by K. R. Rowe
"Which one?"
"Fifty! Number fifty!" he shouted and rolled to his side and dry heaved.
"How long do we have?"
"Tomorrow morning!"
He was as white as ivory, and panting for air, when finally, his unconsciousness forced a halt to their interrogation.
"Let's tie him up."
A dark pool of blood near the wall caught their attention when they stood to leave. It was obvious that was not Pierre’s. Matt's hand gripped Alex's shoulder and a look of apprehension passed between them.
"Let's assume it's not theirs," Matt said, but the words were of no comfort to either of them.
On their way out, they stopped next to Atticus on the stairway and knelt at his side.
"Alex, I beg you, please find her. Anne will be heartbroken. I’ll do anything. What do you want?"
"Sir, I intend to bring your daughter home," Alex said. "I don’t want anything."
Alex didn't have time to make deals and had already risen to his feet to go. However, there was one thing he was certain of; he had no plans to bring Grace home, just to hand her over to a suspected killer.
******
Chapter 11 Abduction
Hours earlier, it wasn’t yet daybreak, when Grace and Lydia finally turned in for the night. Full from a heavy, pasta-laden dinner, they relaxed and mulled over Lydia’s upcoming date with Matt. Forever the hopeless romantic, Grace was pleased with her matchmaking skills. The evening was quiet with only her dad, Louis, and Bernard in the house.
Barely asleep, they were startled awake by a commotion on the back landing. Gunshots exploded in the house. Grace scrambled out of bed and heard her father's yell cut short with a crack and thud. She slammed and locked the bedroom door. Loud, foreign voices and running footsteps charged up the hall. Two hard kicks cracked and splintered the door and smashed it against the wall. Several men, with guns, spread across the room, and the faint scent of sulfur followed them in.
One man spoke in a heavy French accent, "Come quietly and you won't be hurt."
"I’m not going anywhere!" Lydia said.
She lunged for one of the men, grabbed his gun, and the struggle began. The gun discharged, and the man screamed in agony when the bullet plowed into his thigh and shattered the bone. He dropped to the floor in a shrieking fit, and the gun exploded again. Grace felt a searing pain in her shoulder, and the force of the blast knocked her backwards.
From the floor, she watched as Lydia took yet another man down, before the world in front of her faded.
When she woke up, her hands were tied behind her back and a nasty, sweat-soaked bandana was tight between her teeth. Lying in the back of a cargo van, Lydia faced her, but she was hog-tied, and unable to move. She looked furious but unharmed, other than a large purple bruise under her eye.
One of the men turned to look Grace’s way. Like smooth aged brandy over ice, his deep amber eyes poured over her.
"You're awake," he said. "Don’t worry, ma petite, the bullet passed straight through. You'll live." His tone was confident, but his worried expression betrayed him.
The cold metal floor of the van shot a searing pain through her shoulder and charged like a shock down her arm. The drive felt like it lasted forever, with mere minutes grinding to a halt, like an unoiled machine. Soon the van stopped, just after daylight. Lydia’s feet were untied and a man shoved both of them out. Two men led and three armed men followed behind. A sixth very large bear of a man with a long black ponytail mumbled something in French to the others. He then climbed back into the van, and drove out of sight.
The heavily wooded area was dense with undergrowth and difficult to maneuver. The girls’ tender bare feet, mangled and bruised, slowed the short walk to a creep. Minutes turned to hours. Exhaustion spread through Grace’s limbs, but like a soldier, she trudged on. Before long, it became impossible. Weakness, from blood loss, took the last of her strength, and she finally collapsed to her knees. The two men ahead stopped and turned around. The dark haired man bellowed with impatience. He ripped the gun from his pants and forced it against her head.
"André! Non!" The second man yelled, shoved the gun away, and a loud argument ensued between them. From behind her, she could hear Lydia yelling through the gag in her mouth. She could not understand the men's argument, but it was clear though muffled what Lydia thought about each man's mother.
The argument ended, and the dark haired man shoved his gun in his belt. The other man knelt in front of her.
"Relax, ma petite … I will carry you."
The clouds angrily gathered in the west, turning the sky from clear blue to gloomy swirling shades of gray. The wild spring wind picked up, and twisted the leaves over and around their heads signaling that a rainstorm was on its way. The grueling walk took them over a rise and dropped away to a flat area at the bottom of the hill. The man put Grace down in front of two large gray metal doors that were set back in a wall of dense concrete. Painted with the barely visible number fifty, they stood stark, cold, and out of place against the otherwise scenic surroundings.
André lifted a bulky set of keys and unlocked the heavy steel doors. One of the doors swung slowly open with a loud screech and groan. The hill they had passed over concealed a large concrete bunker. Dome shaped and high, the ceiling capped a large drafty interior that smelled of dust and old paper. Footsteps and voices echoed in a haunting toll across the room as they made their way inside.
Plastic chairs, and makeshift tables made from large wooden electric cable reels, were scattered around the bunker. Old cardboard boxes littered the floors, and battery-powered lanterns were strategically placed around the room. A large startled rat scurried quickly across the floor, and squeaked in anger at the intruders who invaded his solitude.
"Sit!" André ordered and ventured close to Lydia. Before he could react, she kicked him hard in the groin. Unable to utter a sound, his knees hit the floor, and he collapsed on his side in agony. When the pain finally subsided, he staggered to his feet in a rage, and charged after her. He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her from the floor. Her feet dangled and kicked, as she struggled for air and turned purple.
Grace screamed through the gag. The second man rushed across the room and tackled André to the floor. Lydia dropped to her knees gasping for air. Another loud argument broke out between the men. André stood up, shoved him away, and stomped across the room.
"Are you all right, ma chère?" he asked. He helped Lydia from the floor and was careful to keep his distance. "Please sit," he said and motioned toward some chairs nearby. "It's going to be a long afternoon."
Lydia and Grace chose two chairs the farthest away from the men. Lydia coughed and wheezed from the attack and Grace grew weaker as each minute passed. She could feel the fresh warm blood tickling a path down her back.
After a few minutes, the second man came back, knelt between them, and removed their gags. "Would you like some water?" he offered, but both declined. "Let me know if you change your minds. My name is Lucien." He stood and strolled back to his seat across the room. He stretched out, with his hands behind his head for quite some time, looking their way.
"What’s he looking at?" Lydia said. "Take a picture!" she yelled at Lucien. Her voice echoed across the room, and he turned his chair to face another direction, and propped his feet on the table.
"You look like hell," Lydia said. "You’re as white as a ghost."
"I'm ok. Are you alright?"
Lydia's mouth cracked into a huge smile. "I guarantee he won't get too close to me for a while. Look at him. He's madder than a sack full of rabid weasels," she said and laughed. "My mom used to tell me, ‘kick ‘em where it hurts’."
Grace laughed in spite of the pain but worry soon took hold. "Did you see my dad?"
"I saw him on the stairs when we left," Lydia said. "I think he’s ok."
"What do they want?" Grace asked. "You took French; can you understand what they’re saying?"
"They want a ransom
for us. The greasy looking one—André," she said, "he’s pissed that the guy at the house shot himself."
"He shot himself? Is he ok?"
"He’ll live," Lydia said, "but they had to leave him behind. Ole death breath over there wanted to kill the guy before they left."
"Quiet!" André yelled.
"Just look at his eyes," Lydia leaned over and whispered. "He’s crazier than a shithouse rat."
André stalked over, yanked Grace to her feet, and pulled her behind him to the other side of the room. He dumped her in the chair next to Lucien, and the pain took her breath as it seared through her shoulder. Lucien reached behind her, untied her hands and retied them in a loose knot in front of her.
"Whisky, for the pain?" he asked, but again, through the haze of her tears, she politely declined. "The others will be back tomorrow at first light," he said softly. He leaned close and his amber eyes creased with worry. "They’ll have medical supplies and something for your pain."
Grace was afraid. She was terrified for Lydia, and worried for her dad. She turned away from Lucien, closed her eyes, and could feel what was left of her strength fall away. She hung her chin to her chest and hoped to take a short nap, and soon after dozed off.
She awoke to the sounds of rolling thunder and screaming wind. Cursing, André limped, still in pain, to the clattering door to secure it, but the wind ripped it out of his hand and slammed it open against the concrete wall outside. She watched André wrestle with the door and noticed it was already dark out. How long have I slept? she wondered.
Lydia had not moved and still sat across the room and glowered at André. Almost immediately after waking, Grace felt sick. An inferno felt like it burned her insides, but her outside skin felt chilled. Her head pounded, and an ache tore down her body from scalp to toe. The room swung to one side and stopped, and then to the other, like the world was a pendulum.
Vertigo set in and she closed her eyes. When she opened them, the floor was against her cheek. She looked up, and Lucien stood over her.
"I’m sorry." He knelt at her side. "You were never meant to be hurt." He picked her up and carried her to a pile of scattered cardboard on the floor, and lay her down to rest. He pulled off his blue jacket, rolled it up, and placed it under her head.
He touched his palm to her cheek, "You’re on fire with fever."
The blur of his face spun in front of her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She could hear him cursing while he rummaged around.
"No medicine, no bandages, nothing!" he said.
After a while, she opened her eyes again. He sat with his chair leaning back on two legs with his feet propped up on the table. He took a long swig of whiskey, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He inhaled deep and held it, before releasing a long hiss through his teeth.
"It’s going to be a long night," he said, as he looked her way and lit a cigar.
She rolled to her side, put her back to him, and closed her eyes.
******
Chapter 12 Pretense
The call Sebastian received woke him early in the morning and he cursed under his breath. The girl that lay next to him stretched and yawned. His father was on the other end in a panic. Armed men had abducted Grace from her house during the night. Two of her guards lay dead and a third had left to find her. His father demanded he go search for her. He would, of course put on a good show, but why should he go? Was that not what the guard was doing? Regardless, when and if she returned, she was still his.
Grace had barely left his thoughts since that night at the river. He went several times to her house to visit, but she had an excuse every time not to see him. The wedding was coming up within a year and soon she would belong to him to do with as he pleased, but he had no plans to wait that long. His mouth watered with anticipation. He smiled and began to get dressed. He had to make an appearance at Grace’s house.
The girl in his bed was lucky this time because his plans for her were cut short. She was just like the rest. He had them all convinced that he loved them, but he was in fact, emotionless—with one exception.
He was only seven, when his snaggletooth smile lit his big gray eyes with joy, the moment he saw it. It cowered alone and cold, in an alley near his house. Its matted brown fur smelled of dumpster and rot, but Sebastian didn’t care—he loved the puppy instantly. He snuck it home hidden in his jacket and concealed it for weeks from his father. He fed it, took care of it, slept with it, and carried it everywhere he went, until one day—
"What do you have there?" his father asked.
His tiny hands shook with reluctance, as he pulled it from under his shirt.
"Well, what do you know, a little dog," his father said and patted it on its head.
"I found him," Sebastian said with a wavering smile. "He was all by himself."
His round scared eyes looked up at his father and waited—but he wasn’t upset.
"Let’s go for a drive," he said. "You can bring the dog if you want."
Relieved, Sebastian jumped in the car with excitement. He held the puppy up next to his window and told it stories of places they passed.
"That’s where I go to kindergarten," he explained to the puppy, "and that’s where my best friend lives." It licked his face and wagged its tail, enjoying the warmth of his arms. "I love you." He kissed it on the head and squeezed it tight against his chest.
After a while, the car veered from the main highway, and onto a freshly graveled service road. A cloud of dust, from a passing truck, clung to the car like a dirty gray parasite, to suck the shine from the bright red paint. His father cranked down his window and the dust slunk in, like a creeping fog. It rolled down the door panels, crawled over their legs, and swathed the interior with its suffocating grime.
With the skill of a seasoned paperboy, Bill snatched the animal from Sebastian’s arms and slung it out the window like the Sunday morning Times.
"Daddy! No!" He screamed, as he clawed his way over his father’s lap to get a glimpse of his dog.
"Get off me you little brat!" His father backhanded him across the face and yelled, "Next time, you’ll ask!"
Scrambling to the back seat, he watched the puppy scamper after them, until finally it gave up and stopped. He smudged the window with gray streaks and slime, as he shoved his nose to it and cried.
A dirty wet dust trail streaked down his face, and blood from his nose smeared his cheek. He hated his father because he was cruel, and he hated his mother for dying. He prayed every day, but she wouldn’t come back, and now he was scared and alone.
******
Chapter 13 The Rescue
"I can smell the earth." Alex cast his eyes toward the sky. "A storm is brewing."
Bunker fifty—it took hours to find. Maps of the area were impossible to get and locating the right one was difficult. After finding at least twenty of them, they finally stumbled across it. Three men stood guard outside, and a telltale yellow flickering light escaped from beneath the large metal doors. The rain poured in cascading torrents all through the day and into the night. The lightning charged the air, and thunder reverberated in waves through the dark tarry sky.
Time that had once been on their side was now running out. The turbulent rain and the black cloak of night was the perfect cover needed to carry out their attack. Two guards slept while the third stood watch several yards away. This would be easy, but silence would be crucial.
The squalls of rain pommeled the ground and helped to conceal them, as they crept close behind the unsuspecting men. Without a sound, Alex grabbed the first, in a rear naked choke, and tightened his grip until the man went limp.
He dropped to the ground lifeless.
Matt was not as forgiving, as he quietly slid behind the second man. In one quick fatal motion, he gripped his head and twisted. A deep heavy roll of thunder muffled the grinding snap of his neck. The man never uttered a sound.
The third man stood, motionless and unaware in the rain. Not wanting a blo
ody fight, Alex hoped to strangle him. The gale picked up and howled, and the rain turned to chunks of ice.
He lurked like a dark shadow behind the guard’s back, but the man turned to flee from the hail. His eyes grew wide in shock, when he spun, and Alex stood over him. The guard quickly went for the gun at his side, but it slipped from his hand and slid across the rain-soaked ground.
Alex pulled his knife from his boot, and they circled each other in a slow lethal dance. The guard lunged for Alex, but he ducked the attack, and the man tripped in the thick mud and fell. The gun, the guard saw, was now within reach, and he grabbed for the weapon to fire, but Alex took aim and his knife found its mark, and the pistol dropped cold from his hand.
Alex stepped over the man, pulled the knife from his chest, and crept close to the entrance and listened. There was silence. From a small grate in the door, they could see one man sitting in a chair several yards away, and another was sleeping. Grace lay on her side, with her back to the door. On the far side of the room, Lydia was sitting in a chair with her hands tied behind her. With their guns drawn at their sides, they looked at each other, and nodded.
Matt slammed the door open and Alex sprinted in ahead of him. Lucien jumped out of his chair but was quick to raise his hands in surrender. There was no escaping the gun aimed at the space between his eyes. Before André made it to his feet, the sick crack of Matt's gun against his forehead dropped him unconscious and bleeding to the floor.
Lydia leapt to her feet but Grace did not move. She lay motionless and quiet with her back to the door. Her flowered white pajamas were soaked with blood, and a dark inky pool was spreading beneath her. Alex stood frozen with fear. Was he too late?
"She’s very ill." Lucien dared to speak. "The wound has not been treated and she's lost a lot of blood."
Alex made his way to where Grace lay. Without taking his eyes off her, he carefully walked around, and fell to his knees at her side. Her hands were still tied. Her dark lashes lay against ghostly white skin, and deep purple rings tinged her eyes. She looked so fragile and sick that he was afraid to touch her. Her loud ragged breath ripped through the silence, and his hand shook when he placed his palm across her forehead. He flinched. Her skin was scorching hot.
