The Pleasure of Panic

by JA Huss

  I want to ask, Watch what?

  He cuts the zip ties around my ankles, pulls me to my feet, and then I have to concentrate on not smashing my face into the wall, or falling down the stairs and breaking my neck.

  When we get down there all the fuzziness fades. The world comes back to me in perfect fucking clarity like a wind rushing across my face in the cold, winter night.

  Issy is in the center of the room wearing a white gi with a white belt, facing down a huge man who towers over her like a giant. She’s bleeding from one eye. Her lip is split, and someone has duct-taped wrist and ankle weights to her arms and legs.

  “Come on, Issy,” Caleb shouts. He pushes me down onto the floor, steps on the small of my back, pinning me underneath his boot, and yells, “Fight for your life! Fight for your future! Fight for your man!” And then he drops his voice several octaves. “Because if you lose—” Everyone goes silent. It’s like a fuckin’ movie or something. A cross between Children of the Corn and Fight Club. They are desperate to hear his threat. “I’m gonna kill him right in front of you.”

  Which is pretty uninspiring if you ask me. How he ever got these assholes to do his bidding, I’ll never know.

  But he’s not done. Because he adds to that. “And then you and I will have a little private time together.”

  I look over at Issy. Meet her eyes as she meets mine. We touch each other’s souls.

  But then we diverge.

  Because she nods yes and I shake no, and…

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - ISSY

  My body is spinning in the air the moment after I nod my head yes. Because you know what? I’m fucking sick of this Goddamned game. I’m gonna end it. But not only will I end it… I’m gonna win it.

  I grab Gargantuan by the neck, slide my body—leg extended—around his back, and push down on his head with all one hundred and fifteen pounds of girl power.

  He drops to the floor and even though the weights on my ankles and wrists were supposed to make this difficult, they sure do come in handy when they connect with his ribs and his face.

  I get his nose first. To make the blood flow, clog his breathing, and make him weak. Then the eye, because the eyes swell up so pretty if you hit them hard enough. Then the teeth. Just because I want him to remember what I did every time he looks in the Goddamned mirror.

  A sick feeling floods my body when I hear the crack of breaking enamel.

  Blood spatters everywhere. He’s moaning, and rolling over on the ground, and I’m just about to turn and take out the next guy when I’m slammed down onto the hardwood floor, face first—so the mud and melted snow tracked in from outside coats my cheek when they bind my wrists and ankles again.

  I turn my head, find Caleb’s face, and spit in his direction. “There’s your show,” I say, smiling at him. “I hope you got a kick out of it.”

  He doesn’t smile back. I don’t get the brave face. I don’t get the attitude, or the jokes, or the threats.

  I just get that look. That look I know so well from my memory. The one that said, Go to bed, Izett. I’ll be up to tuck you in later.

  The look that would make me go directly to the upstairs hall bathroom, sit in front of the open toilet, and throw up.

  Every. Single. Time.

  And it takes every fuckin’ ounce of strength I’ve built up over the past eight years not to puke right now.

  I think he’s going to rape me.

  “Aw, come on now, baby. Don’t be afraid.” Caleb bends down right next to me to grab my hair and pull my head up off the floor so I can look him in the eyes. He strokes my cheek. “Izett,” he whispers. “Don’t worry. We know just how you like it. Did you know that your boy here sent his boss a text last night? And do you have any idea what he said in that text?”

  My heart skips. Remembering Finn, sitting in his car outside my house, texting on his phone.

  “It said you thought you were playing a game. And do you know what kind of game he told his boss you thought you were playing?”

  I close my eyes to shut him out, but he yanks my head back so far, I can’t breathe.

  “Open your eyes and look at me, bitch!” And then his other hand is wrapped around my throat, squeezing until I have to. I have to obey and do what he says because I want to breathe again.

  “He said you had a fantasy. You wanted to be fucked in front of other people. Well, baby girl”—I close my eyes and whimper a little—“I’m gonna make your fantasy come true. Right here. Right now.”

  While all this is happening, Finn was picked up, walked over to where I am, and he’s thrown down next to me. His face bloody, just like mine. One eye almost swollen shut.

  But one eye is fully open.

  And it winks.

  “What?” I breathe, not even making a sound. Just lips moving.

  He winks again.

  I squint back at him. Tilt my head. Is he fucking with me right now? Is he trying to tell me this is all part of the game?

  But he’s not smiling. This is no joke.

  Before I can fully imagine what is happening here, the door bursts open and a man walks in.

  A man I recognize. A man who should not be here, but is.

  He’s older. He has short, white hair. Clean-shaven—in fact, I can smell his aftershave as he walks past me on the floor. I turn my head to follow him. Take in his expensive suit, black trench coat, and American flag pin on his lapel.

  Senator Walcott. Chella’s father.

  And this is how I know we’re not playing a game.

  This is how I know Finn’s wink—blink, whatever it was—wasn’t saying, Be cool, Issy. You’re fine.

  It was saying, See you on the other side, babe.

  “What in the ever-loving fuck is going on here?” the senator bellows, looking around from face to face until his intent gaze rests on Caleb’s.

  Caleb is still kneeling down, holding my hair, hand squeezing my neck, his threat of rape still echoing in my head. But he lets go now. My face falls, hitting the floor, my eyes on Finn and his on mine.

  He doesn’t wink again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - FINN

  I know this man. Walcott. Senator Walcott. A part of me is relieved to see him. It puts things in perspective. It all adds up. It almost makes sense.

  “Do you know how fuckin’ close you came to being arrested tonight, Senator?” Caleb says.

  “What are you talking about? I told you to keep your fuckin’ head down after you got out and what did you do on your first day of freedom? You go and kidnap a girl.”

  “Is that what I did?” Caleb says. He starts pacing the floor, making a wide circle around the senator. “Is that what you think this is about? This girl? I didn’t take her,” he sneers. “She was just there when I took him.”

  He points at me.

  The senator’s gaze lands on me. He squints, confused.

  I sigh. Close my eyes. Open them and look at Issy. She’s confused too.

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “This?” Caleb says, kicking me in the ribs. “This is Special Agent Finn Murphy, Senator. The guy they sent here to bring you down, motherfucker!”

  I’m still looking at Issy. She’s still looking confused, so I shrug, close my eyes, shake my head, and shrug again.

  But then the senator comes to stand between us, severing our connection. “What?”

  “What?” Caleb mocks. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Do I need to spell it out for you?”

  The senator doesn’t answer.

  So Caleb continues. “About four months ago there was a raid outside DC, remember that?” He kicks me again. Right in the same place as last time.

  “Drugs?” the senator says.

  “Good guess, but try again, you goddamned elitist idiot. Payoffs, asshole. You remember what those are, right? Bribes? You should,” Caleb says. “You took enough of them.”

  The senator stays silent.

  “And there was a standoff between two federal agents. Both named Murphy.
”

  No, no, no. This asshole does not get to tell my fucking story.

  “And they drew on each other.” He leans down to grab my hair the same way he was grabbing Issy. “Isn’t that right, Finn? But you, being younger, got there first and pulled that trigger.”

  I close my eyes, wanting to make this all go away.

  “At least you thought you did. Maybe.” He stops to lean over to look me in the eyes. “Did you really think you killed him?”

  “What?” I croak.

  “That wasn’t a trick question, son. Did you really think he died?”

  “Of course he fuckin’ died!” I say. “I went to his goddamned funeral!”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I’m—” But I stop. Think about that day. I caught him taking bribes. I confronted him. He pleaded with me to see it his way. Tried to give me some of the money. And I said no, and I said a lot of other shit too, and then we drew. Him first, but really, me first. And we fired.

  I shot him in the chest, but he didn’t have armor on. He shot me in the chest too, but I did have armor on.

  Then there were sirens and flashing lights, and I was in the ambulance, and he was in another ambulance, and a few hours later, his boss, Deputy Assistant Director Kenner, came into my hospital room—I had two broken ribs because his bullet didn’t hit me center mass—and he broke the news.

  “Your father didn’t die, Finn. They all lied to you. They’ve been lying to you your whole life and you ate it up. And so when they pulled you aside after he died”—Caleb does air quotes for that—“they offered you a deal, right? ‘Go spy on someone for us. Go get those bad guys. Go bring them in, Finnegan. And we will forgive you for killing one of our own. For killing your father? No. Just one of our own.’”

  “What?” Issy whispers. “This is all about you?” she asks.

  “And then I found this,” Caleb continues. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that he’s holding up my burner phone.

  He throws it at me, hitting me in the head. It bounces off me, then it bounces off Issy’s cheek, leaving a red mark. Just like it left a red mark on mine when she threw it at my cheek in the car.

  It spins, like a top, between us.

  Caleb and the senator argue back and forth about who is about to go down, walking into the kitchen to look for a drink.

  I realize this is the fucking safe house Declan sent me to with Issy. And just as that thought manifests in my head, he’s there. Standing in the doorway, looking down at me with pure malice.

  He looks at me, then Issy, and I close my eyes and pray, Don’t, please don’t… please don’t…

  Then he says, “Go get rid of that fuckin’ car,” to the group of thugs waiting around for Caleb to give them orders. “Take it somewhere remote and drive it over a cliff.”

  The goons leave. Even the giant who started this little party fighting a girl. Someone helps him up and he stumbles through the door, probably hoping he can get dropped off at a hospital.

  Declan joins Caleb and the senator in the kitchen while I take my attention back to Issy.

  Get the phone! I mouth.

  Her eyes dart to it, then to me. How?

  Scoot, I mouth. Grab. Pass.

  She nods, understanding, as she scoots her body down, turns on her side, grabs the phone between the palms of her bound hands, and then maneuvers herself almost on top of my back to hand it off to me.

  My fingertips find all the buttons. Because this is an old phone. It’s not a smartphone. Hell, that little bit of clear plastic hardly even counts as a screen. So I find the right button. The one I programmed for my contact when I took this deal and left DC to go undercover in Denver to pay the Bureau back because I killed my father.

  As I press it, I wonder if he’s gonna be the guy to pick it up on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  The voice is so loud in this small house.

  “Hello?” it says again.

  And then the phone is kicked out of my hands. I am kicked, repeatedly. In the ribs, in the face, in the chest…

  Issy is screaming as Declan pulls her up from the floor, and drags her down a hallway into a bedroom.

  The senator follows Declan, unbuckling his belt as he walks.

  And then Caleb grabs my hair once more, forces my head back, and says, “She’s gonna pay for that. We’re gonna make sure her little sex fantasy comes true.”

  My heart races, thumping inside my chest as he stands back up, walks down the hallway, and stops. Turning to look at me.

  “Don’t worry,” Caleb says. “I’ll leave the door open for ya.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - ISSY

  Like I said. I have two God-given talents. Martial arts and an ability to make people believe what I tell them. I’m holding on to those two things right now. Because three men are now crowding me. Declan, Finn’s partner, the fucking FBI. Senator Walcott, Chella’s father, the fucking voice of Washington. And Caleb, my one-time stepfather, the man in my nightmares.

  Their hands on my body. Their mouths talking, saying things that don’t even register in my brain because they are dark, sick, evil, and none of what they say matters. That’s one thing I learned about being a public speaker. My words are only words. It’s the people listening who give them power.

  I refuse to give these men my power. I refuse to hear their disgusting threats. I refuse to let them crawl inside me and turn me back into the small, scared girl I used to be.

  I just stare at them. Face blank. Body motionless. Eyes focused.

  Because they have a little problem.

  My ankles are bound.

  I want to smile, but I force it down and I wait.

  They don’t need my legs open, Declan is saying. They could rape me any number of ways, Caleb adds. But where’s the fun in that? Walcott replies.

  Where is the fun in that?

  These are some sick, sick people.

  There are hands on me. Sliding up my shirt like those hands belong there.

  Caleb says something like, “You’re about to get your fantasy.”

  And I’m thinking, No, you asshole. My fantasy never involved anything nonconsensual. I won’t apologize for a fantasy. I refuse to buy into the notion that my private fantasy gives them permission to do this to me right now.

  I don’t say that. I say this instead. “There is no traffic jam on the extra mile.”

  The senator stops fondling me and says, “What?”

  “If you aim at nothing you’ll hit it every time.”

  Caleb is holding my legs down as Declan cuts the zip ties around my ankles. He doesn’t hear my remarks, he’s too busy picturing what he’ll be doing next. So by the time it registers in his stupid, pea-sized brain, the tension is gone from my ankles, the senator is looking confused, and Declan is standing up at the foot of the bed, folding knife in hand, right next to Caleb.

  Your legs are powerful. When someone is on top of you and you don’t want them there, your legs are your best weapon.

  The moment that tension releases I kick, thrusting the heel of my foot up, right under Declan’s chin. The force is hard enough to break his jaw and the sickening crack that happens simultaneously coincides with Caleb moving forward to grab my bound arms like he’s about to take control.

  Big mistake, asshole.

  Because I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire adult life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - FINN

  The second Caleb disappears into the bedroom, I’m on my knees. FBI tip number one—zip-tied hands are useless if you don’t tie their feet too.

  And I’m lucky, I guess. Because Declan knows this. If he was the one in charge of me, my ankles would be bound. But he wasn’t. And once I’m on my knees I can get to my feet. And once I’m on my feet it’s over, assholes.

  Because there are many ways to break out of zip ties. Both with hands in front and hands in back. Some of them easy enough for children, given enough time alone.

  But this method i
s quick.

  Thumbs facing each other, bend over, throw your shoulders wide and—snap!

  It doesn’t work the first time, every time. But it does this time. And this time is the only one that matters.

  My wrists are burning, the pain in my shoulders searing. But my hands are free.

  And that’s when I hear Issy say, “If you aim at nothing you’ll hit it every time.”

  Which makes me smile.

  I’m down the hall, standing in the doorway, watching as the tiny woman—this little control freak, this crazy cute demon, this woman who feels like my soulmate in a small package—breaks Declan’s jaw with a heel to his chin.

  Her aim is true and she hits it hard.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - ISSY

  My other knee is already pressed into Caleb’s stomach, giving me enough time to reposition leg number one as I squirm, bring it in underneath his chest, and kick him back so hard, he knocks Declan backwards into the wall.

  I wish my students were here. Because right now I feel like a Goddamned role model.

  A shadow off to my left makes me look. Finn is standing in the doorway, blood dripping off his wrists where he just broke free of his zip ties.

  And that one stupid second is enough time for the senator to pull out a gun from inside his jacket and point it at me.

  “Don’t move,” he snarls, backing up so he can target me, but still keep Finn in view. “I’ll fucking shoot her if you move.”

  And you know what I say back? Still lying there on that bed? My shirt all rumpled from where his disgusting sweaty hands were feeling me up just two seconds ago?

  I say, “Go fuck yourself.”

  Without the asterisk.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - FINN

  She twists, feet flying as she flips herself into a backwards somersault, ending up crouched down on the mattress, balancing on the balls of her feet, bound hands in front of her as she leaps through the air like she’s about to choke this motherfucker to death.