Risk It All

by Katie Ruggle

  The doorbell rang, and Cara groaned. “Please go away,” she said under her breath, dropping a forgotten handful of popcorn kernels back in the bowl. In response, the doorbell rang again. Warrant lifted his head and gave her a pained look. “Normal dogs would bark a warning at visitors—especially unwanted ones.” When Warrant just stared at her with liquid eyes and his ears pressed back, she sighed.

  The bell rang for the third time, and he slunk off the couch and up the stairs. She assumed he was going to jam himself under Molly’s bed, the place he usually hid during thunderstorms and July Fourth fireworks. The doorbell pealed again, making her swear. She huffed, carefully placing her popcorn, computer, and water bottle down.

  She didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to deal with anyone rude enough to show up at someone’s house at seven thirty in the evening without being asked—not to mention someone who repeatedly rang the doorbell, hurting poor Warrant’s ears, rather than taking the hint and leaving. Only the thought that it might be someone needing help was enough to leverage Cara off the couch. She stomped to the door and peered through the peephole. The person she saw on the porch just enraged her more.

  “Go away, Stuart!” she called through the door, leaving the alarm and dead bolts engaged. There was no way in heck she was going to open the door for Stuart Powers.

  “I have to talk to you!” Stuart shouted back, louder than he needed to be heard through the door.

  Cara winced. All the neighbors had to be listening to this. The Pax sisters were already the pariahs of the neighborhood, so this would be one of many, many transgressions for the neighborhood association to gossip over. “Go away, Stuart! I’m not going to talk to you!”

  “I’m not leaving until we talk!” He rang the doorbell several times in a row, and Cara shot a worried look toward the ceiling, hoping that Warrant wasn’t freaking out too much.

  “I’m calling the cops, then!” She made a face as she shouted the threat. She really didn’t want to have to call the police. Although most local law-enforcement officers would handle the situation well, there were a few—especially a certain detective—who would take pleasure in making everything a thousand times worse. The way her luck was going, she was almost certain to have Detective Mill show up at her door. Ever since Molly and John had gotten his crooked partner arrested, Mill had been keeping an uncomfortably close eye on all the Paxes. He’d jump at the opportunity to take this call.

  Stuart laughed loudly as if he could read her thoughts. “Do it! They’d love to get another chance to look around Jane Pax’s house!”

  Swallowing a groan, Cara squeezed her eyes closed and tried to think. Molly would rush home if she knew what was happening, but Cara didn’t want her sister to have to deal with Stuart, either. Charlie and Felicity—both of whom would’ve had a ball tossing Stuart into the street—were chasing after Jane. John Carmondy would’ve been her next choice, but he was out of town, too.

  “Ugh,” she muttered as softly as possible. “Now would be a good time to jump out of the bushes, Kavenski!” Since the doorbell continued to chime, she assumed he hadn’t heard her almost-silent call for help. She decided to just wait Stuart out, pressing her hands over her ears when the constant dinging of the doorbell grew insanity-inducing. Her head was starting to throb, and she knew that poor Warrant had to be in the middle of a doggie meltdown.

  Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. “I’ll take my chances with the cops.” Pivoting toward her phone, she started to take one step and then froze. A guy dressed all in black—from his knit face mask to his military-style boots—stood just a few feet away. He jerked to a stop, obviously not expecting her movement, and they stared at each other. Her first oddly calm thought was that their new alarm system had betrayed her, and she flicked the quickest of glances toward the alarm controls. The screen was blank and lifeless. The intruder must’ve disabled the security system.

  Quit obsessing about the alarm and move! her brain screamed, breaking her paralysis, and her legs obeyed. She dove sideways, toward her phone, and yelled to the idiot who was still poking rhythmically at the doorbell. “Stuart! Call the cops! Someone’s in my house!”

  The chiming paused but then picked up tempo, and she knew that either Stuart was the most evil little woodchuck in Colorado, or he was in on this—whatever this was.

  She’d almost made it to the coffee table, her hand extended toward her phone, when a burly arm wrapped around her middle, jerking her back before her fingers could close around the device. Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears that she could barely hear the doorbell. Cara started screaming, the tiny, practical part of her brain that wasn’t blind with panic hoping for once that her nosy and judgmental neighbors were listening. Anything to bring the cops to the house to help.

  Cara was yanked back, her spine pressed tightly against the intruder’s chest, surprise stealing her breath for a moment. Her elbow automatically swung back, and her assailant’s breath was driven out in an audible whoosh. Desperately trying to remember her training, Cara stomped on the foot behind her, cursing her stocking feet as her heel came down on the hard surface of a steel-toed boot. The arm around her middle tightened again, and Cara twisted, trying to turn enough to aim a heel strike at the intruder’s nose, but he anticipated her next move and dodged the blow. The side of her hand glanced off his knit-covered cheek, the miss sending her off-balance.

  Her body rocked to the side, but she didn’t wait to regain her footing before kicking out again, hoping to hit his knees. Her sole slammed against his shin, but it wasn’t hard enough to make him release his grip. Balling her hand into a fist, she let it fly in a backswing toward the side of his face. Before it could connect, he lurched forward, taking both of them to the floor.

  This is bad! She grimaced with effort as she fought to get out from underneath him, but wrestling had always been her weakest point in the basic self-defense training Felicity had given them. Now, with panic swamping her brain and keeping her from remembering the techniques she’d been taught, Cara was reduced to ineffective squirming and glancing backward blows that only managed to tire her out.

  She sucked in a breath, prepared to start screaming again, when something pricked the side of her neck. Her head swung back, and the back of her skull connected with his face. She felt a fierce sense of satisfaction as she heard a male voice start nasally swearing. She desperately hoped she’d broken his nose.

  When he reared back after she head-butted him, she struggled frantically, using her breath to fight rather than scream, but her arms grew heavy and the living room was already getting wobbly around the edges.

  Darkness crept in from the sides of her vision, and she prayed that she wasn’t dying. She tried screaming again, but her lungs were having trouble getting enough air through her vocal cords, and her yell turned into a pathetic whimper.

  Her phone chimed from the coffee table, and she renewed her struggles, hating that she was so close to a rescue and yet it was impossible. There was no way to get to her phone, and she wasn’t even able to scream. Not even the nosiest neighbor would hear her cries for help over the constant dinging of the doorbell.

  As the darkness edged in, she gradually stopped fighting, her limbs turning leaden and uncooperative.

  All she could manage was a final mutter. “I’m…going to…kill you, Stuart.” Then everything went dark.

  Chapter 6

  Cara’s head was pounding, and all she wanted to do was fall back into the oblivion of sleep, but she was too cold for that. Besides, the bed was hard, and someone was talking loudly. She made a face without opening her eyes, wishing whoever it was would be quiet, since the noise was making her head hurt even more. There were times when it was hard to live in a house with all her sisters. Peace and quiet were rare. She shifted, trying to roll to a more comfortable position on her side, but her arms weren’t cooperating.

  The strangeness finally reg
istered, and her brain snapped to full awareness as her eyes flew open. She was on the floor on her front, her head turned toward a wall, and her arms were pulled behind her. Panic rose in her, making it hard to think, and she blinked hard at the rough board in front of her. The pounding in her skull increased, the pain tearing viciously through her head. Scattered images flashed through her brain—struggling with a masked man, the constant ringing of the doorbell, the painful prick in her neck—overlying the terrifying unfamiliarity of her surroundings. Her heart beat so quickly it was almost a drone, and a scream built in her lungs. Gasping in a rough breath, she forced herself to count the knots in the rough planks that made up the wall. It took thirty-eight before she calmed enough for her brain to work again.

  The room was dim, but a small amount of light creeping in around some kind of window covering made her fairly certain it was daytime. Now that she had shaky control over her panic, she lifted her shoulders, arching her back to give her enough space to turn her head to face the other direction.

  The room was tiny and bare. Except for her, some cobwebs, and a solid layer of dust, the space was empty. The rough boards that made up the walls and floor made her think she was in a cabin—not a fancy, ski-resort-type vacation cabin, but the type that someone threw together so that they’d have some protection, no matter how rough, against the winter snow and winds. A shack.

  She spent a dizzy moment debating whether she’d rather be tied up in a cabin or a shack before the panic started creeping back in, and she jerked her thoughts back on track.

  Focus.

  The person in the other room had gone quiet, and the complete silence was unnerving. The events of the evening before—had it just been last night?—ran through her memory, and she instinctively yanked at her hands until her wrists burned from the friction.

  Calm, calm, calm.

  Her breaths were quick and tight, and she forced herself to slow them, dragging in long, ragged inhales until her heart stopped pounding so hard. The pain and pressure in her head eased along with her panic, which helped her start thinking rationally again.

  Okay. Hands are tied. Feet?

  She attempted to move her legs, but they were strapped together at the ankles. The restriction threatened to bring another wave of panic, so she focused on making a mental to-do list. First, she needed to get off the floor, at least to a sitting position if she couldn’t stand. Trying to stay as quiet as possible—since she didn’t want whoever was in the other room to know she was conscious—she rolled to the right, just enough to draw her legs up underneath her.

  It was a relief to see that she still wore her hedgehog pajamas and her hoodie, but the drag of fabric against the rough floor sounded loud to her ears. Pausing, she listened so hard that her head started pounding again. When no one came bursting into the room, she let out the breath she was holding in a long rush and lifted her upper body until she was on her knees.

  A wave of dizziness hit her, and she swayed, blinking rapidly against the spinning room. When it finally passed, she wondered if she’d hit her head or if her symptoms were a result of whatever her kidnapper had injected her with. The thought of him drugging her filled her with fresh rage, and she clenched her teeth together hard enough to make her molars squeak.

  A hard shiver shook her, distracting her from her anger, reminding Cara of how cold she was. Her fingers were numb, either from the tight bonds or from the chilliness of the room, making it impossible to feel what they’d tied her with. Twisting, she examined her ankles and saw that they’d been secured together with two zip ties. She made a face, wishing it had been duct tape or knotted cord—something she could’ve picked at.

  From her position on her knees, she looked around to see if she’d missed anything she could use as a weapon or to free herself, but the room was just as empty as she’d thought. There was a window, though, covered with a cheap plastic shade. She tried to shuffle toward it on her knees, but the ties around her ankles were too tight to allow for movement. She debated standing, but worried that she’d topple over, creating a crash that could bring her abductors in.

  She paused, realizing that they hadn’t gagged her. Did that mean they didn’t think she’d wake to yell, or was there no one around to hear? The walls weren’t soundproof in any way. She could hear the twittering of some kind of bird and the occasional sweep of the wind. Her stomach tightened, and she swallowed with a suddenly closed throat. The idea of being in a murder cabin was infinitely scarier when it was in the middle of nowhere.

  They don’t care if I scream, because no one will hear.

  The drag and thump of a chair being pulled over old floorboards reminded her of the other occupant of the cabin, and she corrected herself. No one who hears will care.

  Panic was bubbling up again, and she forced it down. Stop it. Not productive. What would be productive was getting to the window. She might not be able to escape with her feet and hands tied, but she could at least get an idea of where she was.

  Having a goal helped keep her calm, so she added to her to-do list: Second, get over to the window.

  Getting to her feet was out, she’d decided, and moving on her knees wasn’t working, so what were her other options? She rolled onto her hip and pulled her legs in front of her. Shuffling around so her back faced the window, she bent her knees and pushed herself back, scooching her butt along the floor. It was slow going, the rough floorboards catching on her pajama pants and threatening to pull them down. She wished desperately for polished wood that she would’ve slid smoothly over, but then caught herself before a semi-hysterical laugh escaped. If she was making wishes, she should do a better job—like wishing for a pocketknife and a cell phone or not being kidnapped in the first place.

  She made slow, painful progress across the small room, using her bound hands as leverage to raise her hips slightly off the floor. Falling into the rhythm of the push-lift-back motion, she didn’t realize she was so close to the wall until her shoulders hit against it with a thump. She felt the board behind her bow slightly under the impact, then heard a sharp crack as a piece of the rotted-looking window trim popped free of its moorings. She watched in helpless horror as the broken strip of wood toppled toward the floor. Without hands to catch it, she tried to twist underneath to muffle the sound, but the board bounced off her shoulder and landed with a painfully loud clatter several feet away.

  She tensed as she heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floor before heavy footsteps approached the door. All of Cara’s thoughts dissolved into white noise as she pressed her back against the wall, trying to disappear into the rough planks.

  The door swung open, revealing the black-clad, ski-masked intruder who’d broken into her house, drugged her, and taken her to this scary cabin in the middle of nowhere. Fury sparked inside her, but her fear stayed dominant. She was tied up and weaponless, and she had no idea what this guy wanted from her. He had the upper hand by a mile, while both of hers were bound helplessly behind her back. Half-started plans swirled in her head, but she wasn’t able to hold onto a thought before another one shoved into its place.

  Without a word, he moved toward her, and she braced, ready to fight however she could manage.

  “What do you want?” she demanded—or tried to. Her voice came out in more of a pathetic croak.

  Instead of answering, he pulled something out of his pocket. “You weren’t supposed to be awake yet.” His voice sounded wrong. It wasn’t the menacing growl of a kidnapper. It was a normal, pleasant tenor that could’ve belonged to one of her instructors at school or a newscaster giving a weather report. It threw her off, making her still for valuable seconds.

  He bent down and reached for her, and she snapped out of her moment of surprise. Bending her legs, she kicked out, aiming for his knees. He dodged so only one of her feet glanced off his lower thigh, but it landed hard enough to make him grunt. She threw herself sideways away from him, ro
lling even as she knew it was hopeless. She was bound and still woozy from being drugged, while he was almost twice her size and almost assuredly armed. Still, she turned onto her back to try to kick him again, not willing to give up while she still had a chance to fight him off. He lunged, knocking her onto her side as the weight of his body kept her legs pinned. Flipping her onto her front, he held her down with terrifying ease. She felt the sharp prick of a needle entering her neck for the second time in who knew how many hours, and she swallowed a scream. Turning her head, she tried to bite the hand holding the syringe, but he pulled away just in time before casually backhanding her across the face.

  Her head bumped against the floor as her cheek throbbed from the blow. She fought to keep struggling and stay conscious, but the darkness crept back in until everything went black.

  * * *

  It felt like just an instant later when she was blinking open blurry eyes, but her kidnapper wasn’t in the room anymore, and there was pale, pinkish light squeezing in around the window shade. She was still close to the window, slumped on the floor on her side. As she struggled into a sitting position, her head spun, and nausea rose. Squeezing her eyes closed, she focused on keeping the little that was in her stomach down where it belonged. After a few moments, things settled, and she reopened her eyes.

  The reality of her situation hit her at the sight of the empty room, and she had to choke down bile again. Swallowing hard and tightening her jaw muscles, she forced herself to think productive thoughts. Except for the residual drugs in her system making her groggy and nauseated, she was unhurt. Her captor—the one she’d seen, at least—was masked, which meant that he wanted to hide his identity from her. He wouldn’t have bothered if he was planning on killing her.