“Shit,” I muttered and blinked, focusing once more on the room around me.
I stalked around the table, the thump of my boots echoing off the linoleum floor. I leaned out the doorway to where Bronx and some of the others were working. Actually, they weren’t working; they were gathered around Patton’s desk, looking at a magazine, all of them laughing like teenagers.
“Put that shit away!” I snapped. They all jumped like they got caught smoking weed and Patton slammed the magazine shut and slid it into his desk drawer.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that,” I told them as they looked around nervously. Dirty magazines were a big no-no around here. Marines needed to be professional and conduct themselves like the representatives of this country they were.
“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” Patton said.
“Get back to work,” I ordered, and they scattered like cockroaches in a well-lit room. “And turn that music up!” I barked.
“Did he say up?” I heard one of the guys whisper to another behind me.
I strode into my office and over to the table and stared down at the stripped weapon. Maybe the methodical cleaning and detailing was exactly what I needed.
The volume of the rock music rose a notch. The loud screaming of the band shoved its way into my head.
Good.
Maybe the sound would drown out my own thoughts.
3
Honor
Consciousness worked its way into my brain like a worm wiggling into a wild apple lying beneath a tree. Little by little, reality came back. When I thought about it later, I wondered if perhaps it was my body’s way of trying to protect me from what was happening.
The sensation of being dragged had awareness fully crashing over me. I felt like a tsunami swept me along, pummeling me with memories of what just happened, taunting me with whispers of the horrible fate that awaited me when I finally opened my eyes.
So I decided that opening my eyes could wait. I didn’t really need to see what was happening right this second… did I? I had no doubt that whatever I would see in the very near future was going to be more than enough.
I concentrated on what was happening around me. Someone—the perverse kidnapper, I presumed—was dragging me at a fairly quick pace. My feet and ankles were being ripped along the ground. I could feel little cuts and nicks stinging my skin near my ankles, and I bit my lip against the pain.
The man had me beneath the armpits, hauling me like a ragdoll. I wondered why he didn’t just carry me; he was big enough. I wasn’t a very large person (something I was seriously sorry for in that moment). All the running I did kept me thin, and I only stood about five foot three.
I was the perfect prey for someone like him.
God, I was so stupid.
What had I been thinking going out on a trail like that alone? Why hadn’t I ever been scared? Why hadn’t my overactive imagination cooked up scenario after scenario of all the vile things that could happen?
Maybe I should have gotten a dog. A big, mean one.
No. I didn’t want that. Because if I did have a dog and he was with me today… he might have gotten hurt trying to protect me. At least I was alone and the only person that would get hurt was me.
What about your family? The spontaneous thought had tears rushing behind my closed lids. Would I ever see them again? How long would it take someone to realize I was missing? I lived a fairly reclusive life. I worked from home—I didn’t have an office or coworkers expecting me at a certain time.
My family and I talked on a regular basis, but not every day. I lived alone. Sometimes I went for days without seeing anyone at all.
I could be dead by then.
My best hope was that my presence online would be noted. That someone—anyone—might notice I wasn’t there posting or chatting people up like normal. But even so, my friends online wouldn’t know that something was wrong. They would likely assume that I got swept up with an idea, that I was hiding in my writing cave.
Sure, after several days of not replying to messages or posting teasers on my fan page, someone would begin to wonder.
I could be dead by then.
Well, shit. I wasn’t ready to die. I had a book to finish. My newest fictional boyfriend had totally stolen my heart. I couldn’t let his story go unfinished.
My eyes sprang open. The will to live and stubbornness kicked in full force. I planted my feet flat on the ground and dug them in. The man towing me along faltered in his steps as my feet tried to run away.
He laughed, holding on to my biceps, and continued walking. My arms were at my sides so I whipped them up behind me and grabbed a handful of the skin on his leg and yanked. Several of his long leg hairs ripped out and the sound gave me a sick satisfaction.
“Agh!” he yelled and dropped me. My teeth slammed together when I hit the ground. I rolled onto my belly and pushed up on hands and knees. He moved fast, drawing his foot back and kicking me in the side, my ribs taking the brunt force.
I groaned and collapsed back onto the ground. The pain was searing. So sharp it made it hard to breathe. Tears blurred my vision, yet I refused to cry. I would not cry. I would not dissolve into a useless puddle.
I was going to fight.
And if I died, I was going to die trying to live.
He reached down and grabbed a handful of my sweaty hair and yanked my head back. He forced me to look into his face. I committed every detail I could to memory.
He was broad, with wide shoulders and thick biceps. His hair was a sandy color, buzzed close to his head. His thick eyebrows slashed straight above his blue eyes. His skin was olive toned, his lips thin and his jaw square.
If he wasn’t kidnapping and trying to kill me, I might think he was attractive. His personality must really leave a lot to be desired if he had to resort to kidnapping women. A face like his would at least get him a date.
I wanted to ask him why he was doing this. What was his motive? What kind of sick pleasure would a man possibly get out of this? But I was afraid of the answer. Besides, I didn’t need to know any of that to fight back.
“You want me to hit you again?” he growled, staring into my face.
I didn’t say anything. The answer was obvious.
He jerked my hair and I cried out. Damn, that hurt. Then I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. I would be damned if I cried out anymore. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me in pain.
“Get up.” He grunted and pulled me up. I was surprised when he drew his hand away that a huge clump of hair didn’t come with it.
Anger infused me and I acted out, raking my fingernails down his nearby arm. I felt his skin give way, and I smiled. I just collected some DNA evidence underneath my finger nails.
He grabbed my arm and twisted it painfully behind my back and shoved me ahead. We walked along (more like he forced me along). I had no idea where we were. It was the woods. On top of a mountain. There were so many locations just like this one in this small Pennsylvania town that my guess would be just that: a guess.
I inhaled, the sharp scent of damp leaves invading my senses. I loved fall. Would that change? Would I forever associate this time of year with my kidnapping?
My foot caught on a branch and I stumbled. Instead of helping me, the man laughed and shoved me farther down. I fell, the side of my face hitting a small rock, and I felt the warm ooze of blood.
The man flipped me over and straddled me, sinking his bulk onto my middle. I held my breath and stared directly into his eyes, not flinching, not backing down.
“Most of ‘em are sniveling and begging for their life right about now,” he drawled.
Most of them?
Had he done this before? Was this like his hobby? Gross.
He ran a finger down my bleeding cheek and pulled it away, showing me the red. “You gonna beg?” he asked, sticking the finger in his mouth and sucking off the blood.
My stomach lurched.
When I didn’t answer, he pull
ed the finger out of his mouth and planted his hands in the dirt on each side of my head. He spread his body out along the top of mine, and I fought the shivers racing up my back. His face drew closer, his hot breath spilling across my face.
“Maybe you’ll like it,” he whispered.
I began to struggle, to kick and hit. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head and then he kissed me. It was a rough kiss, the kind that made my teeth clamp together and my jaw go solid. He ground his mouth over mine fiercely in a way that was so gross that my skin crawled. He simultaneously ground his hips against me.
I went still, playing dead. Maybe he wouldn’t like a woman who lay there like a lump.
Eventually he got tired of violating my mouth and he got up, yanking me with him. He didn’t drag me this time. He didn’t punch or threaten me anymore. He simply picked me up like a sack of potatoes and threw me over his shoulder, making sure to keep one hand on my ass at all times.
But that was the least of my worries.
I paid attention to the ground, to the sounds around us, to the smells. I listened for traffic, for people, for anything that would help me.
All I heard was his breathing. The pounding of my heart. I felt the rush of blood draining to my head and the sharp stab of pain every time his shoulder gouged into my stomach. I don’t know how long he walked. I don’t know how long I’d been gone, how long I’d been passed out. The sun was higher in the sky, which told me it must have been a while.
We could be anywhere.
His steps slowed, and my entire body stiffened.
Was this it?
Were these the last moments of my life?
I noticed something then… the bulge in the back pocket of his jeans. The top of a cell phone peaked out, tempting me.
He stopped walking altogether. Silence rained upon us. Not even a bird dared make a noise. I was presented with a choice. This entire day had been nothing but a series of choices, of attempts at gaining freedom.
I lurched my body to the right, rolling off his shoulder and down his arm. He swore and threw me back up. I made an intense gagging sound, not all of it made up (his shoulder really hurt my gut). He leaned forward like he was trying to get away from a shower of puke, and my body went with him.
I flailed my arms about like I needed help, quickly making my move. Then I gagged again.
He made a disgusted sound and pulled me off him, pushed me away, and held me out. Our eyes met one final time.
And then he let go.
I braced myself for the brunt of the hard ground. Only it didn’t come. My body was forced into a free-fall.
I dropped from the air, the bottom falling out of my stomach as my arms and legs searched for something—anything—to catch myself with.
But there was nothing.
The longer I fell, the darker it became. Until the sunlight was just a beacon above.
And then I hit.
My teeth banged together, biting into my tongue and filling my mouth with the tang of blood. I blinked, trying to rid my head of the throbbing, but it didn’t help. I looked up… up past the tall dirt walls of my prison, up to the tiny round hole at the top.
My captor stood there staring down, watching me, not saying a word.
I lay there unmoving, feeling the damp, cold dirt at my back and against my legs. I lay there and stared at him, hoping he would think I was dead, that the fall broke my neck.
He stood there a long time.
Staring.
Watching.
Waiting.
And then he stepped away, disappearing from sight, leaving nothing above me but the image of trees and sunlight.
I lay there a little bit longer, wondering if he would come back.
When I thought it was safe, I began to wiggle my prize out of the sleeve of my running jacket, jiggling it down into the palm of my hand.
A shadow fell overhead, and I stopped breathing.
He returned.
He stared at me some more. I lay there still unmoving, gripping my lifeline in my hand. Finally, he grunted. And he said three words that scared me more than death itself.
“I’ll be back.”
4
Nathan
On my way home from work, I drove through the drive-thru and got a bucket of fried chicken and some biscuits. I wasn’t used to being up North. When you ordered iced tea here, it didn’t come sweetened. What the hell kind of person drank unsweetened iced tea? It was downright un-American.
As soon as the person at the window handed me the bucket and I drove away, I reached in and pulled out a leg, biting into the crispy, fried skin. It wasn’t as good as they did it in the South, but it was close enough.
As I drove and ate, I marveled at the views beyond the dashboard of my Wrangler. I’d been stationed here six months, and I still wasn’t used to the landscape. It was so different than what I was used to. The mountains were never ending. The way they rose right up from the ground and into the sky was remarkable.
The roads here were two-lane and curvy as hell. Driving a stick shift on these back roads was the worst. Thank God I had four-wheel drive because I had a feeling this winter was going to be a bitch.
Tall trees bursting with autumn hues filled the mountains and grew up to the roads. Rolling hills of tall grass and flowers gave way to small neighborhoods and homes perched right along the curving, dangerous roads.
Pennsylvania was a far cry from the South where I grew up. I was born and raised in Jacksonville, North Carolina. It was a Marine town if I ever saw one. The population there was probably at least half Marines. The economy was always steady because of this and there were bases scattered around town.
The land there was flat. We didn’t have the mountains in Jacksonville, but there was no shortage of beaches. Because the town was so close to the coast, on a super hot day, sometimes you could smell the salt that blew in from the ocean. Jacksonville boasted two temperatures: hot and hell. Sure, sometimes it would be “chilly” in the mornings at sixty degrees, but the sun always chased away the chill.
Here in Pennsylvania, it was always cool. It didn’t matter how high the sun rose, the heat could never compare to that of the South. I guess that was a welcome change. I enjoyed not sweating my balls off in my cammies all day long.
I came around a sharp bend in the road and downshifted, pulling up to my rental, which was one of those houses that sat along the winding road. It also sat away from the others, surrounded by trees and creating the privacy I desperately wanted.
The house needed some work, which was one of the reasons I rented it. It would’ve been easier to rent something closer to where I worked, something in Allentown. But I didn’t want to be around that much congestion. I wanted room to breathe.
Plus, working on the house was a great way to keep busy. And save on rent.
I parked alongside the home and threw open the door, grabbing the chicken and biscuits and going inside.
The house was covered in wooden shingles, making it appear like it belonged in the woods, sort of like a cabin. There were overgrown bushes along the front and the yard was already blanketed with a thick layer of fall leaves.
I unlocked the chipping brown front door and walked through the living room into the kitchen. The large window over the sink flooded the room with sunlight that filtered through the trees in the back yard. I set down my dinner and headed down the hallway, unbuttoning my cammies as I went.
I peeled off the blouse and tossed it across my bed and then bent down to unlace my boots. Once those were off, I undid my boot band that held my pants in place over my boots and tossed those onto the growing pile of clothes on my mattress.
My belt and trousers were next, along with my army green T-shirt. When I was down to nothing but my boxer briefs, I went into the adjoining bath and turned on the shower. The water pressure in here sucked. But at least there was water.
Bathing with baby wipes was worse.
I peeled off the boxers and kicked t
hem away, stepping under the lukewarm spray and pulling the curtain shut.
I stood under the water a long time, hoping it would wash away my day. But my brain wasn’t going to be controlled, and it went to places I really didn’t want to go.
After finishing up, I tossed on a ratty pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and a long-sleeved thermal tee.
I sat at the kitchen counter and ate my southern dinner, the picture hanging on my fridge taunting me as I ate.
Finally, I dropped the leg I’d been working on and wiped the grease coating my fingers on a napkin. I pushed away from the stool and stalked over to stand in front of the picture, crossing my arms over my chest as if I were accepting some unspoken challenge.
The faces in that photo stared back at me, reminding me of better days, of days when I didn’t carry around thick scars that no one could see.
Prior was grinning into the camera, a helmet strapped under his chin. A rifle was slung over his shoulder and war paint smeared his baby face. We used to laugh and tell him that he only wore the paint so women wouldn’t think he was twelve.
To the left of Prior stood Gidding. A solid house of a man, with dark skin and a wide white smile. When he wasn’t working, he was lifting weights. When he wasn’t lifting weights, he was flirting it up with any pair of female legs he could find.
They were both dressed in cammies and boots, with covers perched over their regulation haircuts. They were good men. They didn’t deserve what happened to them.
My eyes wandered over the sole survivor in that photo.
Broad shoulders, narrow waist, extremely short, dark hair. The smile he wore was almost an urban legend, because it was a sight that wasn’t often seen now.
He was the least likely of the trio to survive any kind of attack. He was the least likely of the trio to actually be caught in a dangerous situation.
Yet he had been.
And he was the only one who survived.
I almost didn’t recognize that man in the picture, but it was hard to forget a face you looked at every day in the mirror. I looked a lot different now than I did then. Not so much in features, but in appearance. I was no longer young and motivated. I no longer carried an air of youth and innocence.
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