Justified Means (Book One) (The Agency Files)

by Chautona Havig

  A new fear arose in her as Keith stood and walked away from her. Would he just leave her there? If she walked long enough, she might find a sharp rock or something to cut the zip ties. Those thoughts dissipated as his footsteps returned. Fresh sobs wracked her body as she felt his hand brush the debris from her foot. He awkwardly shoved her shoe back on her before helping her to her feet and giving her a gentle shove toward the cabin. Erika tried to choke back her tears. She hadn’t even noticed that she had lost a shoe.

  She missed his first words, but even as she struggled to gain control over her emotions—control that she grasped at as if a lifeline—the tone changed from matter-of-fact to gruff and stern. “—told you not to do this, and now look. You’re hurt.”

  Stubbornness welled up in her as she realized any step toward the cabin meant compliance with her captivity. Erika stopped short, refusing to take another step. Though she didn’t expect to make much difference, she was surprised when Keith hefted her over his shoulder and silently carried her back to the cabin and laid her on the bed.

  When Keith didn’t remove the zip restraints, fresh fear and grief washed over her. She imagined herself locked in the room—bound and gagged—with five-minute food and bathroom breaks. That grief intensified when he left without a word. Erika would never have admitted it, but she hated the aloneness even more than being with her captor. Seconds passed into minutes as the realization that she couldn’t go anywhere—do anything without him. She was dependent upon the very man responsible for her situation. Revolting.

  She rolled onto her side, back to the door, and allowed the tears to roll down her cheeks, tickling them in that irritating way that tears have when we can’t wipe them. A shuffle behind her told her Keith had returned. Without a word for the change in position, he carried a bowl of water, first-aid kit, and a washcloth into the room.

  Despite the terseness and accusation in his tone, she heard it again—that split second where he sounded almost sorry. It disappeared so quickly that Erika couldn’t decide if it was her imagination or if she had actually seen it. Had regret flickered in his eyes? Despair settled over her as she realized that what she had likely seen was irritation—anger prompted by her flight. Great. He’ll probably be even less likely to listen to reason, she mused.

  “I think you need stitches.”

  Hope leapt into her heart and then plummeted again as he pulled a familiar tube of surgical glue from the kit. The school nurse where her sister taught was an expert with that stuff. So much for a trip to the ER where she could try to escape. A new thought made her try again. “I’m allergic—”

  “We know your medical history, Erika. You’re not allergic to anything but walnuts and even that is mild.”

  “Had to try—”

  He gave her a wan smile. “I know. It just won’t work.”

  “I got out of here,” she whispered to herself softly. Erika sniffled, closed her eyes, and berated herself for not being faster.

  “Took you long enough.”

  Her surprise amused him. Perhaps it wasn’t professional, but it had already been a long morning. The extraction had gone off without a hitch. The drive had been long, but without incident, and as the psychological profile had suggested, Erika Polowski had not started with tears.

  As he prepared to deal with her wounds, Keith mentally relived the morning, reevaluating every decision—every movement that both of them made. Mark would want to know. The trip to the cabin left no questions. If an error had been made, it came after Karen left.

  After breakfast, Erika sank against the wall, refusing to sit anywhere comfortable. If things stayed the same, it would be a long assignment. The hours ticked past, until he finally brought her lunch and smiled in satisfaction as she shuffled to the bathroom—twice. Maybe she’d come around.

  Her resignation discouraged him—very unhealthy. Determined to do everything he could, Keith decided to do something about it. She needed to fight for herself, or this would be an even longer ordeal than it already promised to be. He snuck a glance in her direction and sighed. Time for plan B.

  Keith grabbed his Bible, opened it in his lap, and read. Slowly and thoughtfully, he turned pages as he read, until at last, he let his hand fall and his eyes close. After a minute or two, he attempted a soft snore that, to his immense relief, captured her attention. Good. What would she do?

  He listened as she moved her foot and forced himself to stir slightly. Agonizing minutes ticked passed as she tried to examine the room, looking for ideas for escape. He should have left the keys within reach. There were bobby pins in the bathroom. Would she try that? Fabric brushed against a wall leaving him to wonder what she was doing until he heard the sound of the drapes moving. The hooks. Smart.

  Once Erika finally managed to secure a hook, he nearly groaned audibly. Every second passed slower than a monotonic sermon, but he waited—mentally urging her onward and forward—until he realized that she must have bent the hook. Any minute now she’d open that lock. Would she bolt out of the cabin panicked and in her bare feet, or would she be cautious? What would she do?

  The shackle fell from her ankle with a soft thump. Show time. What she did next decided everything. He heard her feet shuffle quietly into the bedroom, and his rigid shoulder muscles relaxed slightly. At least she was going to act reasonably intelligent. It would keep the assignment interesting.

  Several steps, a slowly opening door, and then the pause—Keith readied himself. In seconds, the chimes—there they were. He jumped up as if disoriented. It took every ounce of strength not to react as though awake. He glanced around the room, bolted into the bedroom, and then dashed out the door behind her, praying all the way. He really didn’t want to have to tackle her.

  “I’m going to tackle you unless you stop now.” Beneath his breath, he added, “It’ll hurt.”

  The moment the words left his lips, Keith knew it wouldn’t make any difference. She’d keep running until she dropped from exhaustion unless he took her down. As much as he hated to do it, he needed to stop her immediately. With the slightest increase in speed, he jumped, tackled, and tried to soften the blow, but she leapt at the same time he jumped, striking her head against a tree. That would leave a gash.

  This part of his job—he hated the most. The fear in her eyes, the helplessness, the vulnerability—it was all so natural, and yet he couldn’t alleviate any of it. Instead, he was the cause—in her eyes anyway. As much as he wanted to, Keith simply could not make her see that the safest place in the world for her was with him right where she was.

  “What did you just say?” Erika’s voice shook.

  “Took you long enough.”

  “What—you were awake?” Sniffles overshadowed prior sobs for several seconds as incredulity triumphed over despair.

  “Yep.” He watched terror fill her as he carefully folded her shirt in flat “rolls” displaying the ugly scrapes and scratches. “I’d leave this to you, but most people can’t force themselves to clean their own wounds thoroughly enough. Infection would make this little ‘vacation’ of yours even more unbearable.” He poured a little peroxide on his cloth. “It’s going to sting a bit.”

  “Aaah! A bit!”

  “Sorry.” Could she see—hear—the honesty in the words and in his expression? Did she have any idea how much he hated what she must think?

  “I’d believe you if I knew who you were, why I am here, and wasn’t lying uncomfortably with my hands tied behind my back!”

  “Well, I’d unbind you, but I need to fix these first.” Carefully he coated a double piece of gauze with a thin layer of anti-bacterial cream and taped it over the scratches. “It’s a bit of overkill, but those’ll drive you crazy if your shirt rubs them.” As he spoke, he unfolded her shirt and tugged it gently over the bandage.

  He cleaned her knees, a couple of facial scrapes, the bottom of her foot, and an elbow before he decided she was fine. He carried the bowl of water into the kitchen, replaced the first aid kit, and locked
the cupboard before he returned to the room with the shackle. An attempt at a joke fell flat again. “It seems almost rude to put a chain on an injured woman…”

  “Then don’t,” she spat out bitterly. “I won’t complain.”

  “It’s—”

  “Your job. Yeah. So I’ve heard.”

  Keith locked and unlocked the shackle several times before he finally decided it was undamaged by her escape attempt and refastened it to her ankle. He ignored the horrified expression on her face as he flicked out his favorite oversized pocketknife and cut the ties around her ankles and wrist. Prepared for a physical attack, he nodded satisfied as she rolled over, face the wall, and began crying softly to herself once more.

  Despair washed over her as Erika realized the full impact of her situation. She was alone, with a strange man, in an area so remote that they didn’t feel the need to hide or gag her. They’d made it look as though she left voluntarily. So far, everything that happened seemed preplanned and carefully analyzed. No one would doubt for weeks maybe. Weeks. Could she stay alert and focused for weeks? How long would it take him to make a mistake big enough for her to capitalize on it?

  Even if she did escape, she had no idea where to go. It was “not that much farther” to the gas station—and that was by car going who knew how fast or slow. That’s what he’d said. How long could she evade them on foot when she had so far to go? It seemed hopeless.

  On the other hand, she considered between bouts of weeping and sniffling, perhaps she could stay antagonistic for a day or two—maybe even three. Then she could slowly let him think she was relaxing and letting her guard down. He was a man wasn’t he? She’d play up her womanhood to the ‘nth degree if necessary. If escape wasn’t a successful option, perhaps psychology was.

  Hours later, she heard his knock on the door. “What is it?”

  “Stew. You hungry?”

  “No. I’m not.”

  He grinned. “Well, if you’re planning on trying to escape again, I’d recommend keeping up your strength. Starving yourself only makes my job easier.” With that, he set the tray on a chair and left the room leaving the door open.

  Erika glared at the bowl as if it had betrayed her. She wanted nothing more than to kick it across the room and through the window, but she’d likely succeed only in ensuring she froze at night. Even worse, he was right. If she didn’t eat, her blood sugar would—that thought was a good one. If her blood sugar got too low, she usually just felt weak, and sometimes people said she acted a little drunk, but she’d heard that some people actually had seizures.

  Before she could turn over and ignore the bowl, Keith’s voice called out from the kitchen, “I can force juice down you if I need to. It won’t work, Erika.”

  “Arrogant know-it-all,” she muttered, reaching for the bowl.

  Chapter Three

  Nighttime meant she was locked in her room and shackled to the bed. Erika hated it, and the look on Keith’s face made her unwilling to show it. He looked almost fierce as he waited with arms crossed outside the bathroom door while she prepared for bed. She brushed her teeth for a full three minutes, washed her face, hands, feet and slathered lotion all over her. Just to be obnoxious, she even brushed her hair for “one hundred strokes” just like the ancient storybooks she’d read as a kid mentioned. It wasn’t easy with her short spiky haircut, but the annoyance factor made it worth every single stroke.

  When she could think of nothing else to drag out the inevitable, Erika opened the door and glowered at him. “You ready to chain me up in my dungeon?”

  Keith jerked his thumb at her room and waited to follow. After ensuring the lock around her ankle was secure, he shortened the chain on her bedpost ensuring that she couldn’t reach the window. Her plans to wake him up every hour to “use the bathroom” crashed when he carried in a bucket with a lid that opened to a toilet seat. “Just in case you wake up. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.”

  “You enjoy this job too much to be normal. My dad always said you had to be just a little crazy to be in the military or law enforcement. I never got it, but I think he’s right. You’re nuts.”

  His expression never changed. “It probably seems that way, yes.”

  Curiosity drove her to ask a question. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t make small talk, but Erika couldn’t resist. “Do you like your job?”

  “I’m good at it, it helps people, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  As sincere as his words sounded, he looked furious. Whether it was because she’d asked or he answered, Erika couldn’t be sure. She also couldn’t resist another dig. “If you wanted to help people, you could have become a doctor or a teacher.”

  “Someone has to do the hard stuff, Erika. A doctor saves a life when they are broken by the wrath of man. I try to make his job easier or unnecessary so he can focus on helping a kid with cancer or a guy who decided to do an impromptu finger reduction while making a fort for his kids.”

  Erika felt her face softening as he spoke until she remembered where she was. “By kidnapping an innocent woman. Yeah, that makes loads of sense.” Frustrated, she rolled over on the bed, pulled the covers over her, and stared at the wall.

  “Goodnight, Erika. Try to sleep.”

  All the anger, frustration, and fear welled up in her heart and spilled over into wracking sobs as she heard Keith slide the deadbolts into place—the sounds taunting her with her prisoner status. A loud crash in the kitchen startled her. At the second crash, she forced herself to staunch the flow of tears. Her throat swelled and strained as she choked back the impulse to cry. She strained to listen, but her body betrayed her, and soon she fell into a fitful sleep.

  Dread of locking Erika in her room settled over Keith, smothering him with it. He hated this part of his job. The woman was terrified, and who could blame her? The longer she delayed in the bathroom, the tenser and more fidgety he became, until he thought that he’d go crazy. She was taking her time just to annoy him. A wry smile tried to make an appearance on his lips, but his angst stamped it out again. Keeping up her little games would probably keep her mentally aware and resilient.

  “You ready to chain me up in my dungeon?”

  Inwardly, he winced at her tone. Couldn’t she see how much he hated having to do it? He felt miserable as he shortened the chain. If she tried to get out of the window, she could hurt herself, but she was just desperate enough to try it. “Sleep well.” Even as he said it, his mind cringed. Right. Like that wasn’t a kick while she was down.

  “You enjoy your job too much to be normal.”

  The dig hurt. He did enjoy his job, but certain aspects, like the rare time he had to protect someone against his will, weren’t on his list of highlights. However, once the ordeal ended, Keith knew he’d be glad he could protect her, and he hoped she’d be able to forgive him—someday. His agency rarely employed abduction as a course of action. Some of his coworkers had been involved in similar things over the years, but Keith had only been on one other “protective abduction.”

  That had been an easier case. The man, elderly, had an irrepressible sense of humor, even when annoyed. He’d spent the four and a half weeks of involuntary sequestration working on a stand-up comedy routine, trying to get Keith to smile. He’d succeeded more often than Keith liked to admit. In the end, while still not happy about so much time chained to a cabin, Donald Bruner had been thankful to exchange a month of his life for the rest of his life.

  “At least Donald didn’t have to lie on the other side of that wall, terrified of the horrible things I might do to him,” Keith muttered, furious at the necessity for keeping even the most basic information from her. She’d handle things better if she knew. She’d understand if she knew, but that was the worst of it. Erika Polowski couldn’t know—not if they could help it.

  All the frustration of the day and the lack of sleep the previous night welled up in Keith as he wiped out the cast-iron frying pan. He’d never learned to be as detac
hed as he appeared, and the frustration it brought welled up inside until he snapped. With more force than he intended, Keith slammed the frying pan down on the stove.

  Five seconds of silence in the bedroom told him he’d scared her. Great. As if the poor woman weren’t terrified enough, he had to make it worse. He grabbed the Dutch oven from the drying rack, opened the oven door, shoved it in, and jumped when the door slammed shut with a crash that was almost as loud as his abuse of the frying pan. This time, the silence hovered over the cabin like a suffocating blanket.

  Anxious to escape the stifling atmosphere, Keith grabbed the gun from the counter, double-checked the safety, and then slid it into the holster but didn’t strap down the cover. The night breeze, brisk and working up to a full-blown storm, seemed to blow the angst from his heart. “Lord, she doesn’t even have You to get her through this. How do people stand it?”

  Mark had provided a very thorough dossier on Erika Polowski. People who had nothing to hide tended to be very open about themselves—especially in the age of electronic information. Between her Blog, her Facebook page—why didn’t people use their privacy settings more often—and her posts on several message boards, he had a fair idea of her political, religious, and ideological positions on most things. Jesus was nothing more than a euphemism for “my goodness” to her. Her politics leaned strongly in the liberal camp, and she had a soft spot for lost causes. She’d fight to save the cockroach if by some miracle the things neared extinction.

  A shiver washed over him. Instinctively, his eyes scanned the trees, and he patrolled the perimeter of the cabin as a precaution. Nervous, he pulled the gun from its holster and rested his thumb on the safety. Was it the cold? Did he sense something? Did something enter his peripheral vision? Why the heightened awareness now? Training kicked in as he kept to the shadows and strained to see something—anything—in the shadowy darkness just a few yards from him.