After Shock

by C. J. Lyons

  He stood only six feet away, too close for comfort, but she couldn’t risk losing him to the blackness that crowded the rest of the barn. Any farther in and she wouldn’t be able to see her own hands holding her weapon, much less her captive.

  “I said, get down on the ground,” she repeated when he didn’t comply. Her voice was swallowed by the darkness, a faint ghost of her usual tone of command.

  She reached behind her, fingers brushing the steel wall, searching for the light switch. The barn was warmer than outside, but not by much, making her glad the man still had his back to her and couldn’t see the chills shaking her aim.

  “You’re dead,” he said in a snarl that she wasn’t sure was a promise or a threat. Didn’t matter as long as she was the one with the gun.

  She felt a switch and flicked it. The outside light above the door behind her came on. Not much help. Instead of black-on-black darkness, now she could make out grey shadows maybe ten feet inside the door. The farm equipment took on the shape of prehistoric monsters, all claws and straggly arms and squat bodies.

  The man made his move, pivoting and lunging at her weapon hand. Lucy rolled with his weight, using her hip to send him up and over, down to the floor. His hand closed over hers, both of them clenching the pistol as he kicked her right foot out from under her and pulled her down on top of him.

  Her weight crashed down onto her injured foot. Pain screamed through her. The fight was surreal: arms and legs flailing in shadows, occasionally crossing the sliver of light coming through the door, then vanishing into darkness once again. He grabbed her hair, pounded her face into the cement floor, releasing a gush of blood from her nose. She shot an elbow so hard into his neck that his head whipped back and sent a bunch of hoes and rakes and shovels that had been leaning against the wall clattering to the floor.

  Finally, the man caught her from behind in a bear hug, both hands now on top of hers, wrapped around the gun. Her free arm was trapped between his arm and his body as he leaned his weight back, hauling her with him, the pistol rising until she aimed at the ceiling. He braced Lucy’s arm against the floor and squirreled his finger around the trigger, pinching her finger as he pulled over and over again.

  The sound of gunshots hammered through the space, echoing and reverberating. Hot brass flew from the semiautomatic, pinging against the concrete floor, searing Lucy’s hand. One casing tumbled into her jacket, hot against her cold body.

  The magazine emptied, and the slide flew back, pinching the man’s hand above hers. The pistol was now useless except as a blunt instrument. The man relaxed his grip, and Lucy took advantage, rolling her weight in the opposite direction and twisting, aiming an elbow to his armpit as she scrambled for one of the garden tools.

  The air smelled of gunpowder and hay. Lucy’s breath came in jagged rasps, each one burning her already-raw throat. She shook away any feeling that could distract her, intent on piercing the shadows and delivering the next blow. The man was taller, bigger, stronger, less exhausted—all he had to do was wear her down. Which meant she had to strike, and strike fast.

  She grabbed a rake near its working end and aimed it like a claw at his face. The movement broke her free of his stranglehold. She kept rolling onto her feet. Big mistake—she’d forgotten about her left foot. Riding the wave of pain, she planted her foot, braced herself with the rake, and aimed a kick to his solar plexus that had him clutching his gut.

  She hopped back, all her weight now on her good leg, groping behind her to lean against the wall and try another kick. Too late, too slow. He was climbing to his feet, half turned away from her, hands lowered as he hauled in a breath.

  Lucy took advantage of his pause and swung the rake at his throat, ready to follow up with a jab to his solar plexus. He saw the movement and grabbed the rake from her, sending her flying face-first into the wall, striking a metal circuit-breaker box hard enough that the crash rang through the space. Fresh pain brought tears to her eyes as the bones in her nose crunched.

  Before she could recover, he grabbed her from behind. She launched her right fist back into his groin, throwing all her weight into it.

  “Bitch,” he gasped as he released her. She spun around. He was breathing hard, but it was from pain, not exhaustion. She was down to her last reserves of energy.

  Lucy had to end this. Now. As he straightened, she pushed off with her good foot, put her head down, and rushed him. She plowed into him, spinning him off-balance so that he faced away from her, and shoved him into the side of a large piece of equipment that sat against the opposite wall. Its shadow suggested that it was big and heavy enough to do some damage.

  Something at the base of the machine must have caught the man’s foot, because he suddenly flipped forward, flying from her grasp. His scream echoed louder than the gunshots. There was a sickening thud of metal meeting flesh, and his scream died.

  Lucy couldn’t stop her momentum, crashing into him from behind, cringing at the feel of unrelenting metal crunching into the man, her weight pushing his body deeper into the maw of the machinery.

  She twisted away, flailing her arms against a darkness so complete she could barely make out the man’s silhouette; the machine had swallowed him. Her hand brushed a horizontal metal bar, then hit a sharp curved blade longer than the spread of her fingers.

  She hobbled away, panting. The man didn’t move, didn’t make a noise. The smell of blood and the sour spray of stomach acid filled the air.

  She backed against the wall, hitting the edge of the large sliding door, and finally found the lights. Flicking them on, three bare bulbs hanging from the curved ceiling twenty feet overhead, she was greeted by a macabre melding of man and machine: A huge combine, painted a cheerful spring green. In front of it, several rows of blades, deadly daggers arranged a few inches apart. Impaled on them, one row spiked through his face, a second through his belly, was the man, his blood pooling at his feet.

  Then

  10:24 a.m.

  Lucy woke, mired in the cotton-packed grogginess of whatever drugs they’d given her. They? He? No, surely there’d been more than one? The void in her memory blindsided her. Terror lanced through her, starting in her gut, then spreading cold throughout her body.

  She fought through the haze. Remembered Nick and Megan leaving, walking to her car—then nothing. It took her a minute to connect her senses to her limbs. Weapon—where was her weapon?

  Not at her hip. Her feet were bare—socks and boots and backup piece missing.

  She pried her eyes open. At least she thought she did. The blackness was so complete that she couldn’t tell which way was up. The vertigo triggered a bout of nausea, and she closed her eyes again, focused on her breathing until it passed.

  Her hands were bound behind her with zip ties, the plastic cutting into her skin. Tight. Very tight. She grabbed hold of that stray thought racing past, thankful to have one clear thing to concentrate on. Forced her muddied mind to repeat it, seeking truth behind it.

  The zip ties were tight. Very tight. Ahh… yes. That was actually good—most people didn’t realize the tighter they were, the more easily zip ties could be broken when stressed in the right way.

  One clear thought led to another as she piecemealed her existence here and now into something she could make sense of. She lay on concrete. Cold. Roughly finished. Basement? Cellar? There was no light, not the faintest crack coming from a window or door. No sounds of the outside world, nor of the inside of a house.

  A silence so deep it produced its own echo.

  Which meant she was alone. No backup. No one to call for help. No one.

  Her body shook with the cold, and she forced herself to return to her inventory. In addition to her weapons, they’d taken her jacket, her belt, her boots and socks, and all her jewelry, including her wedding ring and Megan’s bracelet. Left her in her slacks and blouse—thin protection against the cold, but a comfort nonetheless. They needed her alive and unharmed… for now.

  A quick list of poss
ibilities filled her mind. There was Morgan Ames, the teenage psychopath, daughter of the serial killer Lucy had caught several months ago. But Morgan and Lucy had reached a tentative détente, thanks to Nick. Lucy let Nick counsel Morgan and keep tabs on her while Morgan stayed away from Megan.

  So, not Morgan. Her father reaching out from prison? Maybe, but he had enough on his hands with his trial date approaching. The Zapatas, the drug cartel that had attacked Pittsburgh?

  Maybe. A definite maybe. Because of Lucy, one of their favorite sons was dead, not to mention a huge distribution pipeline destroyed. Grabbing a federal agent from her own driveway? That had cartel written all over it.

  Then why sedate her? Why not just throw her in a car, torture her in some spectacular way destined to go viral on YouTube, and dump her body as a warning?

  Not that it might not still come to that… The chill of terror returned, her entire body shaking as she fought to push back images of what the Zapatas had done south of the border.

  But this felt too… civilized? Too meticulous, too elaborate for the Zapatas.

  Which brought her back to why? If she understood what they wanted, she could find a way out of this. Who were they? What did they want? Why her?

  Without answers, she was helpless.

  Before she could roll onto her feet to start exploring her prison and search for escape routes, a man’s voice rang out from above.

  “The bureau’s official policy is no negotiating with terrorists,” he said in a calm tone. He wasn’t speaking loudly, but the room’s strange acoustics made his voice reverberate as if attacking her from all sides. “You need to know two things about me, Special Agent Guardino. First, I’m not a terrorist. And second, this is not a negotiation.”

  She twisted her body, searching for the source of the voice. Impenetrable blackness greeted her from every direction.

  “At seven o’clock—that’s in eight hours and thirty-two minutes—your family will either be alive or at least one of them will die cursing your name. Who lives and who dies? That is the last choice you will ever make. Because you will die here today. That I promise.”

  It was difficult to understand his words, the way his voice echoed and boomed. But as she analyzed the sound, she realized that the space was smaller than she’d thought. And that the voice came from a speaker—there was a faint hum underlying everything he said.

  So. He wasn’t in here with her. More the pity—a hostage might come in handy when she broke free.

  “Who are you?” she shouted, wincing as her own voice bounced back at her. She shuffled her body across the floor, assessing the dimensions of her prison. It only took two moves to find a wall.

  “Names are unimportant. What you need to know is that I’m a man of my word, and I’ve done this before. Believe me when I tell you I know the outcome of our little encounter here today. I’ve already won. There is nothing for me to lose. But there is everything for you to lose. If I need to, I will kill every person you have ever loved. You will listen to their screams, watch them die, and you will be helpless to do anything about it.”

  Like hell, she thought, bracing herself against the wall. More concrete. Smooth, not cinder block. She pushed herself to a standing position and started to work on the zip ties.

  He continued, “It won’t come to that. It never does. Your only hope, your family’s only hope, is for you to realize I’m telling the truth and give me what I want. You have eight hours and thirty-one minutes left.”

  There was a faint click, and he was gone. Leaving Lucy in the dark, no idea where she was, no idea who he was, and no idea what the hell he wanted from her.

  Now

  5:18 p.m.

  Lucy smeared the back of her hand against her smashed lip, mixing her own blood with the dead man’s.

  It was good to finally have light so she could assess her situation. Make sense of it, make a plan. Why did that simple thought seem to take minutes to process?

  Cold wind gusting through the barn door left her shivering. It didn’t help that she was soaked through and barefoot. Even if she found her boots, she couldn’t put them back on, not with one foot swollen and bleeding, bones crunching every time she placed her weight on it. She needed a doctor’s attention, probably even a surgeon’s, but she couldn’t waste time on a distraction like a broken foot; there was too much at stake. Too much she had to take care of before she could take care of herself.

  Like saving her family.

  She retrieved the rake and gripped its handle, bracing her weight against it, taking the pressure off her foot. Didn’t stop the pain. Her body felt like a firing range target after a SWAT team drill: a scattershot of holes and gashes and ragged tears.

  Each beat of her heart throbbed through her entire being, pinpointing an assortment of injuries: Knuckles scraped raw. One hand not working quite right. Probably more broken bones. It was hard to breathe with her nose dripping mucus and blood.

  Her throat felt swollen to the point that each gasp threatened to strangle her and finish the job the man facedown at her feet had begun. He’d promised that by seven o’clock someone would be dead.

  And he’d said he was a man of his word.

  What time was it now? Panic surged through her, but she forced herself to take things one step at a time. First, a way to warn her family.

  She stared down at the man she’d killed. Grunting with pain, the rake wavering as she balanced it against the concrete floor, she awkwardly searched his pockets with one hand. Contaminating the crime scene. She knew better.

  As an FBI supervisory special agent, she’d be called upon to describe and defend each blow of the encounter. It wasn’t often an FBI agent was forced to kill a man in close-quarters combat. The brass, the lawyers, the shrinks—they would all be dissecting every second, every decision she made, every step she took today. God, the press—they’d have a field day.

  “You sonofabitch,” she muttered, long past caring that there was no one alive to hear her. Once again her voice surprised her, emerging as a thin whisper, barely audible even here in the still and quiet barn. It hurt to speak, but no more than any of her other injuries. “Give me something. Car keys, a phone—”

  Nothing.

  She cursed and straightened, her bad foot throbbing. Red flashes strobed into her vision with each heartbeat. He had to have a phone.

  His vehicle. He must have left it in his vehicle.

  The cavernous barn was filled with large equipment: the combine, a smaller tractor, various blades and attachments. The door at the opposite end seemed miles away, but she had no choice. There was no phone here inside, nothing to help her reach her family.

  As she limped toward the door, shivering at even the thought of returning outside to the cold, anxiety pounded through her, driving her despite the pain. Had he kept his word? Sent his men after Nick? Or had he betrayed her and sent them after Megan? Maybe her mother?

  No way of knowing.

  She was damned if he had, damned if he hadn’t. At least, either way, he was still dead.

  She didn’t even know his name. A weak rumble of laughter shook her. She clutched the rake tighter, bracing her body with it. Couldn’t risk falling. Might never get back up again.

  The thought brought more impotent laughter mixed with tears. The sound was sharp, raspy, no louder than a whisper. Yet, despite the pain from her bruised vocal cords, she couldn’t stop.

  Hysteria. Shock. Not to mention a healthy dose of awe.

  Who in their right mind would have predicted that a Pittsburgh soccer mom, an FBI agent with a job meant to keep her chained to a desk, a woman barely five foot five, would have ended her day killing a man with her bare hands?

  Sure as hell was the last thing on Lucy’s mind when she got up this morning.

  Then

  10:52 a.m.

  Lucy shivered in the absolute darkness of the prison her kidnapper had left her in. It had been a long time since Lucy had done any tactical training involving close-qu
arters combat or skills like breaking free from zip ties. Her job as head of the Sexual Assault Felony Enforcement squad required a different set of talents: managing a multiagency, multidisciplinary task force, investigating cases no one else wanted, and playing diplomat to local, state, and fellow federal law enforcement agencies.

  Now that 90 percent of the Bureau’s resources were dedicated to counterterrorism and financial crimes, the rest of the Pittsburgh field office had dubbed her tiny corner of the building the Island of Misfit Boys. Catching terrorists was so much sexier than chasing pedophiles and serial rapists, but Lucy wouldn’t have it any other way. Her people were twice as dedicated and ten times as determined as any other squad in the Bureau. They might not make headlines, but they saved lives.

  Despite the long hours at the desk required by her position, Lucy made sure she stayed in shape and kept up with the latest tactics. At least she hoped she had, seeing as her life now depended on it.

  Nausea roiled through her gut. Not just her life. Maybe her family’s as well.

  No. She couldn’t think that way. If her kidnapper had Nick or Megan, he would have shown her proof, used it against her. Which meant they were safe. For now. Her only job was to get the hell out of here and keep them that way.

  The tight restraints had left her hands numb. Lucy raised them as high as she could and brought her bound wrists down hard against her tailbone. Nothing. This had definitely been easier to do when she was a few years younger.

  She shifted position, bracing herself against the wall. The disembodied man—oh, how would she love to disembody him for real—had threatened her family. She allowed her rage, her sense of violation, her fear to flow through her, tightened her muscles and strained her shoulders to raise her arms higher, and brought them down in one quick snapping motion.