by Sean Platt
My heart is racing. I can feel energy coursing through me, like a spring pushed to its limit, ready to release.
I pull the bladed belt buckle out with my left hand, step behind the man with the bag, and bring the blade to his neck in one quick swoop.
Vinnie’s instincts guide my moves, almost kicking me from the driver’s seat. If left to me, I’d be frozen in fear. But some part of Vinnie remains, and is ready to act.
I reach down, grab the thief’s right hand, raise the gun, slide my finger over his trigger finger, and fire at the leader.
Two shots to his chest.
He falls back.
The other man raises his gun, fires.
I keep the robber’s body between us, taking shots as the man empties his pistol.
Once I hear the gun run out of ammo, my left hand slices the thief’s neck.
I spring toward the gunman.
He throws his gun at me.
I swat it aside, then shove him backward against the wall, raising the blade to his throat.
I meet his scared dark eyes.
A question comes to me, as instinctual as my movements. “Who hired you?”
I press the blade against his neck to prove I’m not fucking around.
I hear coughing behind me. The leader is down, but not out.
I grab the man I’m interrogating, and spin him to use him as my shield as the leader fires his pistol.
His shots are off, not hitting me or my man-shield.
I rush forward, shoving the man in front of me.
He falls on the leader and traps the gun under his body.
I race forward, drop to my knees, slicing upward with my left hand straight into the leader’s neck.
His eyes bulge as he gargles on his blood.
The final thief, on top of him, makes a grab for the gun.
I elbow him hard in the head.
He stumbles back, somehow managing to get the gun, raising it up and firing.
Fear, adrenaline, and anger swell inside, I’m enraged that these men would attempt to rob me and Mr. Bruno.
Don’t they know who we are?
I know these feelings are Vinnie’s, and I can’t quite figure out how they’re swirling through my head. Things don’t usually happen this way. I’ll occasionally tap into someone’s personal bank, including their muscle memory, allowing me to do things I couldn’t normally do, but this rarely comes with the host’s residual emotions. And yet, somehow, a part of Vinnie is with me.
Just like Lara was.
The last of the thieves stares up at me, shaking, raising his hands, “Please, please, don’t kill me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Who hired you?”
“Some Russian guy. I don’t know his name, I swear.”
I drop down beside him, return the blade to his neck.
“I want a name.”
“I swear, I don’t know! Some fucking Russian. Told us to hit you. Told us you’d have at least a half million, and we’d split it.”
“Did he mention the other stuff in the safe?”
The man looked at me, as if confused.
“The hard drives and flash drives. Did he tell you to get those?”
“No, he just told us to get everything in the safe. Didn’t tell us what all would be in there. Please, please, don’t kill me.”
Before I can weigh in, Vinnie’s hand drives the blade across the thief’s throat.
I jump back, as if trying to distance myself from the body who just murdered a man who had more or less surrendered, a man who died begging for his life.
I didn’t mean to kill him.
I didn’t kill him.
Did I?
I stumble back, dropping the blade, staring at the trio of bodies around me.
I see blood on the ground, then the blood staining my shirt.
One of the leader’s shots did hit me. My abdomen’s gushing.
And then, like the Coyote in those Road Runner cartoons running off a cliff and not falling until he realizes it, I feel the pain.
It’s not nearly as bad as it probably should be. I’m not sure if this is a good thing, my adrenaline preventing me from feeling it, or a bad thing — a sign that I’m grievously injured.
I start toward the leader to retrieve my phone.
My legs are wobbly, my head dizzy. Terrible signs.
Please don’t let another person die on my watch.
I fish the phone from his pocket, watching him the entire time, as if he might spring to life like some horror movie monster.
He doesn’t.
I sit on the ground, dial 9-1-1 and tell them to hurry — there have been several shootings.
As the operator asks me about my status, I look over to the bag the thieves had tried to steal, and try crawling toward it, to put the bag in the safe and lock it before the sheriff’s deputies show. I can hear Mr. Bruno yelling at Vinnie, “Clean up your fucking mess!”
My mind flashes on several messes Vinnie has had to clean in the past — how many bodies he’s had to put down, had to bury for his boss.
The bag might as well be miles away. I can’t move. Vinnie’s body won’t respond to a single signal that my brain is trying to send.
Come on, dammit!
The emergency operator tells me to hold on.
I remember the man in the van.
He’s still there, waiting. What if he comes in for the bag?
I try willing myself toward the bag.
Instead, I fall facedown to the ground.
* * * *
CHAPTER 4
Tuesday
I wake up in darkness, lying in a bed, dizzy.
At first, I think I’m still in Vinnie’s body, maybe in a hospital bed, perhaps being operated on.
But no.
I’m not Vinnie.
And this isn’t a hospital room.
I’m in Allie’s body, one hand cuffed to a chain, which is linked to another pair of cuffs locked around a metal rail along the wall to my right.
This is Gavin’s dungeon, and I am his prisoner.
I resist the urge to cry, scream, or make any sound at all. I have to assess the situation. The room is small, maybe ten by ten, so I can tell I’m alone, but I have no idea for how long, or what’s beyond the door at the top of the stairs.
The dungeon is lit by a single light bulb in the water-stained plaster ceiling. I think it has gray brick walls. There’s a bed, a bucket for me to go to the bathroom in, and a sink with a roll of toilet paper and a plastic cup. That’s it. No air vents, no windows, no escape.
It’s cold, but not too bad.
I can’t tell if it’s day or night. There is only quiet.
I try to access Allie’s memories to find out what’s happened so far, what she remembers of being taken, if she has any idea where she is, or anything that might be of use. I get nothing, though. I can’t even tell if anything’s happened to her. Usually, when I’m in a host who has a recent traumatic experience, they leave a residual behind: memories, anxiety, even pain that weighs on me. But I’m getting nothing from Allie.
I try to sit up, but my head is still spinning.
Maybe she’s been drugged the past two days?
I’m surprised, and a bit alarmed, that there’s no gag on her mouth. He must have Allie somewhere nobody will hear her.
I’m wearing a T-shirt and jeans, which I suppose is a good sign. I could be naked and tied up. I’ve heard enough stories of girls and women being kept as sex slaves to know that’s a very real possibility here. The fact that Allie is still dressed is a small comfort, and not one I can extrapolate to mean she’ll come out of this okay. Even if Gavin isn’t a rapist — and let’s not kid ourselves, he may very well be — we know he is a murderer. And Allie’s seen his face. I can’t think of a single reason he’d ever set her free.
Which means I need to either find a means of escape or persuade him to let her go.
I turn my head and examine the h
andcuff and rail along the wall. It’s metal, gray, like one of those rails in a handicap stall. In fact, that’s exactly what it looks like, which means the bastard must’ve installed this himself, for the sole purpose of confining someone.
How many others have been in this room? And, more importantly, where are they now?
I continue examining the rail. There are two metal cups covering both spots where it’s connected to the wall. Maybe if I can get them loose, I can find a way to slacken the screws. I press my hands against the wall, trying to determine if it is indeed brick. Sure feels like it, which means I won’t be able to kick a hole to maybe break free of the rail that way.
I wonder how Gavin managed to screw the rail into brick. Probably a drill with a heavy bit. Maybe my best bet would be pulling on the bar with both hands while pushing on the wall with my feet until I can loosen it — if I can loosen it — rather than unscrewing the rail.
But what then? There’s still a door, and I can’t imagine it’s unlocked. Even if Gavin thinks I’m secure, he’d still bolt the door, right?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Indecision is a blade at my throat.
Should I try and break free now and maybe make enough noise to draw my captor and suffer his wrath? I’m guessing he’s a desperate man and would likely do anything to prevent Allie escaping and exposing him for the monster he is. Any attempt to flee while he’s around would only push him into a corner. I need to bide my time, wait, see if he leaves, or maybe try and talk my way out of this.
This feels like the right solution, but I can’t help wondering if maybe he’s out of the house now and that’s why it’s so quiet. Maybe this is the perfect time to escape, and that’s why I’m in Allie’s body now.
Until recently, my jumps have felt random. But this feels like I’m part of some grand plan.
But for four days I’ve been in the same town where Lara was killed in, and Allie was kidnapped. Being in Allie’s body now must mean there’s a connection here, at least among these four days. I’m not sure how Vinnie plays into it. Does he know Gavin? Or maybe he was there to give me the experience to fight? I can still feel his energy inside me, his skills, even though I’m no longer in his body.
And just like that, I remember him being shot, passing out, maybe even dying, and I suffer a wave of guilt.
I wonder if he’s okay. And if so, what happened with the police, with his boss. He could be in a world of trouble right now, assuming he’s alive, and a lot of that is my fault for opening the safe.
Stop, I tell myself, you had no choice. It was that or be shot. You did the best you could.
Besides, there’s nothing I can do for him from here. It’s time to focus on Allie and getting her the hell out of this sick bastard’s dungeon.
Suddenly, movement outside the doorway. Somebody fumbling with a sliding lock — so I am locked in.
I quickly lie back down, close my eyes, pretend I’m sleeping.
The door creaks open.
Footsteps echo in the small space as the human beast descends the stairs.
I risk opening my eyes.
And there he is, giving me his lunatic’s smile.
“Good morning!” he says as if I’m a guest at his bed and breakfast and he’s about to serve quiche.
I say nothing, guarded.
He stands in front of me, staring down.
“Still not happy to see me, eh? That’ll change.”
The hell it will!
I say nothing while he stares at me like a fat man eyeballing cake. His creepy smile and delighted eyes make me want to vomit. Any thoughts I had about him not being a rapist are gone. He might not have raped Allie yet, but rape is lighting his eyes, for sure.
Having been in the bodies of a few people who have been raped, though, thankfully not during the crime, I know it’s a pain, and often a shame, they carry for years, if not their entire lives. But it’s not that aspect of the assault that scares me for Allie. It’s something worse. Once you cross that line with someone you’ve kidnapped, you have no choice but to kill them. It’s the only way Gavin can truly protect himself. Kill Allie … or keep her down here forever.
I can’t let that happen.
I need to act.
I feel Vinnie’s skills coursing through Allie’s body. I have no idea if she can execute the same moves. After all, she doesn’t have Vinnie’s same physical build, his raw strength, or his training.
But I have the knowledge. And that, paired with my hate for Gavin, means we can do this. We can take him down.
Yeah, but look what happened to Vinnie. Even with all that skill, and even though you killed three assailants, you still managed to get him shot. He might even be dead!
I hush the fear inside me.
I can’t let panic keep Allie a victim. I have to act.
I decide to engage Gavin.
“Why don’t you let me go?” I ask, voice shaky.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I don’t think you meant to take me. I think I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You didn’t know what to do, so you grabbed me. Whatever was going on between you and Lara is none of my business. Just let me go, please. I promise, I won’t tell anyone anything about you. Hell, I don’t even know anything about you!”
He stares at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. He appears to consider my request. Could it be that simple? Can I actually negotiate my way out of this?
“But I like you. Don’t you like me?”
His grin tells me that he’s not deranged enough to actually think I might like him. He’s not some confused killer/kidnapper who thinks if he keeps the girl, she’ll eventually grow to love him. No, he’s clearly toying with me. He thinks he’s better than me. He has no regard for life. I can see it in his eyes, just as I saw it through Lara’s. This man is a psychopath.
I try to reason with him, anyway.
“I’m a kid,” I say, hoping to disarm him. Yes, Allie is a teenager who may look to be of, or close to, the age of consent, but she’s only fifteen, still a child. Maybe that will mean something to him.
He shakes his head, grinning. “Oh, don’t play innocent with me.”
“I’m fifteen! I’m not playing innocent. I am innocent. I haven’t even kissed a boy!”
“Ooh, I’ve never had a virgin before. You’ll be a nice change from all the whores. I promise, I’ll be gentle.”
He reaches down to touch me, to touch Allie.
I act without thinking.
I grab his left arm with my right, then, with my fist balled up tight, drive my left hand, the chained one, up toward his neck, to deliver a lethal blow.
He turns, and my fist drives into his jaw instead. Painful, but hardly lethal.
He lets out a loud grunt then turns before I can make my next move, which would’ve been to wrap him with my legs and prevent him from getting away.
He grabs me by the neck, lifts me, and slams me against the wall.
The brick hits my head like a bat on a ball.
**
I wake.
The world is spinning. My head is pounding. I have no idea how long I’ve been out, but don’t think it’s been too long.
It was, however, long enough for Gavin to bind my hands with another pair of cuffs — how many handcuffs does this asshole have? — now linked to the chain attached to the rail.
He’s standing over me. Jaw purple, eyes glaring. His grin is missing. There is no wicked delight in his eyes. He’s pissed.
Good.
I’m too vulnerable to launch another attack, but too proud to apologize or beg him not to hurt me.
“Try that again, and I’ll bind your feet, too. You won’t even be able to use the bucket.”
“What do you want from me?” I ask, staring into his cold eyes.
He glares back, saying nothing.
“Is this what you were going to do to Lara? Kidnap her, bring her here so she could be your little pet or something?”
; “No, she wasn’t good enough to bring here.”
The lack of emotion in his voice, and the casual way he dismisses Lara, makes me wish I had Vinnie’s blade.
“So, what, I am?”
“You’re probably not good enough, either,” he says, eyeing me up and down. “And I hadn’t planned for you. I don’t like to take a life until I know the life I’m taking.”
I shake my head and say, “You’re pathetic.”
He smiles.
“Good. Keep it up. The more you fight, the more pleasure I’ll have taking that fight out of you.”
He turns toward the stairway.
“There’s a sandwich on the sink. I suggest you eat it.”
He ascends the steps, opens the door, then leaves.
I listen as he slides the lock shut.
I turn and look at the sandwich. I’m not sure if Allie has had anything to eat or drink yet, but judging from my growling stomach and dry mouth, I’d say it’s been a while.
I sit up, head still swimming.
I stand, with just enough chain to reach the sink. As I look down at the sandwich, I notice that the waste bucket under the sink is empty. Has Allie not used it, or is Gavin dumping it each day?
I grab the sandwich and peel the bread apart to see peanut butter, no jelly. My stomach growls, and my mouth waters in anticipation.
I bite into the sandwich as if I haven’t eaten in months.
I hope it’s not poisoned, but figure if the asshole wanted me dead he’s had any number of opportunities already. There’s no need to trick me now.
I plow through the sandwich then turn on the sink, rinse the cup, fill it with cold water, and gulp it to empty.
I refill the cup and drink more. I set the cup back on the sink, then run water through my hands, over my face and through my hair. The back of my head is tender, with a golf ball-sized lump. I gently touch it then pull my fingers back to see if there’s blood. No.
I sit back on the bed even though I’m not in the mood to sit or lie. I want to be up, out of this room.
I look at the chain and the rail on the wall, wondering how much force it would take to yank the bar off. Can I do it without making so much noise that I draw his attention?
