by Rye Hart
Everything was in such a state of disarray, it looked like a damn tornado had torn through the place.
The hair on my arms stood on end still, but the pit of fear that had opened up inside of me suddenly started to ease. When I recalled how my father had left so suddenly, my fight or flight response came down a few notches as I stopped to think about the situation with a little more clarity.
My father had taken a few things with him. Chances were good he'd come back looking for something else. Maybe some money he'd stashed away. Maybe some drugs he'd hidden and had forgotten to take with him. He'd likely come back and had torn the place apart looking for whatever it was he'd left behind.
Grumbling to myself, cursing him for destroying the door, I stepped over and around the mess he'd left behind.
That's when I heard voices in the kitchen and my heart jumped into my throat.
It wasn't my father's voice, it was a couple of voices I'd never heard before in my life. My heart was thundering, and my mind was telling me to get the hell out of there, so I backed up toward the doorway, keeping my eyes in the direction of the kitchen.
I moved as quietly as I could, hoping and praying that nobody came out of the kitchen as I made my way to the ruins of the front door, doing my best not to make a noise. That's when a figure appeared from the kitchen. He was a short, skinny man with a ponytail. His eyes met mine and I squealed, preparing to run for it when I noticed the gun in his hand.
“Get your ass back in here” he said, not even bothering to raise the gun he was holding
“Rory, what the fuck, man?” another voice called from the kitchen. “Is he back?”
The second figure came out of the kitchen and my eyes grew wide. He was larger than the first man, much larger. He was at least several inches taller and built like a football player. He was wearing a black t-shirt that hugged his chest tightly, the sleeves were short enough to reveal the scars and tattoos that lined his arms. So many scars.
His body and those scars made me think he was a dangerous man, but when I met his eyes, I didn't see anything frightening in them. It's hard to understand, let alone explain, about a man so large and rough looking, but he had a certain softness in his eyes. A kindness. A sense of compassion, maybe.
His eyes were sapphire blue, and he seemed as shocked to be staring at me as I was to be staring back at him. His face was all chiseled lines and hard edges, his beard covered most of the lower half , while his reddish-brown hair hung loose, almost to his shoulders.
“Please, I think you have the wrong place,” I said, holding my hands up.
“Kick the door closed behind you,” the man named Rory said.
I hesitated, but the look in his eyes and the gun in his hand gave me second thoughts about trying to run. Instead, I did as he said and kicked it closed.
“Obviously, this isn't him,” the second man said.
I realized they both had the same reddish-brown hair and blue eyes. They were obviously brothers – and neither of them looked familiar to me.
“No, but I bet she knows where we can find him,” Rory said.
“Jesus, Rory, put the fucking gun away, man,” his brother said. “No one said anything about pulling a gun. I said – ”
“You said you wouldn't kill anybody,” he snapped back. “I never made that promise.”
Rory's eyes twitched in his brother's direction, but his hand never wavered as he raised the gun. The gun was pointed right at me and my heart raced. As I looked at the big black barrel of that gun, everything seemed to slow down around me.
This was it. This was how I was going to die. Unless I did something about it, I was going to be lying on the living room floor among all of the cans and bottles in a pool of my own blood. I knew that I could either stand there and let them shoot me, or I could make a break for it and take my chances.
“If she answers my questions, we'll let her go,” Rory said. “Fair enough?”
The larger man looked at Rory for a long moment and then shrugged. “Yeah. Fine.”
Rory licked his lips, looking me up and down with a creepy smirk. I'd worked in a bar with grabby, perverted men long enough to know what that look and that smirk meant. He was imagining me naked. Worse than that, he was probably picturing doing all sorts of vile things to me.
“Where's Michael Boyer?” he asked.
“Michael Boyer?” My voice cracked, hearing him speak my father's name. “I – I don't know.”
“Bullshit,” Rory said, taking a step closer.
His brother grabbed his shoulder and held him back – and given that he was the larger of the two men, I was thankful for that. At least one of them wasn't crazy. If I played my cards right, I might just get out of there alive and in once piece after all.
“Listen, man,” the bigger guy said. “If she doesn't know, maybe we have the wrong house.”
“Nah, this is the right place,” Rory said.
He nodded his head toward the photos on the wall – my dad was pictured prominently in one of them. It was a younger version of himself from before he became the drunk, broken man he was now, but it was clearly him – and I was pictured with him. Younger too, of course, but it still looked like me.
“This must be his daughter,” Rory said.
“Still, if it's not Michael – ” the other man said.
“Where is your daddy, sweetheart?” Rory said.
The way he said sweetheart sent a chill down my spine. It was one of the creepiest things I'd ever heard – and given where I worked, that said a hell of a lot.
“I told you, I don't know,” I said as the tears welled up in my eyes. “He left suddenly and unexpectedly. Packed his shit and left in the middle of the night without so much as leaving a note.”
“Fuck,” Rory said.
He started to shake and there was a wild glint in his eyes, but never took the gun off me. His brother reached out, putting his hand over Rory's and forced him to lower the pistol. As soon as the gun was pointed at the floor, I took a deep breath. This was it. This was my chance to escape.
While the two men muttered to each other, I turned and bolted for the door. I ran, but my foot landed on one of the cans on the floor. The damn thing rolled beneath my foot and pitched me forward. Stumbling, I reached out to catch myself with my hands, and landed hard. I fought to get back up on my feet quickly, but I was too late. Rory was already on top of me, his face a mask of rage.
The gun was nowhere to be seen, thank God, but he was pressing me into the floor. He might not be as big as his brother, but he was bigger than me. I was pinned and couldn't move. With all of his weight on me, I could barely breathe, but I fought as hard as I could. I kicked and screamed until he covered my mouth with his hand. I bit his hand as hard as I could, and Rory yelled out in pain. The back of his hand made sudden contact with the side of my face, and I literally saw stars. I felt dizzy, my vision wavered, and the pain in my cheek was suddenly the least of my worries.
“What the hell?” the other guy said.
He pulled his brother off me, holding him up by his shirt. He was pissed, I could see it in his eyes. My stomach roiled, and I felt sick. My head was spinning as I reached out for the coffee table, trying to pull myself up as the two men continued to fight it out.
As soon as I sat up, however, I wished that I hadn't. The dizziness overtook me and I fell backward onto the floor again. My vision was spotty, and it wasn't long before the world around me went black.
~ooo000ooo~
“What the hell, man? I didn't agree to this shit.”
That voice. I knew that voice, but from where? I struggled to open my eyes and when I did, I found myself staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. The smell of stale smoke and the familiar stench of stale beer that could only be found in a bar filled my nostrils. I'd worked in bars long enough to know the smell with my eyes closed. I turned my head toward the voices, and my head spun again. My stomach roiled, and bile rose in my throat. A wave of nausea rose up within me and I
didn't know that I'd be able to hold it back.
“I'm gonna be sick,” I said to no one in particular.
I couldn't sit up. I tried to rise a couple of times before realizing I was tied down. Flat on my back, only able to move my head and I was going to throw up all over myself if someone didn't do something.
The large guy from earlier rushed over to me, his face appearing in my field of vision. Kneeling at my side, he pulled at the ropes on my hands without saying a word, his deep blue eyes filled with sorrow and concern as he worked at the knots.
Rory, the other man who'd been in my house earlier, cursed at him. “Declan, what the fuck, man?”
“She's going to be sick,” the man I now knew as Declan said. “What good is a hostage if she chokes to death on her vomit?”
Another voice, from a man I couldn't see, spoke. “He's right, Rory,” he said. “Let him help her. She's not going to get far.”
My heart thundered in my chest as I tried to figure out what in the hell was going on. Declan helped me sit up, and as soon as I did, nausea rushed through me like a raging river. I couldn't even remember the last thing I'd eaten, but it came back up just the same, covering the floor beneath me. That's when I noticed I was tied to a table. Just a table.
Declan pushed my hair back as I threw up but didn't say anything. His touch was gentle, almost comforting, which was so utterly strange, considering the circumstances. That meant he was the closest thing I had to a friend there.
“Thank you,” I said as the last remnants in my stomach were expelled all over the floor.
Our eyes met again, and I knew that if I could get this man alone, I could reason with him. I could probably get him to let me go. I had no idea why I felt so certain about it, but I knew he wouldn't hurt me. He might look dangerous, but he wasn't a killer. The other one though – Rory – I could see he was crazy a mile off. Rory would have put three or four bullets in me – and probably had sex with my still-warm corpse. But, Declan seemed to have some of his humanity left intact.
“Get her some water, Rory,” the other man said.
“Killian – ” Rory argued.
“NOW,” the man named Killian roared.
I looked past Declan and met Killian's eyes. Of the three of them, he looked to be the most normal. He looked like somebody who should be at his kid's soccer games or a PTA meeting or something. He did not look like someone who would orchestrate a situation like this.
Declan was massive and covered in ink – a typical bad boy. Rory was smaller, slighter of frame, and just, well, creepy and crazy. Killian, however, looked like someone who'd have a boring, cushy job in accounting with his neatly trimmed hair and finely-tailored suit.
Yet, even though he appeared normal and like the All-American kind of guy, his eyes held something that sent a chill sliding up and down my spine like a finger of ice. It took me a long time to realize that it wasn't what I saw in his eyes that scared me – it's what I didn't see.
I saw nothing in his eyes. He couldn't care less about any of this, or anyone there. If anything, he seemed bored and uninterested. No, not even that, really. It was hard to fully explain, but his eyes and face were devoid of everything. There was no trace of humanity to be seen anywhere in him – and that scared me even more than Rory for some reason.
Speaking of the devil, Rory came back in and handed me a cup of lukewarm water. It would at least help wash down the bile taste in my mouth, and it would rehydrate me. I mean, if they cared enough to give me water, they must not want me dead, right? That had to bode well for me surviving this. At least, I hoped it did.
Declan stayed by my side, but his attention was back on the others.
“We can't just keep her here,” he growled. “She's likely got a concussion and needs medical help.”
“You've dealt with concussions before, right?” Killian said, his voice remaining calm and neutral.
“I have, a few times, yeah,” Declan said.
“Did you ever go to the hospital for any of them?”
Declan grimaced. “No, but that was my choice.”
Killian shrugged. “Then she'll be fine, especially under your care,” he said. “My care?” Declan asked.
“Mmm hmm,” Killian said, his voice bored and distracted. “I'm trusting you to keep an eye on her, to make sure she remains in one piece. I can't trust anyone else with that, can I?”
He cast a very pointed look at Rory who continued staring at me like he wanted to be left alone with me, so I looked at Declan. He seemed as shocked as I felt. “If she's Michael's daughter, he'll come for her,” Killian explained. “And when he does, we'll get our money. There’s no money in dead hostages.”
Declan stood and lunged toward his brother. I still felt utterly hopeless as I struggled with my bonds, still tied to the table. My hands were free, but my legs were tied down and it kept me from getting up. I sat up, my head spun, and I came crashing back down again.
“I'm not going to hold someone hostage for money,” Declan shouted. “I didn't agree to that.”
“But you agreed to help me,” Killian said, his voice was low and dangerous. “And I'm not asking you to kill somebody. So, I expect you to uphold your end of our deal, brother. Unless you'd rather trust her to Rory – ”
“Fuck no,” Declan said, shaking his head. “Rory is not to be trusted to be alone with anyone, much less an attractive girl.”
Killian smirked. “I agree. And we both know I can't bring her home with me,” he says. “Which leaves us with only one viable option.”
I managed to find my voice, for the first time since waking up. My throat was raw and dry, and when I spoke, it sounded harsh and brittle, but at least I was able to get some words out.
“There are two viable options,” I said. “How about instead of holding me here, you guys let me go?”
Killian's dead eyes turned toward me for a brief second – just enough time for a dark and ominous feeling to slide over my skin, leaving me feeling like I'd just been coated in grease. Then he turned back to Declan. Just having the man's eyes on me sent me straight to the edge of a panic attack.
“We can't let her go,” he says, speaking as if I wasn't even there. “Others are looking for her father as well. And if they don't find him – well, let's just say, she's safer with us than with the Italians.”
My heart raced. My father was a drunk and enjoyed his drugs, but was he really in this much trouble? I had a hard time believing it, honestly. He was harmless for the most part. What had he done to incur the wrath of so many people?
As the silence stretched out between them, Killian looked certain, and Declan looked conflicted.
“I can handle myself,” I said. “If you let me go, I'll get out of town and – ”
“And what, little girl?” Killian asked, turning toward me, his lips pulling back in a snarl. “You really think you'll be able to escape the Italian mafia? Or some of the many others your dad owes money to? Because if so, you're not as smart as you look. Though quite frankly, I assumed you were more beauty than brains in the first place, so I suppose I'm not entirely surprised.”
Declan's eyes grew wide and he stared at his brother as if shocked by the cruelty of his words. I wasn't. I'd been around scumbags my entire life and knew what they were like. I'd been raised around people who assumed I was nothing more than a nice pair of tits or just another blonde bimbo. I was used to it and it stopped fazing me years ago.
His opinion didn't matter to me – in fact, him assuming I was stupid might play in my favor somewhere in the long run. It meant he underestimated me, which meant he might be more likely let his guard down and give me a chance.
“Besides, we need you,” Killian said. “Your father owes us way too much money for us to just forget about it because he blew town. We'll hold you ransom until he pays. Surely, he'd do anything or pay any amount for his little girl, don't you think?”
I slumped back against the table, and my eyes filled with tears. Don't cry, Kara,
I urged myself. Don't do it. I can't show these pricks any sign of weakness or they'll use it against me.
“To be honest,” I said, biting my lip. “I really don't think he would. He did up and run out on me, after all.”
At one time, yes. I used to think my dad would have done anything for me. At one time, I believed he would have paid any amount to get me back and keep me safe – just as I would have done for him. Now though, it was clear that he only wanted to protect himself. That I was on my own. He left town, without a warning, knowing there were people after him.
He left me behind to fend for myself against people like Killian and perhaps even the Italian mafia. What kind of father would do such a thing to their little girl? One who stopped caring about anything other than saving their own ass – no matter the cost to those around him.
“You're probably wasting your time,” I muttered, resting my head against the table and closing my eyes. “Even if my father had the cash he owed you, he would rather snort it than save me. Believe me about that. I've seen his priorities up close and personal for a long time now.”
“I guess we'll just have to wait and see,” Killian said. “Not like we have anything to lose by waiting, do we?”
I turned my head slightly to see Killian standing in my periphery. “And what if he doesn't come through, huh?” I ask. “What's that mean for me?”
Killian stared at me long and hard, a serious look etched upon his handsome face. He stared at me in a way that didn't seem nearly as ominous. That dead look in his eyes that had chilled me to the core had somehow vanished. Had I met him on the street randomly, looking at me like he was right then, I never would have pegged him as a dangerous man. He looked like an accountant or a businessman, someone with a family in the suburbs. Not a cold-blooded killer. Yet, the emptiness he had in his eyes told me otherwise.
The fact that he could seemingly flip a switch though, was more than a little disturbing. It told me that Killian was a chameleon, a man who could blend into any set of surroundings and operate behind the scenes with impunity. He could look so – normal – he'd probably be last on anybody's list of suspects.
