by T. Hammond
My second observation was my location, on my stomach on a cement floor. That explains the cold seeping through me. The room was not well insulated against the freezing temperatures outside. I was shivering weakly, my damp clothing ineffectual against the ice-cold of the ground beneath me. I made an attempt to lift my cheek up, realizing for the first time my arms were bound behind my back. My coat was missing, so all I wore was a thin sweater over a long-sleeve thermal shirt. My jeans were damp, a result of Bad Guy One, the Asshole, dragging me across the snow. I was still wearing my thermal gloves, and whatever bound my wrists was tied over the thick material, preventing chafing. I wriggled my wrists. No clicking noise to indicate metal handcuffs. The binding had a snug but slightly spongy feel. My guess was duct tape or something similar. Immediately I sent a silent thanks to Bad Guy Three, the Psychopathic Idiot; Banner was his name. Only someone extremely lame would duct tape a victim over their gloves. The tape didn’t feel like it extended up around the bared flesh of my wrists, so potentially, I could work my hands out of the gloves. But not yet.
As my mind cleared further with each lungful of air, my third thought was: I’m alone in the room. My ability to reason returned in direct proportion to my numbing awareness of my dilemma. My body had grown tense as I started to panic, so I forced myself to relax each muscle starting with my head, still held up above the floor. My cheek back on the chilled cement, I willed my shoulders to slacken, then my arms, then hands. I exhaled and felt calmness take the stiffness from my back, then my legs. My feet were on their own, as I still had no feeling in them. Not good, they were going to hurt like a bitch when circulation returned.
I forced my eyes closed, an attempt to focus on smell and sound. I’m not sure why, probably psychological, but my other senses always seemed a tad sharper when I wasn’t straining to see out of useless eyes.
Dirt. Oil. Gasoline. A hint of exhaust, although not recent. I was on a cement slab-on-grade floor. In a garage? I wondered why they hadn’t thrown me into a basement instead, as most homes in the Spokane area had them. I listened for, and didn’t hear, tell-tale sounds indicating vehicle traffic. I could isolate the whir of a furnace, the flush of a toilet. All righty then. I was alone in the garage, but not alone in what seemed to be a house, rather than a business.
I could hear the tread of footsteps, heavy and lethargic, as if the walker didn’t lift his feet properly, shuffling more than stepping. That ruled out Bad Guy Two, whom I estimated to be the ring leader. He spoke with deliberate precision, suggesting a military background. I couldn’t imagine him dragging his feet. Banner, the sociopath with the love of bladed instruments seemed nervous, rabbity; he seemed more likely to walk too quickly, or maybe in jerks and starts. I was betting the lumbering gait belonged to the Asshole, Bad Guy One. Footsteps approached closer, and I heard a deadbolt turn with a loud snap, which echoed in the room.
The door swung open slowly, and he stepped into the garage. I didn’t hear the snick of a light switch. It was either daytime, and sunlight illuminated the room, or the garage light had been left on. No creaking of boards to indicate wooden steps, so I guessed cement stairs, maybe two. The man must have been raised in a barn, as he made no attempt to pull the door closed behind him.
“Hey, bitch. You awake yet?” the man sniggered, approaching with the same dragging shuffle. Yes, it was the Asshole, all right. My head was turned away from him, but he made no attempt to walk around me to look at my face. “I’m talkin’ to you!”
I was totally unprepared for the boot connecting in a hard kick to my ribs, lifting my torso up off the floor from the impact. I cried out involuntarily, rolling away from the man, hoping to avoid a second blow. My momentum was stopped when he stomped down on the trailing end of my braid, effectively trapping my hair under his shoe. I could smell the dirty rubber of the sole against my cheek. I had halted on my back, arms trapped beneath me. I was shocked immobile when he dropped to his knees, one on either side of my head, siting on my chest.
“A woman should answer when a man talks to her,” he sneered.
Really? Not only was he an asshole, he had to be a misogynist asshole?
“Unless she’s got her mouth full.” He fumbled with his belt and I heard him lower a zipper.
Not just no, but Hell No! My foggy brain cleared with a rush of adrenaline. I slammed my knees as hard as I could into his back, pitching him over my head. He let out a loud grunt, not unlike a clumsy bear, and crashed into a bunch of loose items which sounded like metal pails.
“Son of a bitch!” he swore, throwing items at the walls, as he noisily untangled himself from whatever had been stacked. I followed the sounds of his grumbling and realized he’d made it to his feet again. Awkwardly, while he struggled out of the pails, I’d managed to roll, and scoot myself to a far wall, backing against what felt like a tool bench. I was torn between trying to fumble around for something to use as a weapon, versus positioning myself to use my legs to kick out and hold my attacker at bay. It took only a second to realize, even if I found a sharp object to poke him with, my bound hands made power or accuracy impossible.
“What the hell is going on out here?” a menacing voice growled from the doorway. Our altercation attracted the interest of Bad Guy Two, the man in charge.
“Nothin’ goin’ on,” Asshole mumbled. Simultaneously, I snitched, “Attempted sexual assault.”
“Was only checkin’ on ‘er, Grainger. She was being pissy, then she kicked me,” Asshole complained, adding bold-faced liar to his growing list of short-comings. To his credit, I now had a second name, Grainger.
“Which translated means, he kicked me first, and then planned to force oral sex. I kneed him off me,” I snarled, preparing to fight as I heard him take a step in my direction. Yeah, I know. I should have been more cowed by the whole thing. After Devon assaulted me, David suggested my blindness was a negative and a positive when it came to violence. I couldn’t see a knife blade pointed at me, or a gun pulled and held to my head, or a fist drawn back—so it was easier for me to focus on fighting. I was afraid, but not distracted by the object of my fear. The downside, is I couldn’t anticipate or deflect said gun, or knife, or fist.
“I’d believe you, Adamson, if your fly wasn’t lowered and your pants about to slide down your flat ass.” And the third, hopefully final name, Adamson. The boss, Grainger, was crouched down, right beside me. I hadn’t heard his approach and my surprise tipped me sideways, away from him, when I started at his voice next to my ear. His hand came out and broke my fall by grabbing my arm, balancing me into a sitting position again. “Holy shit. You’re blind,” he drawled, leaning away as I found my balance.
I looked toward him, incredulous. “What? You didn’t know?” I couldn’t help the tinge of sarcasm. Who kidnaps a person without discovering the most basic, important facts about them?
A hand struck me, literally coming out of nowhere. “Fucking cunt,” Adamson snarled. “You need to learn a little respect.” His open-handed slap thrust my head sideways, and a sharp corner of the bench against my spine. The solidness of the structure was the only thing keeping me upright. Retaliation was swift and reflexive, the scuffing of Adamson’s boots told me where he stood, and my leg shot out as I attempted to strike at his knee. I hit his shin instead, but it was a solid blow, knocking him back a couple steps. I cocked the leg back again, as he came forward.
“Enough!” Grainger shouted, shocking both of us to stillness.
My leg was still drawn back, ready. But I held myself still, concentrating on any sound which indicated the other man would not heed his leader’s instruction. I jolted with surprise when the boss, Grainger, softly gripped my shoulder. “Calm down,” he said, quietly yet firmly. The direction of his voice shifted as he addressed his partner, menacing, “She’s off limits, Adamson. Keep your dick in your pants, and your fists to yourself. If you touch her again, I’ll give you to Banner as a belated Christmas present. He’s still bitching I wouldn’t let him skin her dog, I’
ll let him take that frustration out on you instead.”
Skin my dog? Red? I could feel the color drain out of my face at the idea. Guy Three, Banner, had some serious mental issues if he was into torturing pets. Red hadn’t been killed by the tranquilizer dart. What kind of sick mind would skin an animal alive? It was bad enough when I thought he was going to slice Red’s throat…god, I was feeling nauseous. I forced the bile down, refusing to throw up and admit how much his offhand comment upset me.
“That skinny, sick little fuck better not come close to me,” Adamson threatened. It would have held more weight, if his voice hadn’t quivered at the end, giving me a peek at the fear the rabbity Banner instilled in this violent man.
“You’re awake sooner than we expected,” Grainer addressed me, no longer interested in continuing a conversation with his subordinate. “You pulled the dart out before you got the full dosage, but it’s only been six or seven hours since we picked you up.”
Ha! Picked me up, he says, like I’m a package or something.
“This is good, we can escalate our time frame by a few hours. Go wake up Banner, Adamson. And do up your pants,” he called after the other man. “Miss March, I’d advise you to stay put. I have a few things to do, then I’ll come back and we can have a little chat.”
I turned my head away. He was the only thing standing between me and a possible assailant. I didn’t want to antagonize him, but I wanted to let him know I wasn’t cowed, either.
He chuckled at my bravado, but said nothing as he left me on the floor.
Chapter Twelve
** Approx. 15:00, Friday - Jan 11th **
I was sitting on a chair in the center of the garage. For the time being, my wrists and legs were unbound (yes, it had been duct tape). I tried to stretch discretely to ease the soreness in my muscles. There was a slight cramp in my left leg, but remembering how disconcerting it was being numbingly cold, I decided I’d rather feel the pain than nothing. My movements were stiff and careful as I took inventory of my injuries.
Grainger had been humane enough to escort me to the bathroom. I hadn’t been allowed to close the door, but he assured me he’d keep his back turned while I took care of my immediate needs. It was embarrassing, but the two alternatives were Banner or Adamson. So I sucked it up and chose to believe he would afford me the modicum of privacy he promised. When I was done, I splashed water in my face and washed my hands, leaving them under the stream of hot water for a few minutes to take some of the chill away. I felt around for a towel bar, only to find a slightly damp, somewhat musty washrag. Nasty. I debated the pros and cons of germs for all of two seconds before using it to wipe the excess moisture from my hands. I couldn’t bring the rag anywhere near my face.
No one offered me any food, although Grainger pressed a bottle of water into my hands when we returned to the garage, where he sat me in a hard-backed chair. I wanted to suck the liquid down greedily, but my worry over who would escort me on my next bathroom trip dictated moderate sips. Who knew how long I’d be here? Last thing I wanted was a full bladder again.
“So,” Grainger began, “here’s the set up. We are in an isolated location. If you scream, no one will hear you; you will only succeed in pissing us off with your racket. There is a camera mounted in the corner of the room. It observes you 24/7 and the video feed address will be given to Preston so he can be assured you are alive and well. PreClan has something we want. You are the bargaining chip. If Preston gives us what we want, he will get you back.”
“What guarantee will they have that you’ll let me go? And what makes you think they’ll bargain for me anyway?” I had to wonder how well informed they were. They hadn’t even known I was blind, which seemed like a huge gap in their basic information. Grainger struck me as professional. Competent in the way seasoned soldiers were. But the two yahoos he worked with? No way were they military, not career types anyway. The military would have figured out Banner right away and a man with that level of instability would not have made it past the recruiters. Adamson may have been an enlisted man, but I was betting more along the lines of petty crook.
“We know you’re Preston’s girlfriend. Our contact told us he moved in to your place last October. Declan spends a lot of time there, too, so we figured they are both working out of your house full time now. We were told they have an office and computers underground, but we couldn’t see any windows to indicate a basement, which means the only way in is through you.”
Only a handful of outsiders knew about the basement. I was betting former lieutenant Devon Carpenter was involved in this. Mmm, what it doesn’t explain is why he’d neglect to tell them I’m blind. I sighed dramatically, leaning back against the hard dowels in the chair. “David and I broke up on Christmas Eve,” I confessed. “As a bargaining tool, I’m fairly worthless. You may have noticed there is an increase in guards on the property, too. PreClan video software is well-guarded.”
Adamson snorted rudely, “Lotta good the guards were when we shot you with roofies and dragged your skinny bitch ass right out from under them. Only six guards, plus Preston and Declan? No sweat if we get a team and storm the building,” he boasted.
Interesting. There seemed to be a lot of gaps in their information. Russ made a point of only letting teams of four patrol at one time. I thought it was to keep the neighbors from guessing how many people we had in the basement, but it appears Russ also wanted to mess up the numbers for any bad guys observing us. Add the fact I have my two man escort when I leave the premises, I can see how these guys would assume there were only six guards working security. Boy! They were in for a surprise if they decide to forcibly enter the house.
“But we won’t need to storm the building,” Grainger corrected. “Preston will want her back.”
“Did you not hear the part about us breaking up? He won’t trade me for money or a multi-million dollar software package. Besides, David’s in Boston, he’s no longer in Spokane.” A slight misdirection. I was beginning to think they were operating with obsolete knowledge, though, and decided to play a hunch. “If you got your information from Lt. Carpenter, it’s sadly out of date. Devon’s not very bright, and he’s ticked off at me personally, so I can see how he’d point you in my direction. The man has a gambling problem. I’m sure you understand how unreliable addicts can be. Pretty sloppy not to have mentioned I’m blind, don’t you think?”
Grainger must have pulled Adamson off to the side, as a low heated argument ensued near the door to the house. Even with my sensitive hearing, I only caught a few words and phrases. Adamson seemed to be trying to convince his boss David was in Spokane.
“Miss March, I’m afraid we don’t believe Preston has left the area. Adamson says you two have been cozy for the last few weeks, Preston hasn’t even bothered to leave the house during all that time,” Grainger argued.
These guys were definitely not professionals, which means I may be able to confuse the facts enough to make them doubt my usefulness as a bargaining chip. “David flew to Boston on Christmas Eve. We broke up and he decided to spend the holidays elsewhere,” I stressed. “The guy at the house is Sebastian Declan. He’s been staying with me because he’s my best friend, Janey’s, brother. I kinda grew up with Bas; his sister and I used to follow him around like stalkers until he left for the Navy. Janey’s dating my housekeeper, Ken. Since they were on vacation back east, and David and I split up, Janey asked her brother to keep me company until Ken got back. He’s the guy who’s been at the house. He and I are acquaintances, nothing more. He certainly wouldn’t be willing to pay you money to get me back.”
There were more angry voices as the two men argued. I hoped pretending to be ignorant of PreClan’s classified technology would help convince the men I wasn’t of much use to them. If I was simply a clueless now-ex-girlfriend for David, maybe they wouldn’t expect me to know what he and Bas were working on. I think it would be logical for me to assume the men were after David’s money, not government secrets.
; Angry footsteps stomped toward me. “What’s Preston’s cell number? We’ll call him and see what he has to say about your supposed breakup,” Granger’s anger gave his voice a harsh, intimidating tone.
My mind drew a blank. “Without my cell, I have no idea,” I replied, honestly. “Janey programmed his number into my phone. I can’t see to use the scroll features, so I memorize speed dial numbers.”
“How fucking convenient,” Adamson snarled. I got the impression he’d shifted closer to me, and I had a crazy impulse to lean in the opposite direction.
“No, no. That makes sense,” Grainger conceded. “She met Preston after her accident. There wouldn’t be a reason to memorize a phone number if she speed dials everyone. How do you suggest I get a hold of Preston, Miss March?”
I sighed, they simply refused to believe me. “David is not in Spokane. But you can call the house. I know my home number. Bas or Henry will probably answer the phone and they will confirm David is gone.”
I heard a few button tones, suggesting Grainger had pulled out a cell phone. “What’s the house number?” he asked. I recited the digits slowly. When the phone started to ring, I realized he was using speaker mode.
