by Camilla Monk
I look up; the black guy has removed his ski mask as well, revealing a mischievous gaze. He’s maybe a little older than the blue-eyed guy—forty or so—and I have this odd epiphany that I expected that face too, the elegant features and the perfectly trimmed beard. My head is spinning like I’m standing in the middle of a funhouse mirror. I try to fight his grip, but he’s hauled me back on my feet before I can land a single punch.
The one who tried to kiss me is at my side in an instant, his arm around my waist. “Island, we need to go.”
“No! I-I . . .”
At last, I notice the car. A white SUV with tinted windows has stopped on the road, less than a hundred feet away. As if on a cue, the rear doors slide up and fold out in a silent invitation.
Someone inside shouts, “Porho, Fokken maak gou!” Porho, hurry the fuck up!
Afrikaans? So they are my father’s men after all? Are they turning against him? Whatever . . . They’re going to take you. You literally skydived from the frying pan and straight into the fire. The voice in my head is surprisingly calm and lucid about this—I’m not. I kick the blue-eyed demon in the shin and thrash in his arms in a desperate bid to escape him.
“March . . . clock’s ticking,” that Porho guy warns.
That’s when my feet leave the ground. The one I now identify as March lifts me bridal style, ignoring my hands’ poorly coordinated attempts to shove him away. He covers the few yards separating us from the car at record speed, and we land in the back seat together. Seconds later, the black guy has climbed in the passenger seat, and I’m propelled against March’s chest as the SUV nearly takes off of the road.
“Don’t worry.” Porho laughs, winking at me in the mirror. “Dominik was born behind a wheel.”
Dominik . . . I roll frightened eyes at our driver. He’s wearing a white parka and looks pretty young, early twenties maybe. He too has a kind of buzz cut, but his skin is a lighter brown than his colleague’s, almost golden. Almond-shaped green eyes meet mine in the mirror for a brief second. Focused, angry. Without thinking, I grip March’s arm as we fly past a continuous ribbon of snow-covered trees. I’m alerted by red arrows blinking on the map displayed on the dashboard’s touch screen.
Dominik glances at them. “Didn’t take them long.”
“Where is he?” Porho asks, casually loading a machine gun.
“Twenty miles north. Right on time,” Dominik replies.
March’s hold tightens around me, even as he pulls out a gun with his free hand. His chin brushing my hair, he whispers soft words of reassurance. “Don’t worry; it’s almost over.”
He’s lying.
On-screen, the red arrows are inching closer to the blue one I assume is us. And that new green arrow . . . it’s driving straight toward us.
NINE
HARD SERVE
At first, I just stare at the dots on the map, growing ever closer. They’re abstract, they mean nothing, and yet my heart is drumming so fast I’m gonna pop an artery at this rate. Then I hear it—the roar of an engine behind us. On the dashboard, the speedometer goes through the roof at the same time that my organs splatter against my rib cage. I hold on to March as hard as I can. Not because I trust him, but because I don’t know if I’ll still be alive in thirty seconds, and all that’s left in me are primal reflexes.
We’re driving way too fast, but still not fast enough: I glimpse a black hood to our left, before another acceleration crushes my lungs and our pursuant disappears from sight, as if swallowed back by the road. I experience five seconds of relief until I look up in the mirror. Two Hummers are following us. The closest is the one that tried to pass us.
March anchors me as Dominik swerves left and right to block them. I have this terrifying epiphany that if we can’t escape them, Stiles will take me again, put me back on the stretcher, and . . . I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my face in the crook of March’s arm. I just want this to be over.
I feel him squeeze me harder. “It’s going to be all right. Trust me.”
I don’t. The car shakes, and we’re being jostled like pinballs. I scream when we take a turn so sharp my body crashes against March’s, and I’m sure the SUV has toppled over. Yet we’re still driving. Loud clattering outside the car makes me peek up. Sweet Jesus, we’re no longer on the road. Snow and dirt fly all around us as we race down a narrow trail leading to God knows where.
“Dominik,” Porho shouts. “They got us.”
“I know,” the driver says through gritted teeth. “We just need to hold on a little longer.”
As he says this, the car drifts to a stop. My eyes automatically dart to the dashboard’s screen to figure out what that means. In my veins, the blood all but freezes when I see a third red dot that should be . . . right in front of us.
“Oh my God! There’s another car . . .” I pop my head up to take a look through the window, only for March to immediately shove it down. A minivan has stopped less than twenty yards ahead of us on the trail. Behind us, the two Hummers have stopped as well. Panic swells inside me, squeezes my lungs. This time we’re trapped.
“Island, stay down!” March barks.
In the passenger seat, Porho asks Dominik, “How long will it hold?”
“One minute tops,” the guy replies, pulling out a gun from his parka.
I have no idea where the realization comes from, but I know with absolute certainty that they mean the car, or more exactly the windows. They’re probably bulletproof, but if those guys outside shoot at us repeatedly . . . On the dashboard, the green dot is still inching closer.
The first shot crashes into Porho’s window, and Sweet Jesus, the guy doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink while inches from his temple, a flower of shattered glass has bloomed. There’s a beat of complete silence before all hell breaks loose. March folds his body over mine and keeps my head down, literally pressing my cheek into the leather seat as a deafening din tears our eardrums. We’re being showered with a barrage of bullets that rattles against the side panels and turns the windows into an abstract pattern of circular impacts.
After several seconds of this treatment, the shooting stops—either because they need to reload or to assess the damage they’ve done so far, I have no idea. Under March, I wait, petrified, counting the seconds. I can feel his breath on my cheek, hot and unsteady. He smells of mints, like he ate an entire tube, really. In his hand, the gun is still here, and his black-gloved index rests on the trigger. Ready.
The last thing I expect to hear at this point is . . . “Jingle Bells.” My eyes slowly widen as, indeed, the melody grows louder. And yes, the bells do jingle. Is this real life, or is someone going to slather their watch with butter and yell it’s teatime? Outside, our attackers must be equally puzzled, because they still haven’t resumed shooting. I squirm under March and see Porho and Dominik slump in their seats with . . . grins on their faces?
I’m not sure what comes first, the sound or the impact. There’s a sort of . . . whoosh, and almost immediately, a massive explosion shakes the SUV, booming through my chest. I peek up at the windshield just in time to witness the surreal sight of one of the Hummers upside down, literally flying over us in a blaze of flames before crashing into the minivan that was barring our way.
Porho lets out a low whistle, and I shift under March to get a better look, but he hisses for me to stay down. Rightly so, since renewed gunshots crackle behind us. The bells keep jingling hard, and a second detonation shakes our car.
Through the windows, I glimpse flaming debris raining all around us.
I register Porho’s laugh. “Didn’t I tell you the truck was a great idea?”
The comment was apparently directed at Dominik, who straightens in his seat. “Not bad.”
Above me, I sense March relax.
“Is it . . . over?” I squeak.
“Yes. But stay in the car, please.”
Like I’d venture so much as a toe outside . . . March moves away from me to step out of the SUV. Porho and Dominik
do the same. I can make out burning fragments littering the once-pristine snow, and swirls of acrid black smoke stretch around the car. I inhale some and cough my lungs out. The music sounds much louder now, covering what I recognize as groans of pain.
Painful chills cascade down my spine. What have they done? Those were my father’s guards, men I saw every day. Stiles might even be among them . . . A mixture of emotional and physical distress squeezes my lungs as I try to make sense of the past few hours. These men I thought I knew and trusted would have hurt me. My father ordered them to. Stiles drugged me and let them strap me to that stretcher, and that turd Morgan taped my mouth shut so he wouldn’t have to hear my screams. Enter my kidnappers—because they kidnapped me, right?—who act like they already know me, who technically saved me. But from what, exactly? And why?
The word ransom resounds in my head, loud and clear, like the obvious answer. I need to know what’s going on. Against my best judgment, I crawl toward March’s open door and risk a peek outside. My stomach heaves at the sight of the devastation surrounding me. As I feared, the two Hummers were somehow bombed one after another. There’s the one that flew over our car, now a fuming upside-down carcass that destroyed the other van upon impact. Bloodied limbs dangle from the broken windows. Several men lie wounded in the bloodstained snow, some clutching their arms, their chests. The fog clouding the air around their noses and mouths tells me some of them are still alive. Tears bubble in my eyes, blind me. I can’t handle this. I just wanted to be free; I never wanted this . . .
I let myself roll to the ground to get a better look at the source of the music. I fall face-first in the snow, shake my head, and scramble to my feet. It must be the meds. They put something in that drip. In no sane, rational universe should I be standing thirty feet away from the very same ice-cream truck I saw in Hamina. I stare at the colorful vehicle in a state of complete shock. One that doesn’t get any better when I notice the retractable rocket launcher mounted on the roof.
So that’s what happened. And that’s the truck that was serving ice cream to kids yesterday. No, wait. They were firing ice cream scoops at the kids. My knees wobble. At least it all makes sense now, right? In a daze, I wonder if that kind of equipment is approved by the Finnish food-safety authorities when the truck’s driver door slams open. Why am I not surprised to see the clown step out?
There’s actually nothing funny about this man underneath the rainbow-striped jumpsuit and the red nose. I make note of his graying beard and hard hazel eyes—almost golden—before my eyes train on the gun in his hand. He takes a few steps away from the truck, contemplating his work with a chilling gaze. No trace of fear or remorse to be found there.
I shudder when he calls to the wounded men in a booming voice, “Who wants to live to carry a message for me?”
Without waiting for an answer, he aims at the man lying closest to him and presses the trigger. The single gunshot explodes in my ears. I see the jerk of the man’s head, the crimson stain growing on the snow. None of it feels real. My mouth falls open, but no scream comes out; only icy tears stream down my cheeks as the clown growls, “Never mind. You are the message. All of you.”
TEN
THE SPIDER
The clown just shot a wounded man before my eyes . . . I’m shaking, and there’s an unexpected pressure in my bladder. I think I’m going to wet myself. Oh God . . . he’s noticed me. His eyes widen, and his harsh features melt into a sinister parody of a smile, revealing a gap tooth—the only thing we could possibly have in common. When he takes a step toward me, the muscles in my legs coil with what I now recognize as the urge to run.
Slowly, he takes off the red nose. A tremor shakes his hand. “Little Island . . .”
As I discover his face in its entirety for the first time, I’m aware of every beat of my heart reverberating through my body, of the snow squishing under my boots. He must be pushing fifty, and he’s about the same height as my father but a little beefier. I scan his sharp features, the straight nose and thick eyebrows. Save for the short beard, they could be brothers, really. I doubt they are though, because I’m almost certain I’m standing in front of Dries Kovius.
I look at the three men surrounding me frantically. They stay still, watching. My gaze searches March’s. He of all people is going to say something; he’s going to tell me what’s going on. But he remains silent, a tired smile stirring his lips as the clown opens his arms as if to welcome me. All I can see is the gun in his hand. My breath coming in short pants, I scan the road, the bodies lying at our feet . . . the pines around us.
I can do this. Once I’m hidden in that thick tangle of branches, they won’t be able to find me. It’s only a few yards. I can do this. My rational mind shuts down, and my legs spring into action, the need to escape stronger than the fear pounding in my temples. I bolt between March and the clown and run as fast as I can without looking back. The surprise effect doesn’t last; already I can hear them bark my name. Heavy footsteps crush the snow behind me. I run faster, my lungs burning with the effort of inhaling gulps of icy air. I desperately want to believe I’m going to make it. I’m almost in the woods; the first branches are lashing at my clothes. In my legs, the muscles protest against the sudden effort, and I can tell I won’t be able to keep this up for long. I look ahead and spot an area where the ground seems to slope between two tall pines; with one last effort, I reach it and skid down, ankle deep in fresh snow.
It wasn’t such a great idea, because the soft white mantle actually conceals . . . rocks. A searing pain tears through my right ankle, and I pray it’s not broken. I can no longer run: I roll to the ground and let myself slide down the rest of the way, until I reach a stream. They’re right behind me: over the sound of my own panicked breathing, I register branches creaking and hoarse shouts. Yeah, right . . . like I’m going to stop and come back! I limp toward the stream, intent on crossing it. I don’t care that the water might freeze my feet: it’s my last chance. Once I’m on the other side they’ll give up, and I’ll be free. Just free.
I lunge forward, but one of them catches me before I even touch the water, hauling me backward.
“No! Don’t touch me!” I shriek and thrash against the powerful hold, vaguely aware of Porho saying to someone, “He’s got her.”
A whiff of mint identifies my assailant before I’ve even turned to see his face. March is holding me tight, blocking any possible escape. The silvery stream is mere feet away, but I’ll never reach it. Air whizzes in my throat as I slowly give up the fight. I’m exhausted, and March and Porho top me by at least a foot, Dominik and the clown only slightly less: I’ll never get past them, much less overpower them.
My legs give way under me, but I don’t fall: March gets down on one knee and lowers us both to the ground. My breath coming in ragged gasps, I don’t immediately realize he’s pulled me back against his chest in the semblance of a hug. I feel him nuzzling my hair. “Island, please calm down. You’re safe now; it’s over.”
I have no strength left to push him away, so I bury my face in my hands to block his presence. I just don’t want him to kiss me again. “Who are you? Why are you doing this? Is this, like . . . for a ransom?” I croak.
I register a sharp intake of air and March’s hold tenses, like he just seized for a millisecond. Heavy steps crush the twigs on the ground somewhere to my left, and I look up to see the dreaded rainbow jumpsuit. Looming above me with the sun at his back, Kovius looks even more terrifying. He kneels in front of us and studies me with chilling eyes. “What’s wrong with her? Is she high?”
March draws a heavy sigh, and his voice sounds almost strangled as he says, “I don’t know. I don’t think so . . .”
•••
I’m not high. And yet I’m riding through the deserted Finnish backcountry in an ice-cream truck that’s been modified to fire rockets . . . Dominik took the wheel and Porho too went to sit in the front while I sit in the back, sandwiched between March and Kovius the clown. Ice-cream trays
and equipment clank on the shelves as we progress on what I suspect is a trail.
They gave me a black men’s parka in which I’ve huddled into a tight ball. Kovius won’t stop staring at me, so I spent most of the trip with my head buried into my knees to block his scrutiny and March’s repeated inquiries about my well-being. Yes, my ankle is fricking fine. No, I don’t want him to “take a look.” He doesn’t even seem to realize that he and his little terrorist club kidnapped me—not that my future looked any brighter before their intervention. My eyes squeezed shut, I replay in my mind everything that happened since I hacked through that damn firewall. I’m missing something huge; I can’t make sense of any of this, save for the chilling intuition that all I ever was to my father was a pet—one Kovius has now stolen, probably to extort something from him . . .
My head snaps up when I feel the truck stop. March’s hand brushes my shoulder. “Island, we’ve arrived.”
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss, for at least the tenth time.
He moves away with a sigh and gives me some space to scramble to my feet. When the truck’s door slams open, the icy air bites my cheeks. I draw a shivering breath that fogs the air around me; it’s much colder here than in Hamina. As soon as I step out, I’m greeted by the sight of a frozen lake, a white immensity stretching under a cloudy sky. On the shores, I see nothing but snow-covered trees for miles around. How I regret ever complaining that Ingolvinlinna was in the middle of nowhere. Not even close. This place—wherever we are—this is officially the frozen butthole of the world.
Nestled in a grove of birch trees, I spot a roof. There’s a log cabin facing the lake—somewhere no one will ever find me. I ball my fists in my coat’s oversize sleeves and when I remain frozen in place, March’s hand hovers at my back in a silent invitation. I will my legs to move, their joints like rusty, reluctant gears. I’m not the only one struggling, by the way: I didn’t notice before, but Kovius has a slight limp. His right leg looks a bit stiff, and as we climb the few steps leading up to the porch, he huffs and swears under his breath.
