Cold Cruel Kiss

by Toni Anderson

The first time Kristen had woken, she’d rattled the doors and kicked the sides in desperation. To no effect. The wardrobe was thick wood, solid like a coffin. One of the kidnappers had eventually banged on the door and told her in thickly accented English that if she made another sound or tried to attract attention, he’d slice out her tongue. He’d informed her there would be no other warning. No second chance.

  She believed him with every cell in her body.

  His threats kept her secreted here, too scared to make a noise. Too scared to attempt an escape. Too chickenshit to even try to remove the hood that smothered her.

  Thirst parched her throat with relentless precision while her cheeks burned feverishly. Her brain pounded with a dehydration headache making her mother’s admonishments about drinking enough water rattle inside her mind like the desiccated segments of a rattlesnake’s tail.

  Mommy.

  She squeezed her dry eyes shut; her body unable to spare the moisture to cry.

  She wanted her mother. And her father. And her little brother. And her dog.

  She wanted to go home.

  She hugged her knees to her chest, knowing her mom would be tearing the world apart to get her back. God, she’d be furious.

  What were her dad and little brother thinking? After the initial hit of disbelief, Kevin was probably immersed in whatever video game he was into. Kristen pressed her lips together and tried to swallow. He was only fifteen. She didn’t want him traumatized. She loved him and knew he loved her.

  God, she’d ruined Christmas.

  She sniffed. To think yesterday she’d been worried about how much money she’d spent on a stupid dress. All on the remote chance she might see Miguel at the club. She didn’t even know what had happened to the things she’d bought. Didn’t care. Everything she’d agonized over in the stores yesterday forgotten in this nightmare she now found herself starring in.

  A pain in her hip from when she’d landed hard in one of the vehicles wouldn’t go away.

  She shifted onto her side, even going up on her knees until her kneecaps burned from the burden of pressing against a hard surface too long. It wasn’t easy to move around with her wrists bound tightly together—with rope now—but she was grateful that they were no longer tied behind her back.

  She was covered in bruises.

  She tried to gauge the time of day from the sounds of the world outside, but it was impossible inside this damn cabinet.

  It was hot so the sun must be up.

  She clenched her fingers into tight fists as she resisted the nearly overwhelming desire to scream.

  She wanted to keep her tongue.

  But she might die from heatstroke anyway so who cared? At least she’d go out fighting. She pulled in another slow, steady breath.

  Don’t go crazy. Not yet.

  How long had it been? A day? Two? She wasn’t sure. It was all so confusing. Her memories were broken and blurred. She’d woken terrified and disorientated. Scared they’d beat her. Rape her. Kill her.

  They hadn’t.

  Yet.

  At least she didn’t think they had. Her jeans were still on. She wasn’t sore.

  Nausea rolled through her stomach.

  She tried to swallow again and panicked a little when the lump in her throat didn’t budge. She took more small gulps of air that managed to pierce the thickness of her throat. Forced herself to concentrate on something else as her esophagus slowly eased open.

  Where was Irene…?

  Did people think they were dead? Were they searching for them? She scraped her teeth over her dry lips. Did her mom and dad and Kevin know how much she loved them? When was the last time she’d given them the words?

  It had been a while. Everyone had been so busy lately. She’d been distracted by thoughts of Miguel and the idea of sneaking out to a Christmas Eve party at a club. Her parents both worked hard. Kevin… Kevin was Kevin.

  The quiet grind of a hinge hit her ears. The soft tread of a footstep.

  Oh, god. She tensed, her heartbeat galloping. Someone was coming.

  She sat up, feeling an odd mix of dread and desperation. Dread they’d hurt her. Desperation for water and the chance to stretch her cramped limbs.

  The handle of the cabinet rattled and opened. She spilled onto the floor and rolled over onto her side.

  “Water,” she begged, ignoring the aches and pains that screamed through her body.

  Cruel fingers bit into the soft flesh of her arm and dragged her to her feet. The man—she assumed it was a man—sat her on a rough wooden surface. A crate or a bench?

  Slowly the bindings on her wrists were loosened a little, and he placed a cold bottle of water into her hand.

  “Quédese quieto.”

  Stay still.

  Her Spanish was good, but she didn’t want him to know that.

  He grabbed the front of her hood, and she felt him jab something into the fabric. She caught sight of a knife point piercing a hole in the thick material and let out a keening sound she couldn’t control. She tried to lean away from the sharp blade without moving her head.

  Fuck.

  The knife disappeared, but she knew it was real now—not that she’d ever doubted it.

  A sharp, keen-edged blade, silent and deadly. Such a basic weapon. Every kitchen had one.

  Hysterical laughter bubbled inside her, but she pushed it down. She’d go crazy later when she didn’t need to worry about survival, or maybe when she’d truly given up all hope.

  He took her hands, forced them closer to her face. She felt him feeding something through the hole in the canvas. A straw.

  “Drink.” English this time. Thickly accented, but not the same guy who’d grabbed and hauled her into the van. This guy sounded older.

  She captured the straw with her lips, sucking deeply on the contents. She’d downed more than half of the bottle before the chemical taste registered.

  She paused.

  “Finish it.” Gruff and authoritarian.

  She swallowed nervously. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  He grunted. “Drink first. Then I’ll take you to the toilet.”

  Oh, god. Even though she was desperate to pee the idea of doing it in front of anyone else was awful.

  She couldn’t stand it any longer. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Drink the water.” The growing edge of anger was unmistakable, and Kristen shrank away from him.

  She took another long suck. “Can I keep a little in the cabinet with me? Please? It’s so hot in there I feel like I’m going to roast.” She waved blindly toward where she assumed the wardrobe was.

  She assumed they wanted her alive…for now.

  Or not.

  The quiet suddenly felt menacing. She quickly finished the water and meekly handed the bottle back. He took the empty bottle and grabbed her arm, marching her across the room. She almost tripped, he moved so fast.

  He spun her around, and the back of her knees touched the cool edge of a porcelain toilet. She froze. He hadn’t let go of her arm.

  “T-thank you.”

  He stepped away, but she could feel him watching her.

  “Tell me when you are finished.” His voice was from a few feet away, but she sensed the door was wide open.

  With shaking hands, she undid her pants and sat on the unseen toilet seat, shielding herself as much as she was able to from the onlooker’s gaze. She refused to think of the hygiene factor. The smell alone made her want to gag.

  Don’t think about it. Think about surviving.

  She finished. She felt around for paper and was ridiculously grateful to find some.

  She stood and pulled up her pants. Jolted when someone brushed past her to flush.

  “May I please wash my hands?”

  Was that really her voice? That tiny, scared, pathetic squeak?

  The man’s breath washed over her as he expelled a weary sigh. He was clearly tired of this already. Tired of her demands. Was that good or bad? Was he th
e main kidnapper? Or was he an underling? Did he hold the power, or did he have a boss he answered to?

  “I don’t mean to be any trouble, señor.” She needed to elicit as much compassion and basic human kindness as she could eke out of the people who had snatched her. She would be meek and mild and cooperative. And first chance she got, she’d find Irene and they’d run. They’d be gone.

  She heard a faucet turn on. He guided her to the basin, and her fingers found an unsteady trickle of lukewarm water coming out of the tap. The water slid over her wrists, and she stole a few seconds to enjoy the coolness.

  “Hurry.”

  She blindly turned off the tap and dried her hands on her jeans. Hopefully, she was leaving her fingerprints and DNA on every available surface. Although, it wouldn’t help her if she was dead.

  She was cooperative as he led her back to the cabinet. He tightened the rope on her wrists again. She was beginning to feel woozy.

  Her stomach rebelled, and she thought she might throw up when she was forced to step into the wooden box. She turned to face her captor.

  “Please, could I take off the hood? Please? I mean I’m in a locked cabinet… I can’t see anything. I can’t breathe.” She hated being so subservient. Begging. She heard the grind of the hinges and felt whatever drug he’d put in the water begin to kick in. “I promise I won’t try to escape. I promise I’ll be good.” The last came out as a sob. Tears pricked her eyes.

  He paused.

  His voice rumbled. “You need to be patient. Behave, and you won’t be harmed. You will go home as soon as your parents pay the ransom.”

  Ransom? This was about money? Of course, it was. She wanted to spit and snarl.

  What sort of person did that? Monsters. Monsters did that. And desperate men.

  He pushed her to the floor, and her legs seemed to collapse beneath her.

  She inhaled raggedly, her bound arms clasped around her knees in an effort to contain the panic. What if he was lying? What if he drugged her to slit her throat, or forced himself upon her?

  His fingers squeezed her arm as if he could read the terror in the stiffness of her body. Then he let her go.

  She felt a hard tug at the back of her neck. Then wet condensation as he placed another chilled bottle of water into her bound hands.

  She wanted to cry with gratitude.

  He shut the door and said loudly enough for her to hear through the wood, “You can take off the hood, but you put it back on whenever anyone comes into this room or opens this door. If you see any of our faces, I’ll poke your eyes out with the tip of my knife. Your parents won’t care if you’re blind, but you will. Your boyfriends will. Understand?”

  Her stomach clenched. She didn’t have a boyfriend, but that was the least of her issues with his threats.

  “Yes. Yes. Of course. Thank you.” Thank you? Fucking thank you?

  He grunted.

  Gratefully, she dragged the heavy canvas over her head, her hair a tangled mess which she pushed back behind her ears as best she could with bound hands. She cradled the cold bottle against her sweaty forehead. Her lids grew heavy, and her head started to nod.

  Maybe being drugged wasn’t so bad. And if he was going to kill her or rape her, she welcomed the oblivion if it meant she wouldn’t feel pain or fear. If it meant she wouldn’t behold the atrocities committed on her person. She held tight to that bottle of water and her slipping sanity as she drifted off, trying to dream about the Christmas her family had planned, not the terror she was enduring. Trying not to worry about where Irene was or whether she was alive or dead.

  Chapter Five

  Max stood in the middle of Kristen Dickerson’s spacious bedroom. The family had been here since August last year, and the young woman had pinned a few art prints on the wall and arranged a string of Polaroid photos across one wall attached to fairy lights. There was a large silver-framed family portrait on the chest of drawers. They looked happy together, though looks could be deceptive.

  Max was optimistic he could get the girls back for a reasonable price if this crime was motivated purely by dollars and cents. If it was political or ideological, then all bets were off. But experience had shown him that viewing the other person’s position with empathy was often enough to get kidnappers to release their hostages unharmed.

  An FBI team in the John Edgar Hoover building was working this case out of the Strategic Information & Operations Center (SIOC) trying to pin down the identities of the kidnappers by listening to electronic chatter and monitoring social media and dark web channels. The Diplomatic Security Service would be doing similar things out of their HQ.

  Security had been beefed up around the world at US embassies and consulates, and personnel had been warned to take greater precautions. The last thing anyone wanted was for other groups to get similar ideas.

  Too late for Kristen and her friend though.

  A small pile of wrapped Christmas presents sat on an armchair in the room, a sad reminder that things weren’t going to happen the way they were supposed to this year. He checked the labels. Mom. Dad. Kevin. Lucy.

  Lucy, huh? The beleaguered assistant to the ambassador’s PA. Interesting.

  The woman herself wandered over to a small desk where a laptop sat.

  “Should I fire this up?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  Something about her triggered his sixth sense.

  She seemed to be deliberately avoiding the spotlight, which immediately made him pay attention.

  One of the most underrated techniques taught in the SAS was how to be the gray man—someone no one noticed, who faded so thoroughly into the background that people didn’t even register they’d seen them.

  Lucy tweaked his interest because it looked as if she didn’t want to be noticed. She didn’t want to look good. She seemed…muted somehow.

  And that suit and her ugly shoes?

  He hid a grimace. Max prided himself on not judging people purely by their looks but like, most people, he definitely appreciated physical attributes. Beauty came in many forms—it could be raw and untamed, sleek and sophisticated, natural and simplistic.

  He wasn’t a fashion guru, but even he knew that brick-brown was an unflattering color on anyone who didn’t already look like a Brazilian supermodel.

  Lucy Aston was definitely underplaying her assets. The question was why? Was she simply shy? The Foreign Service didn’t generally attract the shy type.

  “Lucy.” He hesitated. “Do you mind if I call you Lucy?”

  Her eyes widened. “Not at all.”

  He picked up the framed family portrait. “What’s your story, Lucy Aston?”

  She gave a little snort of disbelief. “My story? I don’t have a story.”

  “Everyone has a story. How come you ended up working in Argentina for the US Department of State?” He watched the wheels turn behind her purposely blank features.

  She spent time straightening a pile of textbooks on Kristen’s desk. “I wanted to travel after I left college. I had decent grades, and I speak three languages, so I applied to the Foreign Service. Seemed like a good fit.”

  Her smile was designed to kill interest. Self-deprecating. Move along now, nothing to see here.

  “Three languages? That’s impressive.”

  “Not really. It’s pretty much all I’m good at.” She relaxed a little. “My mom is originally from France, and I had a nanny who was Spanish, and she basically raised me from a young age as my parents were never home. They’re both physicians.”

  “You have brothers or sisters?”

  She frowned and shook her head. Folded her arms across her chest, her body language clearly stating further questions were not welcome.

  Was she simply a private person, and he was prying too deep? Part of his job was building a rapport with others no matter how adverse the situation. Another thought struck him that had to do with her downplaying her looks. Had she experienced some trauma that made her want to eliminate her femini
nity? He’d met many victims of sexual assault, and people sometimes reacted by trying to make themselves unattractive to the opposite sex.

  The thought had him reassessing his desire to get her to open up. First, he needed to prove he was worthy of earning her trust—at least as much trust as it took to establish a good working relationship.

  He redirected his questions. “You know who these individuals are?” he asked, putting the family photo back and pointing at the wall of Polaroids.

  She stepped towards the string of photographs and started identifying different faces. She paused on one. “This is Gemma, who was in the group that went shopping yesterday.” Her finger hovered over another face in a separate photo. “This is the other girl who was taken, Irene.”

  Max would be lying if he said he wasn’t even more worried about Irene than he was about Kristen. The kidnappers had plans for Kristen. Irene was excess baggage. Or a bonus. Depending on how they looked at it.

  He moved closer to peer at the small images. Caught the subtle scent of jasmine in Lucy’s hair.

  “What’s your impression of her other friends?” he asked.

  “I don’t know them that well, but they seem like nice enough kids. They all attend the same international school, and many of that group move around the world regularly with their ex-pat parents’ jobs.”

  “Can’t be easy.”

  “No worse than being in the military, I guess.” Lucy tucked her hair behind her ear. Adjusted her glasses.

  “Do you know Irene at all? What’s she like?” He wanted to know as much about the victims as possible. How would they hold up under pressure? How would they deal with being confined for any length of time? How would they react to fear, pain, pressure?

  “She’s been here a few times.” Lucy looked thoughtful. “She’s a natural leader, although she’s always quieter when other adults are around.” Not surprising. “Decisive, but not pushy. I have the impression she knows how to read people and reacts accordingly.”

  “That’s quite a lot of insight.”

  She pulled up the sleeve of her jacket, but it immediately fell back down. “I often drove Kristen and her friends around town when I arrived in the spring. Irene got her license a couple of months ago, so she’s taken over a lot of that now.”