Sydney would take rats and other rodents over the men surrounding her any day.
As she is yanked roughly into the estate, the two men guide her towards the back of the house, into a room with a large leather sofa in its center, an oversized flat screen on the wall across from it.
The men promptly toss her onto the couch and leave the room.
But one stops short, just shy of the exit, then turns around and adds menacingly, “Don’t even think about trying to leave. We have guards all over, and cameras in every room. You’d never make it out alive.”
Concluding with a demeaning chuckle, he leaves her alone in silence.
And fear.
Sydney glances around, searching for anything she can use to escape, but the room is threadbare save for the couch and television, which isn’t even plugged in.
Time passes in a blur - it could be minutes, hours, or hell, even days. Sydney isn’t sure since there are no windows in the room. The dread continues to build inside of her, spurring on a new and darker emotion: hopelessness. Why hasn’t anyone rescued her yet? Where is Dylan? Isn’t he supposed to protect her?
Of course, she knows logically that it is her own fault she answered the back door without someone accompanying her, but her brain immediately shifted the blame onto Dylan’s shoulders, even though her heart knows differently.
Sydney sighs behind her gag, praying she gets the chance to see Dylan again, and her family. God, she is about to be an aunt and she wants nothing more than to be a part of the babies’ lives.
The noise of heels clicking across the century-old hard-wood floor sounds in Sydney’s ears, and they perk up as the presence comes closer. Sweat starts beading along her hairline and bile rises into her throat once more. Her breaths turn into heavy pants and Sydney’s vision slowly becomes hazy. But as the ringleader comes into her sight, Sydney gasps in surprise.
She had imagined someone of larger stature and distinctively Mafia-esque, which she lends to her recent viewing of The Godfather movies. Instead, what she sees before her is an older woman, perhaps in her mid-to-late seventies, but in incredible shape. Her blonde hair is almost white, and cut into a stylish bob. Her makeup has been applied to perfection. Sydney is stunned at the spurt of jealously she feels upon admiring the tight, eggplant-colored dress that ends at the woman’s knees. The matching strapped heels that would make even her sister, Cassidy, envious. Before her stands a woman with all the badass appeal of actress Dame Helen Mirren, but with the threat of a Mafia queen whose heart is set on revenge.
Behind her, the woman’s aides follow their leader wordlessly, eyeing Sydney like sharks seeking their next prey.
The combination is even more terrifying and disheartening than what Sydney had originally envisioned.
Watching as Sydney struggles beneath the duct tape that’s been bound around her wrists, choking on the cloth that is still tied around her mouth, the woman suddenly addresses her compatriots with a thick English accent, “Imbeciles, take the fucking gag off of her. What’s she going to do, mouth off at me?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” the man who drove the van quickly replies, and makes quick work of removing the cloth from around Sydney’s mouth.
She gasps desperately for deep breaths of air to fill her lungs, expanding them with the crispness that surrounds her.
“My apologies, dear,” the woman replies before stepping closer to Sydney, invading what little space had remained around her. “You’re a pretty little thing. I can see now why the boys here were so interested in you. Perhaps you would like to strike a deal? I’m sure there is some sort of business arrangement we could come to terms with?” the woman implies, stroking the nail of her index finger across Sydney’s cheek.
Sydney moves her face out of the woman’s reach, and narrows her eyes in a mask of anger.
“No? Alright then. Boys, take her down to the cellar. I have a call to make, and then I want to take care of this one personally.”
As her henchmen reach for Sydney’s arms, the woman turns on her pencil thin heels and strides out of the room.
“Who are you? What do you want from me?” Sydney’s voice echoes throughout the cavernous space.
The woman chuckles softly as she waits for her henchmen to bring Sydney closer. They more or less drag her to where the woman stands, and Sydney finds she is having a hard time controlling the movements of her legs and feet.
“Why, dear, I’m Harposia. And I want nothing from you but to see you lifeless on the floor,” she says dramatically, then completes her walk down the hall and turns into another room.
The men drag Sydney towards a set of stairs that lead towards the cellar. Out of fear or self-preservation (or perhaps both), she bends down and bites down, clenching her teeth around a chunk of the exposed arm of the man to her right. Without warning, she feels a punch collide with her chin and mouth as a second blow lands on her stomach.
“The bitch bit me!” he exclaims as the men practically toss her down the flight of stairs.
She lands on the concrete with a thud, wincing as pain shoots through her extremities. Sydney can taste the blood that had begun pooling in her mouth from the earlier blow, and she cringes as her tongue reaches out and touches a patch of split skin on her lip.
Sydney glances around the cold, damp room, where nothing but a few boxes and crates remain on the concrete floor. The only light to be seen comes from the few cracks in the foundation wall.
With her hands still strapped behind her back, Sydney works to remember the trick she had seen online about getting out of a duct tape hold. She maneuvers her arms around until she can bring them to the front of her body by moving them under her legs. She snaps her arms and wrist towards her body and legs. It takes a few tries to get the duct tape loose, but at last she is able to do it and the small feat brings a bit of optimism to Sydney’s current situation.
With her hands now loose, she takes a few minutes to walk around the space, but there is nothing she can use to try to escape, with the exception of going through the same door she entered. A quick glance up the stairwell tells her that, based on the light and shadows playing along the bottom crack of the door, someone is standing watch.
Succumbing to the terror placed before her, Sydney sits atop one of the spare crates and glances upwards toward the ceiling.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”
YLAN SITS, PERCHED AT one of the small bistro tables in the closed Wake and Bake, which has been sealed off with bright yellow Caution tape. Half the town had arrived soon after Fred announced into his walkie talkie that Sydney had been kidnapped. Dylan figures most of the town has been listening into the police radar to hear any sort of information, though all of them have denied it up to this point.
His Agent in Charge has called in reinforcements from Asheville to assist, and there is nothing to do but wait on Alexis and Heath to arrive. All Dylan wants to do is rush in and follow the current lead in the tire tracks, but Preston and Cliff, the tattoo shop owner, are in charge of keeping him put, per his boss. He had been told that his feelings were now involved and he would end up making careless mistakes.
Fuck if his feelings were involved; all he cares about is finding Sydney and making sure she is safe. Every second that they sit staring at one another in the bakery could be life or death for the woman he loves.
To make matters worse, Sydney’s parents had anxiously waltzed into the bakery about ten minutes ago and asked what their plan was. Sydney’s father had addressed the question to Fred and Lewis, but he knew the question was meant for him, and that had made him feel about a thousand times worse.
“You hangin’ in there, man?” Cliff asks.
“No, I just want to head out and find her. I don’t care about fucking protocol. She’s alone and scared and God only knows what they are doing, or have already done, to her,” he exclaims exasperatedly.
Suddenly a small hand comes to rest on his shoulder, but its weight is equal to that of a million pe
ople’s.
“Then go get her,” the petite woman who he realizes is Sydney’s mother, Amy, responds.
“I can’t just leave, ma’am. There is a full investigation taking place.”
Her grip on his shoulder tightens as she leans forward, bringing herself eye to eye with Dylan, and he witnesses a fierceness he would have never imagined from such an elite woman.
“You listen here, son. That is my little girl that they have taken, and frankly, I don’t care if the President of the United States himself told you to sit idly by. I trust you, and I trust your instinct. If you want to go and find my Sydney, then by all means! You get your butt moving and find her, protocol be damned.”
Dylan actually flinches as he feels her fingers digging into his shoulder, showcasing a strength he never would have imagined her possessing.
“But, ma’am, I’m not sure…”
Leaning closer, Amy continues, “Understand this: If you love her, you will be able to find her, your heart will guide you. And I guarantee that if you stand up right now to leave, half of these people will join you and most of them have more experience and higher security clearance than the FBI agency you work for. We’re not underestimating you - don’t under-estimate us. Lead and we will follow, but please for all that I hold dear, find my little girl.”
With that, she stands and tugs at the bottom of her pale pink cardigan, straightening it against her body and moving back to where her husband Joseph, Carson’s Fire Chief, stands with their sons, Austin and Jameson, the three men waiting for Dylan’s next move.
“So, what’s your plan?” Preston inquires, resting his elbows and forearms on the table top.
Dylan glances around the bakery and an epiphany hits.
“I’m going to do the first basic thing they taught us in academy. We’re going to use our resources.”
Ten minutes later Dylan stands outside, surrounded by a group of townspeople who followed him to the edge of the city limits, where the tire tracks which had led away from the bakery abruptly stopped.
Addressing the crowd, Dylan states, “We know that this direction doesn’t lead to the interstate, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t do it purposefully to lead us astray. Are there any places you can think of that would be an ideal place to stay off the grid?”
A young man, no more than fifteen or so answers, “No sir, the closest things would be the winery they are currently building, a museum, and an old distillery.” A sadness overcomes his eyes as he adds quietly, “I hope we find Miss Sydney. Her bakery was my favorite place to go after school. She’d give us free cupcakes or muffins.”
Before Dylan has a chance to respond, he hears someone frantically calling his name as they run across the field.
“Mr. Bennett. Mr. Bennett. I know where they have taken her.”
A young woman clad in denim shorts and an oversized t-shirt, gardening gloves still encasing her hands, rushes towards the crowd.
“Mr. Bennett, I know where she’s at.”
Dylan grips the woman’s shoulders as she tries to catch her breath, turning her attention towards him.
“What can you tell me?”
“My daughter was outside playing in the backyard, then she came rushing over to me. I was planting tulips in our front flower bed, and she said she saw a red van go driving by.” She pauses for a second to gasp for air, then continues, “Well, see now, I didn’t hear anything because I had my ear bud things in so that I could listen to music, but she insisted. And I followed her to the back, and by gone, she was right: there was a large red van hightailing it down the path that leads to the Fitzgerald Plantation. We haven’t seen anyone take that road in years, except for the Sherriff himself. Then I heard on the police scanner about the kidnapping and I just knew I had to find someone.”
“Ok, this is great. Thank you. Do you think you could show us the way?”
“Well, sure. That’s easy. You see that yellow house right over beyond the brush? Behind it is a gravel and dirt road, you follow it and you’ll find the old Plantation. Please find her, sir. She’s been so kind to me and my daughter.”
“We’ll find her ma’am,” Dylan reassures her as he turns back to the group.
“Everyone, I’m not sure what kind of group they have stationed there, but from our experience, they will be well-armed and well trained. I can guarantee that they have men walking the perimeter and surveillance set up surrounding the area. We will have to be quick and efficient if we want to get Sydney and each of you out unscathed.”
“I can handle the cameras,” a voice announces from the back of the crowd.
As he steps forward, Dylan recognizes the speaker as Sydney’s brother, Jameson.
“I’m a computer and software engineer. I can use my laptop to send a signal that would interfere with whatever service they are using to operate the cameras.”
“And you have your laptop available?”
Jameson chuckles and pushes his thick-brimmed glasses up a bit on his nose, “I never go anywhere without it. Leave the cameras to me.”
Before Dylan has the chance to respond, Cliff steps up beside Jameson, assuring all present that if he is given two minutes, he can clear out the guards who surround the border. At first, Dylan is uneasy about anyone other than the FBI taking out Harposia’s henchmen, but Cliff laughs as he watches Dylan contemplating the suggestion.
“Remember, I was a sniper in a past life. This will be a piece of cake.”
Succumbing to the crowd’s growing need to assist in the endeavor, Dylan suggests that he, Preston, Alexis and Heath follow closely behind Cliff. Those civilians with good aim (which, suspiciously, they all claim to have) are to stand by the wayside, ready to shoot if necessary.
As the group begins to coordinate their stances and the measures that need to be taken, a black town car speeds towards them, dust from the gravel flying into the air. The mass of people disperses in alarm, but the car comes to a shrieking halt right at the toe of Dylan’s boot.
To his surprise, Kerry rushes from the back of the car, trailed by two men who are clad in all-black suits and matching sunglasses. Truthfully, her companions look like secret service…or even the Men in Black. Dylan is having a hard time comprehending everything going on at the moment, let alone is he able to place where the men belonged.
“Dylan, I want to help!”
Turning his attention away from the men who seem for all intents and purposes like they want to commit murder at this very second, he looks at Kerry and is surprised to see the combination of fear and steely determination he finds residing her eyes.
“Kerry, I don’t think this is a safe place for you right now.”
“Oh, I know, but my friends here,” she says, gesturing to the tuxedo-clad men behind her, “can be of help. Please take them with you.”
“Kerry, I don’t think your chauffeurs are really going to…”
“Dylan, we have diplomatic immunity. Please, just take them.”
Dylan’s eyebrows rise in surprise and his mouth opens and shuts as if he were a fish gasping for air.
“I’ll explain everything later. Just please take them and go find Sydney.”
He nods his head in agreement and watches as Kerry scurries back to the car, then they make their escape.
“Sir?” Sandra, a local nurse, interrupts his confusion. “I have Logan and Avery on standby at the clinic in case Sydney or anyone else needs medical attention. And I also made a call to the closest Asheville Hospital if we need their assistance.”
“Thank you, Sandra. That will be a big help, but hopefully it won’t be necessary.”
Standing back, Dylan admires the tenacity of the crowd. Present before him are individuals of varying ages, beliefs and lives, all equally determined to find the girl from their home town, the girl who has done no wrong: the girl who stole his heart.
“Alright everybody. Let’s go get Sydney.”
ER EYES BURN FROM the dried-up tears that she had expelled hours ago. Af
ter weeping for an unknown amount of time, she finds there is nothing left to shed. Her mouth still smarts as she reaches her tongue out to wet her chapped lips, and she winces at the pain.
Sydney shivers as the cold begins to seep into her bones and the dampness collects in her clothes.
Everything in the house has been quiet for a while, so Sydney finds herself startling when she hears the wood creak above her. Pieces of rotten wood trickle down with the dust at each pass. It seems as if someone has begun pacing in the room above her.
Straining her ears, Sydney can make out parts of the conversation that is going on above her.
“The feed is gone. I can’t seem to get the cameras to work,” a man says, a slight hitch in his voice.
“How can that be? I thought you said that these were top of the line!” Harposia’s voice vibrates throughout the home.
“They are, ma’am. Something must have tripped the connection. We’re so far out in the middle of nowhere that the satellites may have been blocked. I’ll get us back on line soon, ma’am,” the man replies nervously.
“You better see that you do, Frederick, or you’ll find yourself removed next.”
Sydney imagines that the man gulps audibly, but she can’t hear anything like that from her crouched position in the cellar.
A few minutes later, Sydney is frightened once more when a loud bang resounds through the room above her, something that sounds like a chair being tossed through the air.
“What do you mean, someone hacked it?” Harposia screams.
“Someone’s implanted a virus in the system and I can’t override it. We’ve lost all surveillance.”
Jameson. It has to be Jameson. God, they’ve found me.
Hope wells up in Sydney’s mind and she smiles to herself as she anticipates her rescue. But before her celebration can begin, the door to the cellar is swung wide open and the two men who escorted her earlier descend the stairs rapidly in her direction.
Faintly, Sydney can hear Harposia dictate, “Bring her to me, NOW!”
She squats down between the crates, hoping to use them to her advantage, and wraps her hands around the side of the closest one. She waits for one of the men to get close enough, then she stands and swings the crate to her right, clocking the man in the head with the wood and knocking him unconscious. Before she has a moment to celebrate her small success, she feels the barrel of a gun pressing into the back of her head.
Coming Consumed: Welcome to Carson, Book Three Page 14
