I was pretty damn terrified myself, but the thought of him hurting as well really got to me. I struggled not to cry — not to let them see me that way. They probably already thought I was weak, since I didn't have the military or paramilitary levels of training and fitness they did.
I wanted Kevin very badly. I wanted him to come through the door like an action hero and bring me home. I was getting past the point of reasonableness, if I'd ever been in it. I wanted Ell's arms around me and to hide under the covers for the rest of the damn year.
A trim, dangerous-looking man walked into the room. There was something about the way he carried himself, and his eyes — and the calm clockwork emotions I got from him. This was a job to him, and he was in charge. My current captors and I both knew it immediately. They were on their feet in a second, and I was starting to shiver again. Little, uncontrollable, humiliating, whole-bodied trembling.
He gave me a cursory glance, then nodded. He told the two men the money would be wired into their accounts, and they could go now. He was very calm. Too calm.
He took his time fixing himself some tea. He had an American accent, bland and Midwestern. Nothing about him stood out; average height, clearly strong but not the strongest person in the universe. Trim hair and short beard, pale blue eyes. He looked unremarkable, fairly intelligent, and I was terrified of him.
He exuded danger. I think he might have seemed dangerous to me even if I hadn't been an empath — something about the way he carried himself, and a look in his eyes — but I was, and he scared me silly.
Whatever I was here for, it was part of his job, and he was at the top of his profession, or very near it. And there was nothing that let him regard me as human or worthy of any particular consideration. He would use exactly as much force as necessary to get whatever he wanted.
I could play tough and make him hurt me; he would consider that my being stupid. He would hurt me intensely, just shy of killing me. If need be, of course, he would kill me — but that would be imprecise and regrettable. Still, he'd have no qualms about it if it came to that. Fast or slow. Easy or hard. With gun, knife, bare hands or literally anything in this room. He could take me apart easily. He was feeling was no psychopathic enjoyable anticipation of my upcoming pain and fear; it was part of the job. Somehow, that almost made it worse.
I'd run across killers, working with the police. They'd always made my blood run cold. But the calmness of this man's intent made him more scary to me. Maybe because I was the victim this time.
I hated seeing myself that way — a victim — but it became clear to me, in those moments before he'd even spoken, as he stirred sugar into his tea, the spoon making a little ding-ding sound against the inside of the teacup, that I was the victim here, and if I wanted to survive I shouldn't play the tough guy. I would do what it took to survive — I wouldn't 'make' him hurt me by resisting.
Without turning around, he spoke. "They say you're an empath."
I watched him with the kind of desperation with which a hungry animal in the zoo must watch the hands of someone holding its meal. Would I get what I needed to survive? I couldn't feel my hands, I was in a very awkward position, my bladder was probably going to burst soon, and I was faint and headachy from lack of water. I watched him very closely indeed, wanting to survive.
He finished stirring his tea and turned to me, and then he sat down opposite me at the table, as if we were having a friendly chat. There was nothing friendly about this.
"I'm going to give you a bit of background here, so you understand what we're dealing with." He stirred again, then sipped, and made a face.
Couldn't I pee first? But that was part of this; he wanted me to be uncomfortable. This was his lucky day, then.
"Your boyfriend has made life . . . difficult . . . for certain parties. Now, there are several ways to deal with this. Two of them have been attempted already. I won't bore you with the details. Of the other two ways, one involves his death. It would be expensive and dangerous, so the parties who want him out of the way would prefer other options. That leaves this option. You are captured. He will not alert the company to avoid a certain deal in exchange for you not being tortured to death."
He gave me a hard look and sipped his drink. "We will be as convincing as we need to be," he added, in case I wasn't already afraid. I'm pretty sure he could tell I was. "Torture is such a loaded word, but remarkably effective."
I wanted to tell him this wouldn't work; that Ell wouldn't be doing his job, let alone convincing someone there was nothing wrong, if I wasn't there. They'd have to take him off work. He might even go catatonic or something.
But I wasn't liking the look of the options available right now. I didn't want either of us dead, not to mention tortured. Perhaps it was a good thing I couldn't speak.
"I'm going to let you go now. You can go to the bathroom, take a shower, take a nap if you like. Under no circumstances will you attempt to leave. If you raise a finger to try to harm me, or call for help, or do anything to make my life more difficult than it needs to be, I will remove one of your fingers. I will do this multiple times if I must. If you can tell when people are telling the truth, then you know I have experience."
I nodded hard, even my chin trembling now. I'm sure my eyes were huge and terrified, and my breathing felt funny, little gasps through my nose.
He rose, came around the table, and ripped off my duct tape. I took in a huge gasp. He cut the ropes efficiently, and my arms dropped. I couldn't feel them at first. When I could, they hurt a lot. By that time, I was already in the bathroom relieving myself. I was shaking so hard I could barely aim.
I didn't know what I was going to do to get out of this one. I looked at myself in the mirror over the very suburban sink, and I saw stark fear and a lack of hope in my eyes. I had felt from him the certainty — him reading me, figuring he knew how things were going at this point — that he would have to cut off at least one of my fingers and possibly hurt me pretty badly before I cooperated.
Well, I would prove him wrong on that one. I liked all of my body parts. I didn't want any unexpected and unprofessional surgery, thanks.
I looked out the window of the bathroom quickly, trying to see where I was. I saw a backyard, leafy and green, a house not too far away, a road. Nothing to orient me. Even if I could get out of the window, I didn't think I'd be able to get away before he caught up with me. He had all the weapons and knowledge here. Yes, I could tell what he was feeling, but the only edge that gave me right now was knowing how dangerous my situation was.
I splashed water on my face, drank water from my hands — still burning painfully with pins and needles — and got myself together as best I could. Then I wet my hair and pushed it back, scrubbed my face dry with the towel, and let out a heaving breath. I went out to face him.
"All right. What do you want me to do?"
He looked at me, weighing the situation. Was I faking it? Did he need to hurt me to get me to cooperate? He was on his second cup of coffee, and not in a hurry.
He decided to give me a chance. "You need to call your boss and tell him the job has become too much. You are taking unscheduled time off. You will be convincing. We have already contacted your boyfriend regarding his part in this. If he fails, he will be killed. But to keep them from looking for you, you must contact your boss and convince him. If your boyfriend gives you away, you will be killed — but tortured first. I have to follow through on promises. That's how I keep getting work."
For ISIS, maybe. Asshole! I nodded tightly, my chin starting to tremble again. I wished I could think he was full of hot air and bluster, but this was all in a day's work for him. He had no problem following through on his threats. It would be an affront if he didn't.
"The guard who was with you when you were captured? He was in on it. He has not reported you missing. As far as anyone knows, you've simply gone on a trip. Now you will make the call as soon as you think you can do so convincingly. It's your responsibility to make sure your
boss believes you. If he doesn't, you will be killed and your boyfriend will be killed. Neither one of you will be of any use to us at that point."
I swallowed hard, feeling strange.
"You are taking an unscheduled vacation. You are sorry to let him down. You will be convincing, whatever you say. If there are any coded messages in your words, you will be tortured to death. I have some videos for you to watch, so you can see some of my methods, if you'd like."
"That w-won't be necessary."
He looked at me, weighing me. What did he see? Whatever it was, he got up. "I think you need to see."
And so began one of the worst hours of my life so far. I am not the kind of guy who likes horror movies. I don't get a buzz out of it; I get queasy. This was worse, because it was real people he was hurting. It wasn't faked.
I had to throw up. And I was in no emotional or mental condition to make any phone call afterwards. He left me alone in a bedroom with barred windows. I curled up small on the bed, trying not to think or feel, trying only to breathe.
He hadn't actually touched me yet. Maybe he hadn't actually — maybe those tapes were faked. I couldn't stop shaking, and I couldn't stop some tears from leaking out. How was I going to convince Kev? Kev knew I wouldn't run off like this. But there was no way I could warn him, no secret phrases he'd understand. Why hadn't we made a plan for this? Perhaps because it had never been in the cards. This wasn't supposed to be a dangerous job.
In spite of myself, I found myself reaching out, calling for help. I called to the only person who could hear me. Martin.
The connection between us was still there, where it had been since that day at the resort in Switzerland. It had lain dormant for some time now, and it was a silent connection. I didn't hear or feel him all the time; in fact, I'd worked to ignore it, to let it fade into insignificance and obscurity. But now I didn't; now I opened it as wide as I could and shouted down the long, narrow cord between us, calling him with all the sorrow and pain and desperation I couldn't use to call Kevin or Ellery.
Ell. Oh, Ell. I can't let them kill him — or me. What would he do without me?
Martin, Martin! I called him like a small boy desperate and lost in the woods, crying to be taken home. But I had no room for vanity or hesitation now. I had only a desperate need to survive, and a desperate plea to send out.
I hoped he could still hear me. But even if he could, what could he do about it? He was no action hero, either . . .
I put my head down and tried to curl smaller, and gave in to the sobs shaking me. I cried myself out, and collapsed into something like sleep.
#
In the morning, my captor was satisfied with my misery, and thought I seemed suitably broken. No doubt he'd been observing my tears and trembling. Probably with cameras, since I hadn't felt him close to the door. I'd have sensed him if he'd been close enough to listen through the keyhole. That was a good clue he had the whole house wired and could tell whatever I did — not that I shouldn't have already known that.
One thing really scared me more than anything. I had the remarkable ability to piss off even reasonable people who didn't mean me any harm. How would I handle being this guy's captive for who knew how long? I wasn't sure he meant to let me live even if I did everything 'right.' And I'd never done everything right in my entire life.
My captor seemed satisfied when I shuffled cautiously into the kitchen. My level of fear seemed to be about right — which would've been great news if I had been faking it. Since I was actually, literally, as scared as I could remember ever being, it didn't reassure me much.
I was pretty sure I couldn't convince Kev. I was pretty sure I was going to die no matter what. Why would my captor have let me see his face if he didn't mean to kill me?
But even knowing that, I didn't want to be tortured to death, and I didn't want Ell dead. I had to go along, and he knew I knew it. I'd actually believed him right off the bat, but he'd still had to show me those tapes. Now I started trembling whenever he got near me. He approved of that.
"Have some breakfast before you make the call. Remember, he knows you're not there, but the report from your guard is that you left on your own, giving him the slip."
I said nothing. I didn't think I could eat a bite, but I tried. It seemed to please him, and I was slavishly eager to please at the moment, if it would keep me from being tortured pre-phone call.
After? Well, I wasn't sure I'd have much to say about that . . .
He got me an untraceable phone, sat me down at the kitchen table, and faced me, watching and waiting. He had a knife and a gun, both lying in front of him on the table along with some other tools I couldn't even stand to look at. I wouldn't be looking at tools the same way for a while, I suspected. I wanted safe, soft, padded surfaces in my life. Nothing that would make me imagine what he would do with it in his skilled, evil hands, in that oh-so-calm way of his.
I put my head in my hands, mouth trembling.
"Get control of yourself," said my captor. "You have time."
I took it. When I could speak normally, I called Kevin. But no matter what I did, I couldn't keep my fingers from trembling. The fingers I wanted very much to keep, thank you very much.
#
I was sitting at the neat little kitchen table. I took yet another deep breath, trying to tell myself this was okay, this was fine. I just needed to convince my non-boyfriend best friend that I was doing something completely out of character. I had to convince him, or Ellery would die.
Kevin knew me better than anyone except Ell. Sometimes I thought he knew me even better than Ellery did, because Ell wore rose-colored glasses where I was concerned. But then, Kev did too — he'd always believed in me. He'd never betrayed a hint of feeling like I'd let him down.
Which would make it all the harder to convince him that that was what I was doing. I took another deep breath and blew it out. I pressed call.
My captor had already put the number in. Now he reached over, took the phone, and put it on speaker before sliding it back to me.
He waited. Watched me.
He was a very patient predator. Right now, he wasn't nearly as bored as he looked. And he was ready to kill me at an instant's notice and make the call that would end Ell's life as well. I wondered how — and then quickly shot away from that thought. If I started thinking like that, id' never be able to get through this call without breaking down.
No, Ell had to survive. That was the most important thing. And if that meant finding a way to convince Kev that I would leave him, that I had abandoned the job and people I loved without a moment's warning, well, then I'd just have to do it.
"Hello?" asked Kevin, and my first thought was, That's odd. Normally he doesn't answer right away. I'd given the captor his private cell number, which I had memorized. That's where I'd call him, if I was calling to apologize for leaving him. But he rarely picked up on the first ring.
Well, by now he knew I was gone. Of course he'd picked up.
"Kev," I said, cringing a little. "Don't be mad at me, okay?" I sounded plaintive. I glanced at my captor. He was watching me closely.
"Peter, are you all right?" Kev's voice was tightly strung, snapping off the words with great concern.
"Y-Yeah." I kept my eyes down this time. "Listen, I'm sorry about taking off like that, but—" I was going to have to dig deep. I was going to have to put as much honesty into the words as I could in order to convince him. Even if it hurt us both. Ellery mattered more than that — and of course avoiding death by torture was pretty high on my list, too.
"I couldn't take it, Kev. I had to get away. From you, from Ellery. I'm sorry, okay?" I pinched the bridge of my nose, sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I can be a flake, okay? You had to know that when you hired me. I — I don't want to let you down, but it all gets really heavy sometimes, you know? Your expectations of me. Ellery's. I . . . I have to sort some things out, okay?"
Kevin sounded startled and offended. "What, you couldn't let us know
? It's been almost two days, Peter. You haven't answered your phone. You couldn't think to say something sooner?"
"I'm sorry. I couldn't."
My captor looked at me and picked up the gun. He aimed it at me casually, not ready to pull the trigger — just reminding me. Apparently saying I couldn't do something was a big no-no. I darted my eyes away from him, trying to remain calm.
"I mean I couldn't face disappointing you, or having you be mad at me. But I had to get away." My voice rose. "I've been feeling so trapped, like I'm a captive there or — or—" I squeezed my eyes shut, trembling. My captor had aimed the gun at me more intently, and his finger had found the trigger. 'Captive' was another bad word, clearly. He was alert inside, thinking I was trying to screw him over — but I really was trying my best.
I started talking faster. "Kevin, I love you, but you drive me crazy, okay? It's like I — I'm your personal property sometimes. Sometimes I don't mind, but when I can't leave the fucking building without security? I mean, it gets to me. And Ell . . . well, I love Ellery, you know I do. But it's like I have to take care of him sometimes. I want us to be equals, but let's face it, we're just not. I never know if, when I do something wrong, if it'll send him off the deep end. He thinks I'm his . . . his fated whatever. But I'm not. I mean, I care about him, but that's such a heavy load to carry for somebody else — to be their be-all and end-all." I huffed out a heavy, annoyed sigh. "I just have a few things to sort out, okay? I'll call you as soon as I can."
Kevin was silent for a heart-palpitating moment. "You could've said something sooner," he said, quiet and reproachful. "I never meant to hurt you. I'm sure Ellery didn't either. He's really upset you'd leave like that. He's trying not to let it bother him, holding his head up, but you've hurt him."
"I know. I'm sorry." I was gulping back tears at this point; it all felt too real, and the gun made everything ten times harder.
SURE (Men of the ESRB Book 3) Page 16
