by Natalie Dean
There it was again: The Owl. She was starting to really hate this guy. She searched around in the unconscious man’s pocket for a phone and found one.
Now all she had to do was call the agency and they’d come help out. They’d be out of the reaches of The Owl… if only she could remember the number. What was it? It wasn’t like the agency had a habit of letting people know their number. As stupid as it was, they usually had just given her phone a coded number. If she was ever caught, she couldn’t give it up. Why that mattered, she didn’t know. Maybe the agency hated robo-calls.
Whatever.
She would just call the cops.
She dialed up 911, waited for a moment while The Celtic complained about being shot again and the unconscious killer slid a little more, and heard someone answer from the other side.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Hi, my name is Agent Whetmore. I’m out in the woods somewhere, I don’t know where. There’s someone trying to kill me and my friend.”
There was a pause. “Ma’am, you do know it’s a crime to prank call us, right?”
“This isn’t a prank call! I’m serious. Just call the FBI and they’ll tell you.”
Click. They hung up.
“Oh come on!” she protested, probably louder than she should have. “They hung up!”
“Well,” said The Celtic as he stumbled up with just the slightest wince. He was unbelievably tough. Most people would be crying if they’d been shot a couple times, but he looked like he was managing it somehow, like he was just willing himself to not feel it. “Looks like we’re on our own.”
She sighed. “Here. Let me patch you up.”
She used his shirt to bandage his side. His nice, muscular side. Wait! What was she thinking? He’s a wanted man, and here she is having these thoughts of how nice it feels being this close to him. Feeling his hot breath on her as he leans over to look at what she’s doing. Here in a little while, if he kept getting shot, it’d turn into a strip show. There was no way she was going to use her shirt to patch him. She had some bandages in her bag, but it had gone up with the car.
As she worked, he talked.
“The Owl’s got a small army. He won’t stop hunting us until we get to the FBI.”
“This guy doesn’t even sound real,” she said while tying the knot on his shirt. “I don’t understand how he hasn’t gotten busted before. You say he fixes the fights? How did no one ever…” she thought of the way to word it. “Expose him?”
“People who try usually end up like George. The higher ups know about him, but they’re scared to get offed too.”
Huh. Made sense.
The radio on the unconscious killer crackled. “Check in, 52. Check in.”
“Uh-oh,” said Adrianna, aptly.
Chapter 5
“Check in,” repeated the radio.
“What should we do?” The Celtic said, staring at the shooter. “Answer it?”
“I’m a woman! They’ll know I’m not him!”
“52, check in,” said the radio.
Acting on instinct, The Celtic grabbed the radio and answered. “All good here.”
There was a pause. “52?”
“Yuuuup.”
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
“Just bad speakers on the radio,” The Celtic fabricated. There was a moment where everything was quiet except for the sound of rain falling all around. Adrianna figured they might actually get away with it, and then another voice came on the radio. Silky smooth and very, very deep.
“We’ll be coming for you soon.”
The radio switched off.
“Who was that?” Adrianna asked, hating to have to ask.
The Celtic didn’t seem like the kind of guy to get spooked easily. It wasn’t beneficial in the ring to show you were scared. If he was, he always hid it well. But Adrianna saw just a flicker of fear in his eyes before he squelched it. “The Owl. We gotta get out of here now.”
He stuck out his hand. “Free me. I need to be able to defend myself!”
She gestured towards the unconscious man. “Looks like you’re just fine.”
“He wasn’t expecting it. You want it on your conscience if I get killed because I can’t fight?”
She groaned. He was right. She didn’t want to deal with that. If he ended up getting murdered, it would be her fault. Traditionally, handcuffed men didn’t fare too well in fights against men with guns.
“Give me your word you won’t run off again.”
“I already learned my lesson about that,” he declared. “Trust me, I’ll be sticking near you.”
She hesitated. All her training told her to ignore his pleas and keep him locked up, but all her heart was telling her to trust him. If he’d wanted to kill her, he would have done it back at the car. She’d been pretty well helpless for a brief time. “Fine. We need to work together if we’re going to get out of here anyway.”
She unlocked him. The shackles dropped to the ground with a pleasing clink. For just a moment, she wondered if she’d made a mistake, but all he did was rub his wrists and stretch. “That’s better!”
She locked the shooter up against a tree using the handcuffs. She figured he needed them more than they did. After he was secured, they stole his bike and took off driving. She could drive a motorcycle… sorta… but he actually knew how to drive well, so he took the lead and she hopped on behind him.
Adrianna wasn’t afraid of too many things, but right near the top of the list was motorcycles. Her father had died on one, and every time she swung her leg over to straddle the seat, she was back to being a child the fateful night he’d gone out on that last drive.
Her father had been in a bad mood the day he’d driven off from some argument. Adrianna couldn’t even remember the topic. He had been driving too fast on one of the local, hilly roads. He was a capable rider, so he was good… until the corner came up faster than expected. He’d tried to correct, but it was too late.
He’d lived a day or two afterward, but the doctors couldn’t save him. He’d passed away on August 12, eight days after her birthday.
“Hey,” said The Celtic, wearing the helmet that they had taken from the killer. “You okay?”
“What?” she asked, still back 13 years ago.
“Are you okay?” he had to shout to be heard over the wind. “You’re not saying much.”
“I’m… fine,” she managed halfheartedly. “Thanks for driving.”
He nodded silently. He had no idea what was bothering her, but he didn’t want to push. About ten minutes later, he spoke up again.
“Mind loosening your arms a little? You’re kinda crushing my guts.”
“Sorry.”
Unconsciously, she’d been clenching harder and harder around his chest the more she thought about her father. She released somewhat, but kept holding on enough to stay on the bike. Normally, riding a bike without a helmet in the rain was awful. Rain doesn’t seem that bad until you’re riding along at a high velocity and it hits you in the face. They’re like little bullets. That’s why The Celtic was wearing the helmet—he needed to be able to see. She just hid her face behind him and hoped most of it would go past her.
She zoned out. It had been a sucky week for her. First she couldn’t stop thinking about her father, then she had the broken rib, then they were stranded… and it all just kept getting worse.
It was nice to hold onto The Celtic’s strong frame and know she had a friend she could count on. Actually, it was a little too nice. It had been a long time since she'd had her arms around a man. Normally she wouldn't fall for his type, especially when he’s a wanted fugitive, but there was something about him.
She wasn’t sure what it was, but she had a feeling that they were in it together. Maybe it was just the gravity of the situation looming over her, but she felt that the two of them would back each other up in the fight.
And so they simply rode on.
The rain made driving dang
erous, so they went slowly. Eventually, the storm cleared. The clouds parted and let the sunlight through, warming the soaked FBI agent and wanted man. It felt good. Adrianna wanted to lay out on the concrete and just soak up all the sun rays, but she knew if they stopped for a second, the bad guys stood a good chance of catching up to them.
Finally, though, The Celtic eased off the accelerator and moved to the side of the road. They came to a slow stop.
“Um,” Adrianna said. “Why are we stopping?”
“I need to use the bathroom,” he declared.
“Oh. Well, you can’t go out there.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t watch.”
He gave her a funny look. “I should hope not.”
“No, I mean I can’t watch you. So you don’t run off.” She sighed. “Never mind. Just… stay close. I got a hunch someone’s around here.”
And she did. For the last half hour, she’d been getting the creeping feeling of a black aura around them. She couldn’t pinpoint where yet. For her to get a good reading usually required a dry place where she was standing still. Zipping along on a bike in the rain was literally the worst possible thing she could do for her powers.
“Don’t worry, mom,” he said, and walked off into the trees. Within a moment, he was hidden by the bushes. Even though she knew he was there, she couldn’t see him whatsoever.
She checked the phone she had stolen from the killer. “Hey Siri,” she said. “How far are we from Calidad?”
“You are 81 miles from Calidad,” Siri told her pleasingly. It was nice to know that she could rely on good ole’ Siri, even out in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of people trying to kill her.
She pushed the button to once more summon Siri. “Thanks.”
“I aim to please,” Siri chirped back.
Suddenly, the feeling of darkness around her kicked back in, stronger than ever. She twisted on the bike and came face to face with four men, all toting assault rifles and looking at her with bad intentions.
A bolt of adrenaline shot through her veins, and she jerked up her chrome handgun. Instinctively, she popped off a couple shots before they even realized that she was armed. She heard at least one shot connect with flesh, but before she could shoot any more, they’d swarmed her.
Her world became violent. All she saw was flashes of black and white as they beat her senseless. Someone got smart and wrestled away her gun, but she drew the other one from her thigh holster and shot someone in the chest. Screaming and yelling ensued. Someone clocked her in the rib and the pain almost knocked her out, but she brought up a leg, hoping to hit someone. She got one of them in the crotch, and he started swearing.
She caught just the briefest glimpse of The Celtic before he emerged from the bushes towards her. He wanted to help, but he was unarmed and had already been shot several times. He might be able to take one or two of them, but after that? The gig was up. She shot him a warning, and hesitantly, he backed deeper into the cover.
As they pounded her, she realized that she had been stupidly heroic. She was totally and utterly screwed. Those men were going to kill her. She could take one of them no problem. Two? Less likely. Three? Probably not. Four? No way, Jose. She’d given up her only option of life by telling The Celtic to bail on her and therefore saving his life.
Was she fond enough of him to do that?
To doom herself to let him have a chance?
Well then.
It didn’t even hurt anymore. They weren’t professional fighters like The Celtic. That much she could tell from fighting them—they left themselves exposed and took too many risks. But every time she hit them, three of them popped her. Finally, she was hitting slower and her vision was blurred. Her whole body just felt numb.
And then her world went black, right there on the pavement in the middle of nowhere. She was vaguely aware of someone picking her up.
Chapter 6
In the movies, the hero always wakes up in some abandoned factory tied to a wooden chair. Adrianna always thought it was idiotic. Nobody would really do that!
Well, as it turned out, that’s exactly what The Owl did.
When she woke up, she immediately wanted to go back to being unconscious. Her broken rib was the least she had to worry about. A solid half of her body was covered in bruises, and the other half was still developing them. She found herself, cliché as it was, sitting on an old chair with zip-ties tying her legs to the ancient wood. Except for the fact that her hands and feet were tied up, she was otherwise untethered. It wasn’t like she could do much. She could stand, but her legs were still strapped to the chair. If she tried to make a getaway, she’d fall flat on her face.
She moaned. She felt like puking. “Son-of-a,” she muttered, tasting blood on her tongue. “Ow.”
She looked up at her captors. She recognized the two of them as the ones that had beat her up, and she saw two others patrolling the second floor of the empty building.
And the biker was in front of her. Even though he wasn’t wearing his helmet, she recognized him immediately from his build and the odd way he stood.
“Let me guess,” she said. “The Owl?”
His lips turned up in an ugly grimace of a smile. “Wrong, but good try.” He walked towards her. His boots slapped against the ground loudly. He stroked her jawline with his rough hand. “The Owl doesn’t like to bother with the dirty work, so he sends me.”
“So, why am I still alive?” she asked. “I mean, I figure with the whole threatening vibe you’re trying to give off here that I would already be, you know, dead.”
She was acting tough, but it was her worst nightmare. It was any FBI agent’s worst nightmare—to be captured and helpless, with no chance of help coming anytime soon. If she’d been able to contact someone to let them know that she was captured, someone might get there in time. As it was, Agent Stone wouldn’t care at all. He would just not check on her and be slightly upset when it showed up that she had been killed in action.
“Because we want to know where the Celtic is,” he said. “And we’ll find out, Agent Whetmore, the easy way or the hard way.”
“Let’s take… none of the above.”
He bared his fangs with a sadistic, wicked grin. “I was hoping you would say that, my dear.”
The next hour was hell.
They weren’t willing to kill her yet, but she learned to push the limits of what she thought she could endure. She refused to break. They’d kill her either way. It wasn’t like if she sang, they’d let her go—not to mention that she had no idea where on earth The Celtic had gone. For all she knew, he’d died from his gunshot wounds way out in the middle of nowhere.
They tossed her back into an abandoned part of the room hours later. The room was in the far part of the compound, past a couple flights of stairs and a hallway. It was a pretty standard room. Maybe the previous company had used it to stack products in or something, but it served as her jail cell. She curled up in the back of the room and stared at the door. She couldn’t see out. She’d already tried.
She started snooping around the room for ways to escape. It wasn’t likely that they’d leave something out for her to use to escape, but she felt better exploring than just sitting there feeling bad for herself. She started toying with the walls. All of them were concrete, unfortunately. Wood? She could’ve busted out. Sheetrock? She could’ve blown on them and the wall would just fall apart.
The snooping was boring and pretty frustrating, so she let her mind wander. Suddenly, she was back at her father’s funeral, which was undoubtedly one of the worst days of her life.
She was standing with a small crowd of people on a grassy hill overlooking their town as his coffin was placed in the ground. She was trying to remain steely, but he’d been everything to her. Sure, she had her stepmom, but they argued over everything. Her and her father, they’d just… fit somehow.
Her black dress was blowing in the sharp north wind. It was cold. She wanted to put o
n her jacket, but instead she just stood, staring off at the lights of the city far below, blurred from tears in her eyes, goosebumps standing up on her exposed arms.
The priest was doing the service, then his old war buddies came up and talked about the good old times they’d had in the war. It was good stuff. They were all excellent speakers. All of Adrianna’s siblings and stepmom were crying at the end of it—loud, sniveling sobs. Adrianna tried to keep calm. She really did, even out of respect to him.
Finally, though, she just lost it. She felt like screaming and attacking the old buddy that was up there talking about the time that he and her father had gone out on a scouting mission and found a bunch of enemy troops. It ground on her for her to think about the fact that he’d known her father longer than she had…
She stood over by the knob of the hill, looking over the city far below. The wind blew her hair about wildly, but she didn’t flinch. She stood silently, quivering, hearing the speaker at the service. He was too far away for her to hear what he was saying, but she could just make out little snippets.
“-Bravest man I’ve ever seen-”
“-And boy, you all know that he could make you laugh at the most minuscule things-”
“-I remember this one time-”
Back at the cell, that last sentence that she remembered stuck out in her mind. All she was doing was remembering. Remembering the old days. Remembering their argument. Remembering.
Well, you know what?
No.
She was tired of living in the past. She was tired of being hindered by it. Suddenly, something washed over her. She wasn’t sure what it was, but abruptly, sore and miserable inside that pseudo jail cell, a wave of peace washed over her. Maybe it was just a collection of all the bottled up emotions from the last day or two, but abruptly, she just let it go.
She was a grown woman, and an amazing one at that. Sure, she couldn’t change what had happened to her father, but he wasn’t ever really gone. She’d spent so much time trying to contain him in that gun he’d given her, that when she was unarmed, she felt scared and alone.
