by JA Huss
“OK,” she whimpers.
“Now that you’re comfortable”—she lets out a tiny huff of air to let me know she disagrees, but I ignore it this time—“let’s talk about Garrett. Where is he?”
“You killed him.”
“I did not kill him. But I’d very much like to.”
“He disappeared years ago. And if you’ve been watching me, and I know you have, then you already know this.”
She’s brave, I’ll give her that. Because that was a statement of defiance. Arrogant, almost. But she is also stupid.
I sit up and remove my body heat from her. She takes a few quick breaths, but then calms herself and whispers, “Wait.”
“Too late, cowgirl. Or should I just start calling you wildcat? Hmmm? Too fucking late. You’ll learn. Eventually.”
I get off the table and walk over to the water hose and turn it on again.
She does not move as I spray her a third time. But she bites her lip hard enough to draw blood and when I turn the water off, she is practically convulsing, she is so cold.
I drop the hose on the floor and walk back over to her.
“I thought you killed him, Case. I swear to God. I thought you killed him and my father. I don’t know where he is.”
“I did kill your father. Right here on this table.” That makes her whimper. “But Garrett got away. Where did he go and what is he doing?”
She squints her eyes and shakes her head a little. But she knows what will come if she doesn’t answer now. She knows I’m not fucking around. I’m not here to coddle her through this. I’m not here to pry it out of her. So she gulps down some air and responds.
“Maybe he went to our cabin?”
“I checked. And then I burned it down.” She sucks in a breath at that. And why does she care? It makes me wonder. It pisses me off, actually. “So try again.”
“Camping somewhere?” she offers.
“Where?”
“The campsites don’t have names that make sense to anyone but us. I could show you—”
“Wrong. Try your best, Sydney. Tell me where he camps and I won’t have to spray you again.”
She draws up her knees, since her legs are still untied, trying to cover herself from the thought of the ice-cold water. And then she squints her eyes again. I realize this means she’s thinking. But I haven’t had enough personal contact with her to discern if it means she’s thinking up a lie or just regular thinking.
“Always up in Yellowstone. Purple Mountain is where we start. And then we veer off at the second switchback, and continue to climb to the top of the mountain, and then double back on the opposite side. There’s a deer trail—”
“Do you think he’s there?”
“No,” she answers immediately, and I smile.
“No, he’s not. I followed the two of you there several times. So I’ve checked, and had others check, repeatedly over the years. Where else?”
She continues to list their camping spots and each time she says no to my question. I know he’s not camping, but this gives her time to think about how she wants this to go. And since I’m a reasonable guy, I give her this time.
“That all?” I ask, when she’s finally done. Her teeth have been chattering for so long I think she’s probably losing weight before my eyes, that’s how tense her muscles are.
“That’s it, Case. I swear.” It comes out Cccc-aaaase and swww-eeee-aar.
I believe her. I’ve checked all of them several times over the years. It’s like the man really does know how to vanish. Of course, the world is big and I am just one person. I have a partner, but even two people can miss a few places when you have to cover the whole earth looking for someone.
But none of this makes any sense. And it’s all pointless right now anyway. I’m only here to establish control, and I think I’ve succeeded in doing that. “Well, I’m tired. And hungry. So you get some rest.”
I reach into my pocket and withdraw the syringe, uncapping it with a flick of my thumb, and press it into the fleshy muscle of her upper arm. “You can sleep too. But food, Sydney, food is a reward. Not a right. You can go a few more days before I really need to feed you.”
She whimpers, but cuts it off almost immediately. “I’m cold.”
“You’re supposed to be.”
“Pppp-lease,” she stutters, her lips trembling and her legs shaking. “Warm me again. Please.”
I place my hand over her belly like I did earlier, and she relaxes with a long breath of air. “I like to see you suffer, Sydney. Make no mistake. I didn’t warm you earlier to make you happy. I did it to confuse you. I’ll give you a tip. To help you get through the next few days before I kill you—”
“No,” she says, begging. “No, please.”
“I hate your fucking guts. I have been dreaming about killing you for years. Just like I dreamt about how I’d kill your father. I tortured him on top of this very table. It’s stained with his blood. And yours will add to it. So if you want it to go easy, do what you’re told. Don’t lie. And don’t expect me to give a shit. Because I’m more than happy to fuck with your head for a few days as I pry this information out of you. Information I know you have. And I will get it.”
She cries then. Full-on sobs. I wait for the drugs to take over and then I cut the rope that binds her to the wall at the head of the table. She tries to sit up and fails, and then the sleepiness overtakes her pathetic attempt at a fight and she curls into herself like a baby, desperate to find some warmth.
I take a deep breath and walk over to the hose, roll it up and place it on the hook in the connecting utility room, then close and lock the door behind me. I remove my night vision goggles before I flip on the light, and then I place those in the little cubby of gear before walking through the next door and back out into my cabin.
It’s cold in this room. I’ve been with her for at least two hours so the fire has died down. I throw some wood on it and change out of my wet clothes and stir the stew that’s been cooking over the flame all day to stimulate her hunger response. I spoon some into a camping bowl and sit down on the couch a few feet away from the hearth and eat.
When I’m done I stretch out, pulling the bearskin that hangs over the back of the couch over me, and I think about what to do next.
I think up all the ways I might break her. I have no shortage of ways. But even though I knew how I’d kill her father, Senator Channing, from the moment he fucked with my life, I have no such plan for Sydney. I have run it all through my mind over and over again, but how to do it so it’s satisfying? I’m not sure.
Strangulation during sex is currently at the top of my list. But I’ve always enjoyed slitting throats. It’s quick, which I hate. But messy, which I love.
Then there is my specialty, of course. Assassination-style. Bullet to the back of the head.
I don’t know. I can’t decide. If I get her to take me to Garrett, I could do them both each way. I know exactly how I’m gonna kill that motherfucker.
I smile at the thought and then I turn over and close my eyes, enjoying the warm fire and the stew in my stomach.
It surprises me how satisfied I am with her first real day of questioning. I broke her quickly. A lot quicker than I expected. She’s grown weak, perhaps. He beat her down pretty good, but his absence makes her weak. He must know this. She’s been away from him. Living her seemingly normal life in Cheyenne. Running her little country western bar. Theme nights and live bands replaced her militia training.
But that shit never goes away, I remind myself. It might get rusty. You forget what it feels like to live minute by minute, struggling to go on. But it comes back quick enough if the training is done right.
And her training was exceptional. Garrett knew exactly what he was doing when he took her away that night they tried to kill me. He knew. He set me up then and he’s setting me up now. I can feel it. Something is off. Something is wrong.
Maybe he’s good enough to evade me all these years and get away w
ith it. He was trained better than me, that’s for sure. He was a Company kid and I was just a stand-in after the rest of the assassins were picked off one at a time by a friend of mine. But I’m a natural, they tell me. I’m a natural killer. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.
A psychopath.
A cold, emotionless, empty shell of a man whose only goal in life is to kill this girl and the man who trained her, so I can set my world straight again.
Chapter Seven - Sydney
“When all my power is stripped away, I still have choices. Like choosing not to give a shit. That’s a very powerful choice when a person thinks she has no power.” – Sydney
When I wake my whole body hurts. Everywhere the high-pressure water touched me stings like I was burned. I’m untethered, but when I move my legs, the knife pricks erupt in pain. One alone is not enough to matter. But dozens of them all up the inside of my thigh are far, far harder to ignore.
I swallow and realize I’m thirsty again. He’s drugging me. The drugs make me confused. But I’ve always been thirsty. I drink a lot of water on normal days, and being deprived—
Wait. The sink is dripping again.
It’s drugged, my mind tells me.
But why drug it when I just woke up? No. He’s doing something with me. I’m not sure what, but it makes no sense that the water—
I’m cold, I suddenly realize. My whole body is shivering. My dark world comes fully back to me as I wake up from the fog. Everything is so cold, everything… except my feet. They are toasty warm.
Why? Why does none of this make any sense?
I sit up and get dizzy in the blackness with no reference point to concentrate on. I gather myself and wait for my vision to clear.
It never clears. So I close my eyes and swing my legs over. I don’t need eyes. What good are eyes in the dark? After a few minutes I reach down with my toe, noticing they are no longer warm—so that was not some freak accident of biology heating me up—and touch the rough concrete floor. I stand, sway for a moment as I hold onto the table, and then use it to walk to the end. It’s warm over here.
I drop to my knees and crawl forward, the heat building as I go. I get to a wall—not wood, but metal—and my whole palm flattens against it.
It’s a heater or something. About three feet wide and three feet tall. I press my whole body up against it and I can hear sound from the other side.
A fire. It’s a fireplace, only I’m on the other side of it. Separated by a sheet of metal.
But that is better than anything I could’ve hoped for. I sit there, willing myself to relax. He gave me heat. And water, I think as I absently log the sound of the drips on the other side of the room. Heat and water. And I’m clean.
He gave me three things. Which means he will give me more.
I have a little glimmer of hope.
A sudden grating sound shakes me from this fantasy I’m building and there’s a sliver of light as a tray is pushed through a plate-sized hole at the bottom of the room, where the sink is.
Food. That’s four things. And I didn’t do anything for these last two except wake up. I swallow down what that might imply, and crawl along the wall until I reach the tray. The meat is cold and the fruit is warm. But I don’t mind cold meat or warm fruit.
I take a few berries—absently wondering where he got them in the dead of winter—and stuff them in my mouth. They are not very sweet, but I don’t care. The raspberries are ripe and soft. They practically melt in my mouth.
The meat is gamey, but I like game meat. Have learned to like game meat after so many years camping with Garrett. It’s elk, I can tell. There’s not a lot of it, only a few mouthfuls. But it’s been so long since I ate, my stomach feels full when I finish. I force myself to eat the berries too—needing the vitamins they contain—and then I stand up and feel my way over to the dripping sink. I lean my head down and let it pool into my mouth until I can swallow enough to matter, then repeat this a few more times until I feel satisfied. I walk back over to the heat and lie down in front of it, listening for the crackle of wood.
What is he doing?
I ask myself that over and over again. But I already know the answer. He wants Garrett. Hell, I want Garrett.
No. You want Brett, not Garrett.
Is that true? Do I want Brett? What must he think of me? Running away from our wedding? Does he think I planned an escape? Does he think I’ve been kidnapped? Is he looking for me right now? Did he find my truck out there on the mountain?
There was blood in there. I crashed. So that’s why my body is so sore. Maybe it’s not from the hose? Maybe it’s from the crash?
I’m so confused. Why did I ever leave Brett? He was the only good thing in my life since Garrett left.
Case would kill him and you know this, Sydney.
Case would. I have no doubts now. I did the right thing by leaving. Right thing for Brett, anyway. Me? Not so much.
Case is going to kill me. Whatever kindness he’s showing me now is just a means to an end. He’s keeping me alive for his own purposes. He said as much. He hates me and he’s looking forward to my death.
And he killed my father.
Do I care?
No. No, that was another blessing in disguise. My father was a monster. If Case is the monster in the dark, my father is the monster in the light. Hidden by the brightness of his career, his money, and his status.
I let out a small laugh. “Not anymore, asshole.” Because he’s dead. I look around the room and see only blackness. But I can imagine it in my mind. I have a very active imagination. I can imagine my father writhing in pain on that table. Maybe he had the fire hose treatment too?
I laugh for real, picturing him getting one of his suits cut off him. Case slicing him up instead of poking. I mean, I’m young, and cute, and sexy. Even I know this. And my father is old, and mean, and ugly. Case would not be cupping his hand over my father’s private parts like he did mine.
Why did he do that?
He’s going to rape you, Sydney.
I take a moment to let that sink it. He’s going to rape me. I know it. I can feel it.
You can use that against him.
Maybe I can.
A door creaks open on the other side of the room and I force myself not to move. I stare in that direction. No light escapes, like it did when the tray of food was pushed through, so I can’t see anything.
But I can certainly feel him coming in. I can smell him too. And it’s not a rank smell. He doesn’t smell like someone who’s been camping in the woods for a few weeks. This cabin has a shower somewhere, because he just smells like a man.
“What do you want?”
“You know what I want,” he replies.
“I can tell you everywhere I think Garrett is.”
“I know that, Sydney. But that’s not what I want. I want the place you know him to be.”
“I don’t have that information.”
“You do,” Case insists. “And I’m going to get it out of you.”
“And then rape me and kill me.”
He laughs and my skin prickles up and down my arms. He laughs again and the hair on the nape of my neck stands up. I don’t even have a word for how his laugh affects me.
Fear, that inner voice says. Terror.
I take a deep breath. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“You’re afraid of everything, Sydney Channing. I’ve been watching you for eight years and never have I ever come across a weaker girl. I have known twelve-year-old girls who are braver than you are right now.”
“I’m not sure she counts.”
“Fuck you,” he snarls.
“You’d like to, wouldn’t you.”
He walks towards me in the dark and I realize he’s wearing night vision. Has been this whole time. Every moment I thought I was in the dark was a lie I told myself. How could he see me nod my head, how could he see I
was wearing pretty panties, how could he cut my clothes off me if he wasn’t wearing night vision?
My stomach churns as his boots thud across the floor and then he’s there in front of me. Before I can scoot away, he’s pulled me up to him, holding me against his chest, squeezing my upper arms so tightly I know he’s leaving marks on my skin.
“There’s a huge difference between brave and stupid. You are stupid.”
“Why should I care if I’m stupid?” I ask him. His breath is hot and it floods across my face, smelling a little bit like raspberries. “You’re going to torture me, rape me, and then kill me. What do I have to lose by being stupid instead of brave?”
“Your fiancé,” he replies.
I have to admit, this catches me off guard.
“I know why you left. How many times do I have to say it? I own you. I own your mind, I own your body, and I own your future.” He pauses, like he’s thinking. “Or what’s left of it.”
I struggle to get away and he lets me slip out of his grasp. I back up a few paces, then trip over the lip of the hearth, falling back on my ass. I look up where I think his face is. “If I knew, Case”—I use his name. Isn’t that what they tell you to do? To make a kidnapper see you as a person instead of a target?—“I’d tell you. But I have no clue where Garrett is. I really thought he was dead. I really thought you killed him. I really—”
Case grabs me by the arms and pulls me to my feet before I can finish, dragging me back over to the table. He picks me up, sits me on it, still holding me tightly, and then leans down into my ear. “I know that’s what you think. That’s why you’re still alive.”
That makes no sense.
But then there’s a prick of the syringe into my arm and the burn of drugs as they are forced into my muscle.
“Why are you drugging me?” I ask, my voice trembling. “I’ll answer any question you have, just please. Stop drugging me.”
Chapter Eight - Merc
