Fight or Flight

by Natalie J. Damschroder

  Goal one accomplished.

  Goal two immediately became evasion, which failed because she somehow passed their car without seeing it. When they reached it, their horsepower trumped her soccer-built running skills. When the car neared her she took off cross country, but all-wheel-drive was better than two feet and they caught up to her easily, passing her and disgorging Number Three to tackle her and press her into the dirt.

  Winded and with a couple hundred pounds on her back, Kelsey could do nothing. Instinct and helplessness drove her struggle to get free, but didn’t totally kill the exhilaration of the chase. Her friends were still safe, and these guys had orders not to hurt her. There’d be an opportunity to get away, probably more than one. She just had to be smarter than these guys…and keep setting goals.

  One of the other guys tied her hands behind her back and a third roped her feet together. They hauled her up, tossed her into the car, and bounced back to the road, where they took off away from the house.

  Kelsey closed her eyes and prayed. Please let Van and Tom be okay. She focused on the fact that she’d protected them, kept them safe, until her body adjusted to her circumstances and she could keep the anxiety from turning into full-bore panic. Fear gives you the means to save yourself, panic takes it away. Another lesson of her mother’s, and so far, it was working.

  Goal Three. Escape. Big goal. How? Listen. Plan. She lay across the laps of the two jerks in the back seat, tuning in to their conversation. Big goals should be broken down into smaller ones, but she needed information before she could set them.

  “Did you call it in?” the guy in the passenger seat asked the guy driving once they were on the main road and their teeth were no longer clacking together from the bouncing.

  “Not yet. No signal out here.”

  There was a beep. First guy said, “Shit, you’re right.”

  “I told you. You never listen to me.”

  Kelsey was facing forward so she could see the driver, the second guy, yank the phone out of the first guy’s hands.

  “We’ll call when we get to the airport.”

  Okay, so they planned to fly her out. To where? California? Didn’t matter. She couldn’t let them load her on the plane. If she managed to get out of the car now, though, she would just be running across empty farmland again. Her best bet would be to get out while they were in town, before they got to the airport. It left her a small window, but with town traffic she might be able to do it.

  Of course, being tied up presented a bit of a problem. She’d held her hands so the rope around her wrists was pretty loose, but she couldn’t slip it with her hands up against the third guy’s abdomen. The fourth guy’s hand rested on the rope around her legs, so she couldn’t work at that, either.

  You’re pretty screwed, Miller. But wait. She held herself still when she really, really wanted to squirm away from their smelly bodies and icky hands.

  “Why is everyone starin’ at us?” One wondered as they did a rolling stop at a stop sign.

  “Dunno,” Two answered, sounding wary. “That guy’s pointing at us.”

  “Shit, he’s a cop! Step on it!”

  “I knew we shouldn’t have stolen this friggin’ thing!” Four shouted from Kelsey’s feet. “It’s red! They always pay attention to red cars!”

  She couldn’t stifle a laugh. Driving back through the town you stole a car in, especially a tiny, isolated town with a matching grapevine, was very stupid. She felt a little less okay with letting these idiots get the better of her, but determined to best them first chance she got.

  Two squealed around a corner. Three and Four lost their grips and Kelsey rolled to the floor. This was her chance! She wiggled and writhed against their hands, and when they dragged her back up, this time facing them, her feet were loosened and hands free, masked by the rope still hanging around her wrists. So when they slammed to a stop at the airport and Kelsey toppled off their laps again, she had the element of surprise. She thrashed her feet until one came out of the binding, kicking Four multiple times, once in the face.

  “Ow! Goddamn it! Help me!”

  Two opened Four’s door. But young athletic soccer stars with paranoid mothers were excellent fighters with their feet. Kelsey nailed both of them good before she dragged herself across Three’s lap, kneeing him in the groin in the process, and scrambled out his door.

  She got halfway to the little terminal—almost far enough to feel a hint of relief—before, out of the blue, two men in black jackets and cargo pants caught her arms and lifted her right off her feet. “Oh, come on!” More furious than scared, she twisted and screamed and yanked, but they stood solidly, holding tightly but not actively fighting her. She knew they were letting her tire herself out.

  It didn’t matter. They didn’t know how fierce she was, how much she needed to keep her friends safe. She wasn’t going to tire. She wrenched her right arm free and landed on her feet in a half-crouch, but then there was a sting in her left arm. She looked, and saw a needle sticking out of her skin.

  “Oh, shit.”

  ***

  Regan hit the floor automatically. Despite the size of the room, the force of the explosions from both sides sent shards flying in all directions. Pieces landed on her back. Her hands, covering her head, stung with cuts. Sound had disappeared, and her breathing came with such a gaspy quality she thought she’d die.

  The explosions were immediately followed by the thuds of booted feet and chatter of automatic weapons fire. Regan could hear them through the cotton in her ears enough to recognize them, but could see nothing. She had no idea who wielded the weapons, where the bullets were coming from—and where they were aimed.

  She hadn’t even had time to lift her head when someone hauled her roughly to her feet. At first she thought it was one of the Harrisons’ security team, he was dressed so much like them. But he wore a ski-style mask and instead of a gun, he held a wicked-looking knife.

  A knife she’d seen before, or at least one like it. Adrenaline kicked in.

  She fell toward the man, surprising him enough to release her arm. But not enough for him to forget what he was doing. He drew back the knife, aimed at her gut. She scrambled back a few steps and kicked. Her foot missed his wrist, but her heel glanced the knife blade. It got caught in the hard rubber just long enough to pull it partway out of his hand. While he struggled to secure it, she slammed her elbow into his nose.

  He went down without a sound. She stood over him, waiting, but the blow had been hard enough to splinter the cartilage. He was unconscious.

  She snatched up his knife and her gun from where it had been knocked to the floor and huddled beside the chair, taking stock.

  Black-dressed figures were everywhere, fighting, firing guns, jumping in and out of the blasted windows. She couldn’t tell who was friend and who was foe without scrutiny, and taking the time to do that would be deadly.

  Jeanne Harrison was nowhere in sight. Ben fought fiercely with two men, one of whom drove him backward into the wall. His head hit the stone around the fireplace and he fell, his eyes rolling. He was too far away for her to help him.

  Other figures converged on Regan, half a room away but obviously coming toward her. She rose to a crouch, trying to keep all three of them in view. She spared a quick glance behind her and was surprised to see Tyler standing, untouched save for some glass cuts on his face, the toppled chair still attached to his leg. No one went near him, and the occasional bullets remained near the back windows where the fiercest fighting was going on. As she watched, one of the men in a ski mask ran past Tyler without even looking at him. The man barked something at the men descending on her, and they leaped into action.

  Slipping into a cold warrior mode of which she’d never expected herself capable, Regan raised both knife and gun. She fired, hitting one man in the leg. He yelled, took a step on the injured leg, and collapsed, clutching it. Her knife swipe missed the guy on the left, who dodged, and the guy in the middle came too fast for her to
react. His fist was heading for her face when out of nowhere a chair flew at his head. Regan fell back over a small table, barely registering the chair was still attached to Tyler’s leg. He’d done a spin kick, flinging the chair into the guy. Regan’s fall kept her from getting caught on the follow-through.

  She fired the pistol again, fear and chaotic confusion making her hand shake a little. The bullet grazed the upper arm of the guy on her left. He didn’t stop coming. She rolled right and onto her feet, but he hit her wrist with the side of his hand. The nerve vibrated, numbness taking over. Her fingers went limp and the gun clattered to the floor.

  But she still had the knife. She swept it at his face, but he easily caught her wrist and held the knife away, baring his teeth in a feral growl as he bore down. Rage boiled, flooded her. No way was she letting one of these guys keep her from Kelsey. She didn’t stop fighting before, and she wouldn’t now. She moved her right foot behind her to brace and slammed her right forearm against his throat. She didn’t have the strength to really hurt him, but it held him away and kept the knife aimed at him. He gurgled a little, the grin dropping, but twisted her left arm downward, centimeter by centimeter. Her muscles burned, the knife trembling. He was stronger, and if he kept turning her hand, all it would take would be one shove to plunge the knife into her heart.

  Time slowed. She pushed with her back leg, but her forward leg began to give way. The knife continued to rotate. She jerked, trying to cut him, but he had her too tightly. His face turned red but he grinned again, knowing he was winning.

  With a surge of desperation, Regan drove her right knee upward. It connected solidly with his balls. His eyes bulged, and his breath came out in a high, almost inaudible scream. His grip loosened and his legs sagged, though he struggled to stay up. Regan shoved against his neck and he held on as he fell backward. She released the knife as they landed in a heap, terrified it would gut her.

  Someone caught her by the shoulders and pulled her away from the goon, who rolled onto his stomach, now gasping. Regan spun, her vision blurring, her determination to keep fighting outstripping her ability as she nearly knocked herself over. But Tyler held her shoulders, keeping her on her feet. The cuffs dangled from his ankle, the smashed chair a few feet away.

  She was about to thank him when someone shouted his name. They turned to the man striding toward them, his hat pulled back, his face furious.

  “Your father’s going to be pissed,” he called. “What the hell are you doing?”

  His father? Regan looked at Ben, who was lying ignored at the base of the fireplace wall. She looked back at Tyler, who scowled.

  “Shut up!” he yelled and made a motion to wave the man away.

  Confused, Regan scanned the room and the much-reduced activity. Bodies lay everywhere, some moving, some still, all in black. She spotted Jeanne through the archway into the foyer. The woman stood with her back to a wall, pistols in both hands. As Regan watched, she fired one. A body fell into view. Jeanne spun as another person rushed her.

  The man yelling at Tyler had reached them now. Tyler released Regan and stepped in front of her. She slowly backed away. The man got in Tyler’s face, roaring something about loyalty and following orders. Regan barely processed it until he said Archie Sloane. Then it all clicked.

  Archie was Tyler’s father.

  She stood in shock for one precious second before her mind began to race. Ben was hurt, but now ignored. Jeanne fought, but most of the activity was centered here in this room. Near Regan. If the security team hadn’t been close, she knew most of the attackers would have been on her, and she’d be dead—or taken? But during the fighting, they’d left Tyler alone.

  Tyler’s father had killed Scott. Had killed Alan. Tried to kill her, abduct Kelsey, use her as a weapon. Tyler had known all this and hadn’t told her.

  Betrayal poured through her, the pain enough to make her collapse if another, simultaneous thought hadn’t immediately countered it.

  Archie had known where she was, had come after her with a full force. Even if his intent was to capture her, he didn’t seem too concerned about her getting killed in crossfire. Which meant he didn’t need her to get to Kelsey.

  Which meant they knew where Kelsey was.

  Later, Regan would not have been able to explain how she got out of the house. Slices in her jeans and cuts on her side and arm indicated she’d gone through the broken window. She didn’t really remember fighting, but she had to have. There was a bruise on her cheek as if she’d been punched, and another on her left ribs.

  But it was all a blur until she came to awareness, speeding down the road in the black car that had delivered them to the house. One hand clutched her pistol and the steering wheel, while the other lay pressed flat against the knife on her thigh. She was cold, a block of ice from deep inside all the way to her fingertips.

  And she was being followed.

  The car was luxuriously appointed, with walnut trim and leather upholstery. Regan set the gun on the console and found the controls for the heat, pressing a button for the seat warmer, too. It made her slightly more comfortable, though nothing touched the cold at her core.

  She was at least a day’s drive from Tyler’s house. She couldn’t fly back, having little money, no safe ID, no vehicle on the other end, and people chasing her.

  Seated in a custom holder at the base of the console was a walkie-talkie. It kept squawking, the voices giving her notice that Tyler, with a couple of Harrison’s men, was chasing bad guys who were chasing her. She must have gotten a head start on them because it sounded as if they were a few miles back. She was doing eighty now, though she suspected she’d been going faster when she’d been in the fugue state, or whatever it was.

  Darkness had fallen early because of the rain, which had lightened. The wipers flashed across the windshield intermittently, the headlights on automatically in the dark, and the steering wheel responded to the tiniest correction. It felt a bit like flying.

  She glanced at the gas tank. Nearly full. Where the hell was she? She paid attention until she passed a sign for CA-20. A mile later she approached one for I-5. Shit. She’d been on the road nearly an hour. She’d blacked out that long? What else had she done?

  She took the ramp for I-5, mercifully as empty as 20 had been. She stretched to open the glove compartment, but all it held was a packet with the car’s registration and some maintenance paperwork. The center console held an unopened bag of cashews, a pack of gum, a spare set of car keys—where had she gotten the ones in the ignition?—and what appeared to be a second battery for the walkie-talkie. There was no GPS in the console, but she was certain the car was marked with it. So she had to stay ahead of them, and not backtracking would be a damned good way to do it. She hit the map light above her and looked around, spotting an elasticized leather pocket in the door. She slid a hand into it. Bingo. A U.S. road atlas.

  A short distance later she pulled off the highway at a wide spot in the shoulder, hoping the others weren’t very close. The radio had gone silent. Maybe she was out of range, or maybe they realized she had one and switched channels.

  She took a few minutes to plot a route. I-80 would take her all the way through Nebraska. She weighed the pros and cons of staying on such a direct route. Pro was getting to Kelsey fastest, which won out over losing the people behind her. She could head north at Omaha instead of Des Moines, where Tyler would expect her to go because of familiarity.

  The word brought forth a flood of recent memory and the realization of just how close she’d let Tyler get. Pain burst from her chest, blinding her for precious seconds. She didn’t want this. There was no time for loss and betrayal and hatred. She had to get to Kelsey.

  As always, her focus sharpened and cleared away the rest when she thought of her daughter. She took a deep breath, turned off the heater, and got back on the road.

  Averaging eighty miles an hour and stopping for no more than five minutes at a time to fuel the car, go to the bathroom, and buy snack
s and caffeinated gum, drinks and mints, Regan made the final approach to the house just over twenty-four hours after she’d regained awareness. She’d fought to stay awake at times, blasting the radio, driving with the window down, pinching herself, and sucking down so much caffeine and energy shots she’d vomited about five hours ago.

  Now, she couldn’t have dozed off if someone hit her on the head. Her foot pressed harder and harder on the accelerator, the car speeding up to match her racing heart, until the tires caught dirt at one point and she almost spun out. She took a few deep breaths and slowed down, regained control, and counted the last five minutes by seconds.

  There were tire tracks at the side of the house. Her heart stopped racing. Stopped beating entirely for two counts before thudding back so hard it cramped. Someone had been here. Might still be here. After a brief debate whether to go to the back or inside, she shoved the car into park and grabbed the keys before racing in through the unlocked front door.

  “Kelsey!” she shouted into the cavernous silence. She knew before she finished the word that no one was in here. “Van! Tom!”

  Nothing.

  “Be methodical,” she muttered. Don’t run off half-cocked. She searched the downstairs, checking the bathroom and the closet before rushing upstairs and doing the same. No one was in the bedrooms, under the beds, in the upstairs closets. She yanked on the rope pull for the attic access, but when paint cracked and dust showered onto the clean floor below it, she knew no one had gone up there.

  She checked the bathroom last and found the window open and footprints in the tub. She leaned out and looked down. A white towel was on the ground directly below. The yard, oddly lit by the late twilight, appeared deserted. But—

  Regan’s heart skipped again. The doors to the run-down barn out back were hanging open.

  She raced back downstairs and outside, her feet flying as she crossed the lawn, shouting her daughter’s name. She stopped dead when she reached the edge of the barn entrance. Momentarily surprised to see a vintage Corvette gleaming beneath a coating of dust, she hovered there. The driver’s door was open, the keys in the ignition. What the hell…?