth closed, but the water filled his nostrils and he gagged. He opened his mouth and more water filled it, smothering him, stealing his air.

  All rational thought vanished and Lynx strained against the ropes. A thundering panic filled his mind, his thoughts scattered. Breathe. Get out. Help Jillian. Save yourself.

  Too much. His heart banged so hard he thought his ribs would snap. The sons of bitches were killing him. Slowly drowning him. Blackness lingered, not quite consuming him, but holding him teetering on the edge of consciousness.

  The water stopped. The man released him and violently pushed on his stomach. Water shot out of Lynx’s nose and mouth, burning, ripping his throat apart along the way.

  “Where’s the vial?” Tractor Arms asked.

  What was that? Ten seconds? Maybe more. Lynx didn’t know. He coughed and breathed. He steadied himself, tried to quiet his paralyzed mind and prayed the next round wouldn’t kill him.

  * * *

  Jillian’s head boomed. Over and over and over, the booming continued, ravaging any ounce of self-control left. This was why they called it mental trauma. All she could do was watch. Her captor was too strong and her mind too weak.

  When had sh
e reverted to the helpless female of her youth? The one willing to accept an injustice because it had been forced upon her.

  It needed to stop. If they were going to die in this hell, she wouldn’t do it without a battle.

  She tried to wiggle free, but the man’s arms kept her locked in place. Her feet, though. They were free. She lifted one foot and stomped down on the man’s toes.

  “Ow! Shit.” He released his hold to hobble around.

  “Jillian? Jillian,” Jack shouted.

  She scrambled to him.

  The big guy held Jack’s head in place, but jerked his chin at his partner. “Grab her.”

  Jillian’s captor, still limping around, clamped on to her upper arm and hauled her up. In the scuffle, her foot connected with the bucket and it toppled.

  “Stupid,” the bigger man screamed. “Pick that up.”

  And then, it happened. The man released her and bent to gather the items that had fallen out of the bucket. She shifted sideways, letting her weight guide her, and imagined all her strength, all that power and madness funneling into her right heel, and—voom!—drove the clunky heel of her shoe into her captor’s head.

  As if on a spring, his head snapped back, then righted itself, but the man’s bulk pushed him off balance and to the floor. The bigger man made a grab for her.

  No way.

  Again, she shot her foot out and connected with his knee. He howled and spun, searching for the items from the bucket. The tools were still scattered, but she snatched the bucket, swung it hard and the metal base plowed into the huge man’s head. The thick wire handle tore loose, leaving her with one sharp end in her hand and the bucket dangling from the other end.

  From behind, the smaller guy bear-hugged her and she drove her heel into his right foot. The same foot. A burst of his hot, nasty breath rolled over her cheek and he loosened his grip. She blasted him again.

  This time, he released a loud, agonized cry that bounced off the cement and echoed through the empty space. She spun back and—just as they’d done to her in her own house—threw her elbow across his face. A swing of the bucket came next. It connected with his shoulder, but flew off the end of the handle leaving her with only the jagged edge of the wire.

  “Stupid bitch,” he screamed.

  “Jillian! What’s happening?” Jack yelled.

  The hulking guy came at her, his big fists raised. If he hit her, it would be lights out. He was too big, too strong, too menacing. She tightened her sweaty grip on the bucket handle—weapon—sucked in a breath and, with both hands raised it above her head. A loud whooshing filled her head. She did as Jack had told her and concentrated on the man in front of her. He kept coming. Hoping for good timing and that her sweat-soaked hands wouldn’t slip, she gripped harder and slashed the handle down. Aware of her weapon, he looked up, tried to sidestep, but he was too big and slow to evade her and she drove the jagged handle into his eye.

  Screaming agony, louder this time, more piercing, filled the space. Everyone was yelling. An explosion of voices as the man fell to the floor, his hands clutched over his bleeding eye.

  Beside her, Jack managed to roll sideways in the chair, but he was too confined to help. The second man came at her again and she threw the plastic gallon jug at him. Water spilled from the spout and the jug bounced off of him, but he kept coming. She picked up the hammer and held it in front of her.

  Somehow, still tied to the chair Jack rolled to his knees and drew the man’s attention.

  Now!

  Moving on her last wisps of energy, and once again, holding on with both hands, she raised the hammer and brought it crashing down on the man’s skull. A grotesque thud sounded and the hammer’s head recoiled. The man’s body swayed and dropped to the floor.

  Rage spewing, she turned to the bigger man, now on his feet and getting his bearings. He was much taller. She’d never fight him this way. Too big, too strong.

  She flipped the hammer over, took what she hoped was decent aim and whipped it in the general area of his crotch. From the short distance, he only had seconds to deflect it. He brought his hands down, but not quick enough. The hammer caught him just left of center. His face contorted and he let out a burst of air before doubling over. She raced forward, scooped the hammer off the floor and swung sideways. The hammer connected with the back of his head and his eyes rolled.

  His body hit the floor with a slap and she stood, hammer in hand, sucking wind. She glanced at the man’s still form. Oh no. She bent low, propped her hands on her knees, but her heart continued to explode. Oh no, oh no, oh no. She’d killed a man. Maybe two.

  She opened her mouth to draw a breath. Nothing. Only a scream. An insane grinding in her throat, tearing at her, punishing her. Just below her, directly in her sight line, the tip of the hammer dripped blood. She screamed louder, completely unhinged. She dropped the hammer and held her hands out.

  I killed them.

  Something moved. She glanced up. Jack. Speaking. She stopped the frantic screaming.

  “Jillian!”

  She ran to him, levered him upright in the chair and worked the soaked hood off of his head. “I’m okay,” she said. “I’m okay, but, God, I’m not okay.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  With the hood up to his eyes, she gave it one last yank and tossed it. “I think...I think I killed them.”

  * * *

  Lynx could not believe the shit luck. Tied to a fucking chair while Jillian got tormented. Again.

  Deal with it later.

  “Jillian, get the saw. Fast. Move!”

  Yelling at her might have been harsh, but he could see the big guy’s chest still rising and falling. That son of a bitch was still alive. The other guy? No idea about him. All Lynx knew was they needed to get out. Now.

  She ran to the saw—it must have gotten kicked out of the way—and brought it back. He jerked his head. “Saw through these ropes.” She hesitated. Shock. “Do it! Now.”

  He’d bring out the kid gloves later. She stuck the saw between the chair and the rope and went to work.

  “Faster, baby. Come on. We gotta move.”

  She nodded and picked up the pace.

  “You’re okay,” he said. “Doing great.”

  Again she nodded, but her eyes were...dead. Nothing. And then she started trembling. “Jillian, listen to me.” He waited for her to focus on him. “You’re okay. I’m sorry. Just get me free and I’ll get us out. I’ll take care of you. Just get this rope off.”

  More nodding. She was so gone.

  The last braid on the rope tore and Lynx jumped up, grabbed her hand and took a step. His bad knee buckled and the pain drilled so far into his leg he saw spots. Jillian clasped his arm to steady him and he inhaled and exhaled to get his bearings. He glanced around. No crutches. He’d have to work without them. He pointed to the door he’d entered through. The one that led outside. “Check that door for me.”

  Anticipating it being locked, he picked up the hammer and saw and hobbled to the door the slick-looking guy left through. Each step became an exploration of agony. Yeah, the pain meds would come in handy about now.

  The big guy groaned from his spot on the floor. Lynx whipped back to find Jillian, still in her zombie state, moving away from the unconscious men toward him. The shock was setting in, but he needed her to not shut down on him.

  “It’s locked,” she said.

  “I figured.” He looked up at the door in front of him. “We’ve gotta go through this one. Any idea what’s on the other side?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know where we are.”

  He held out the hammer. “Take this.”

  “I—I can’t.”

  Tough-love time. He squeezed her hand. “You have to. I know it sucks. I know it scares the ever-loving sh
it out of you, but the hammer and saw are the only weapons we have.” Her face collapsed. Crying. “Hey, stay with me. You just kicked the crap out of those two. You’re amazing. You can do this. We can do this. I couldn’t help you in there, but I can help you now.”

  He held the hammer to her and she narrowed her eyes. Come on. She glanced at the big guy then turned back to Lynx. Slowly, she held her open hand to him. Atta girl. He set the hammer in her palm and she wrapped her fingers around it. “Let’s go.”

  Gently, he pushed on the door lever to avoid the ka-chunking noise industrial doors made. Inch by inch he opened it until he could peek through. Dark hallway. Only the emergency lighting threw shadows down the length of the corridor. Good enough for them to see where they were headed.

  To his right was a wall. Nothing to fear there. The danger would be ahead of them. Unless Tractor Arms came looking. One thing at a time.

  Jillian gripped the back of his shirt and he led her down the hall, hobbling on his bum knee, his gaze swinging left then right. Every few feet he checked their six. Nothing. His girl had done serious damage with that hammer.

  He eased open the door and peeped through the crack. From his location, he saw a single loading dock. No truck. No people. Bay door shut.

  Go time.

  One step in and he heard voices. Two men arguing. He halted, shot a look to the right where a couple of doorways lined the dock area.

  Jillian went on tiptoes to whisper in his ear and he bent to meet her halfway. “That one sounds like Ingrams. The other one sounds like the guy in the suit.”

  Using hand signals, he pointed to the side exit door. She reached behind her and tried it. She shook her head and mouthed, “Locked.”

  Could someone please throw him half a chance to get the hell out of there? They’d have to go out the main door and hope one of the two men didn’t spot them.

  Good luck.

  He switched positions with her and put his lips to her ear. “We’ll have to go out the front. They’ll probably see us. It’ll be a dogfight.” She stepped back and he grabbed her hand to hold her in place. “I know you’re hurting, but we have to do this.”