by Freya Barker
I feel the edge of the blade scraping the fabric covering my thigh and fight not to react. I need my hands free before I try battling an armed man.
“Real easy…” he drawls as he pulls the knife away.
I know what’s coming and force my head clear of all but the need to stay completely motionless.
Even as he stabs the tip of the knife in my leg and drags it through fabric and skin.
I let the hot burn wash over me, focusing on the sound of his heavy breathing above me. I must’ve managed to keep my face slack and motionless because I can hear him retreating until his footsteps finally leave the room.
I’m not sure how long I lie here. Afraid to move as I hear him travel around the house. The rustling of plastic and then a dragging noise. I’m positive I’m listening to the other man’s body being removed. I wait until I hear a door close and the muted sound of a car door slamming before I dare move. I rub my face on the pillow to work the blindfold off and then I open my eyes.
Taking in my surroundings—a large bedroom with a brick fireplace and hewn log walls—I notice two doors, one open and leading to a hallway and a second one closed. A bathroom I presume.
The burning in my leg has subsided some and when I gingerly lift my head, I see the cut is down the front of my thigh but superficial and with minimal bleeding.
If I want to have any chance of escaping, I’ll have to get moving.
I manage to get up in a sitting position and wait until the room stops spinning. I test the cuffs around my wrists. I have small hands but wide palms and am just shy of pulling my left one free. Not allowing myself to think about it, I fold my left thumb as tightly as I can under my fingers, and overextend my wrist in the opposite direction until I feel it pop.
Jesus fucking Christ, that hurts.
Tears burn my eyes as I wrestle my left hand from the cuff, but the next instant I’m off the bed, testing my legs for stability. My first stop is the fireplace where I grab hold of a fire poker with my right hand. The pain in my left is a good cure for any lingering aftereffects of the drug, my head and senses now sharp as I make my way to the door and peek out.
There are two more doors to my right but then the dark hallway ends. To my left it seems to open up into a larger space. Soft light streams into the hallway and I gingerly make my way down.
Suddenly my foot slides out from under me and I land hard on my ass and my left hand, causing me to cry out in pain. I freeze and listen, but there’s no sound, no indication there is anyone here.
I try to stand up, careful not to have my feet slide in the puddle of blood I landed in.
The hallway opens up into a large open concept space with another massive stone fireplace and a kitchen at the far end. I steer toward a small lobby in the front and try the door. Too late I realize a fancy log home like this is likely outfitted with an alarm, and the sound is ear-splitting.
The second I have the door open I run out blindly, worried first and foremost to get away as fast and far as possible, and next to find help. The house looks to be in the woods and I dart into the trees on the side of the driveway, to hopefully follow it to a road where I can flag someone down.
The hope to find a friendly neighbor out here diminishes the farther away from the house I get. The night seems to have swallowed up all the light and I can barely see a hand in front of my eyes. It’s slowing me down dramatically since I really don’t want to fall again, and I can’t see where I’m putting my feet.
I have a firm hold on the poker, since I don’t have anything else to defend myself with, but I almost drop it when I see headlights filtering through the trees to my left. It looks like a road.
Turning in that direction, I pick up the pace, hoping to be able to cut off the car before it passes. Unfortunately, I trip in the ditch on the side of the road and scramble up the embankment.
The car is already past when I feel the asphalt underneath my feet. I wave my arms and yell as loud as I can. The driver must’ve seen me because suddenly the brake lights come on, and with a screech of tires the vehicle is thrown in reverse.
Then it picks up speed.
Chapter Five
Bree
It takes me a fraction of a second to react.
I stumble back down the deep bank on the side of the road, trying to stay on my feet as I aim for the cover of the trees. Behind me I hear a car door slam and I curse myself for the rookie mistake. Blame it on the lingering brain fog.
Forcing my feet to move, I run into the trees. I have run 5K in under twenty minutes, but that’s on a level surface, not through woods with brush and roots providing invisible obstacles in the dark.
Still, I should do better than the average person, even under these circumstances, and judging from the plundering through the undergrowth I hear behind me, the guy isn’t an experienced runner. The urge is to pull ahead as far as I can, without losing my footing.
As I try to find a balance between speed and caution, I feel my shoe catch on something and before I can stop myself, I’m flying.
I land hard, slamming my ribs on a protruding root. With a whoosh the air is knocked out of me and a sharp pain radiates from my ankle. Grinding my teeth against the physical agony, I try to scramble to my feet as I hear him closing in, only to have my ankle collapse underneath me.
Then his body lands on top of me, the pain from my injured ribs forcing a scream from my throat.
“You can scream all you want, my little songbird, but no one will hear you out here.”
“I’m not your songbird,” I grind out, trying to twist to throw him off me, but my injuries hamper me.
“You’ll do until I find her,” he grunts behind me as he rocks his hips against my ass.
Bile surges up when I feel his obvious excitement.
Oh, hell no.
With a surge of adrenaline, I snap my head back, the impact painful for me but worse for him as he yelps and shifts his weight. Enough for me to get my good leg under me and heave him off my back. I use the momentum to drag myself away, making sure not to lose my grip around the only weapon I have.
My eye is on the trunk of a tree so I can pull myself up, but before I can get to it a hand closes around my bad ankle, hauling me back. Ignoring the pain, I flip my body over, swinging my right hand holding the fire poker as hard as I can.
There’s a solid thunk when it connects with his head, and without making a sound he collapses, keeping my legs pinned. I immediately scramble to get free, mentally noting a cap of some sort on his head, a black or blue windbreaker, and a silver-colored watch on the wrist of his outstretched arm.
The moment I’m free I brace against the tree, propping myself up. Using my back against the trunk as leverage, I manage to push up on my good leg.
For a second I contemplate going back to the road, to the car, but I don’t know if he was alone or not and my instincts scream to get away from him.
With the poker as a makeshift cane, I start moving.
Yanis
“You still around?”
We’re coming up on the outskirts of Denver.
“I’m here. Wanna meet me at the Columbine Valley station?”
“No. I wanna go straight to the scene.”
“Let me give the Jefferson County sheriff a heads-up. They have roads blocked off. How far out are you?”
I look at the sign coming up on the side of the road.
“Next exit is the 470.”
“Take it. Follow it until you hit the exit for the 121 South. First right is Deer Creek Canyon Road, stick to it for about eight miles. It’ll take you straight to Switzer’s Gulch. I’ll head out there now.”
As soon as I hit the 470, I keep my eyes peeled for a gas station. I’m running on fumes and don’t want to waste time stranded dry. The next exit has one so I quickly pull off the highway.
“Last chance to hit the head or grab a coffee,” I tell the guys. “Get some water, granola bars, anything wrapped and easy. I don’t plan on breaking
for meals until we have Bree.”
Near twenty hours she’s been gone. It’s almost inconceivable. Twenty hours by car could have her halfway across the country. Hell, she could be well across the Mexican border by now. I don’t even want to think about a plane, which could have her halfway across the world.
I resist the temptation to take the half tank I’ve filled so far and get back behind the wheel. I may need every drop of gas I can squeeze in.
By the time I’m done, Hutch is back with coffees and Dimi is coming out of the convenience store attached to the gas station with two full grocery bags. His ass barely hits the passenger seat when I pull away from the pump.
Almost twenty minutes later, I see the roadblock up ahead. A sheriff’s deputy stops me and I roll down my window.
“Yanis Mazur for Detective Bill Evans.”
The deputy nods and waves us past. I pull into what looks like a rest area on the side of the road and park behind a police cruiser. Evans is already walking up to us when we get out of the Yukon.
“What’ve you got?” I ask, not wasting time on pleasantries.
Bill doesn’t seem to take offense and launches into a briefing.
The crime lab is already working on identifying a fresh set of tracks leading away from the limo still parked up ahead, as well as fingerprints they lifted from the vehicle. The medical examiner will autopsy the body first thing in the morning, but was able to report he estimated the time of death to be between five and seven yesterday morning.
The driver was identified as fifty-seven-year-old Louis Cirillo. He’d worked for Destination Limo for over twenty years, was married with two adult kids. It was the company that apparently tracked the vehicle down after his wife called in, wondering when he’d be home for dinner.
“Any connection to Bobby Lee Rose? Had he driven her before?”
“Not according to her personal assistant. My colleague spoke with her earlier. At this point there’s nothing to indicate this incident has anything to do with Ms. Rose.”
It’s possible, I guess. The driver could’ve been the target and Bree an unfortunate bystander, but I doubt it. I’ll leave that up to the cops. For now, my only concern is getting Bree back.
“Any signs of a struggle?”
Bill shakes his head.
“Nothing we’ve found thus far.”
“What about security cameras at Bobby Lee’s house? Has anyone looked at those?” Hutch chips in.
When Bill looks at him lifting an eyebrow, I realize I haven’t made any introductions and quickly correct that.
“Jake Hutchinson and my brother, Dimas Mazur, they work with me.”
“Working on it,” Bill answers the original question. “We have to go through Boulder Records and haven’t been able to contact anyone there.”
I already have my phone out. I have Glen Delbert’s cell number, Boulder’s VP of security.
“I’ll call.”
“It’s fucking four thirty in the morning, asshole,” he growls when he answers. “What the hell is so important you call me out of fucking bed? Normal people call—”
“Bree’s missing.”
I hear rustling at the other end and then a door close.
“Talk to me.”
“Yesterday morning around six twenty an airport limo picked her up at Bobby Lee’s place. At nine forty-five last night, Destination Limo recovered their missing limo a few miles from the house, driver dead behind the wheel, Bree’s stuff still in the back of the vehicle, but no Bree. Estimated time of death of the driver was between five and seven in the morning.”
I’m trying hard to keep the emotion out of my voice but I’m not sure I was successful.
“What can I do?” Glen asks immediately.
“I need the video feed from the front of the house. Can you access it?”
“Yes.” I hear clicking on a keyboard. “Doing it right now. Want it sent to your phone?”
“Yup.”
“Working on it. Anything else? I can round up a few guys.”
“Stand by on that. We’re gonna need a fucking lead first.”
A text notification sounds on my phone and then another one.
“You should have the link to the feed and the password. Keep me updated.”
I don’t bother acknowledging and end the call, pulling up the video.
“I’ve got the security feed,” I announce.
The small group gathers around me as I fast forward to the six fifteen time stamp. On the small screen I see the gate at the end of the drive is open. At six eighteen the limo pulls in off the street and drives up, rounding the rotunda in front of the house. It’s impossible to make out the driver, who remains behind the wheel for a few minutes until the driver’s side door opens and he steps out. Dark suit, chauffeur’s cap pulled low over his face.
He’s at least six feet tall by the look of it, comparing the height of the vehicle to his body.
“That’s not the driver,” Bill observes. “Our vic is five nine at best.”
On the screen we can see Bree walk into view, a ball cap and her signature ponytail visible from this angle. She’s wearing dark, casual clothes and running shoes. A vast difference from the way she’d been decked out the night before.
The driver opens the door for her, she climbs in, and he appears to lean into the back seat for a minute. Then he straightens up, closes the back door, and climbs in behind the wheel.
“What was that all about?” Dimi asks.
I rewind and we watch it again.
“Stop. Right there.” Hutch points at the guy’s hand. “Back up a little and don’t watch Bree, look at the guy’s hand.”
We watch as he opens the door and as Bree walks into view, slips his free hand into his jacket pocket and comes out holding something. I move forward frame by frame.
“Not a knife,” Dimi grumbles.
“Small, my guess a syringe. The only way Bree wouldn’t have been fighting like hell is if she was incapacitated,” Hutch offers.
“Send it to me.” This from Bill, who wears a grim expression. “This needs to go to Russel, he’s the lead.”
When I forward the video, I notice the time on my phone. It’s coming up on five. She’s been out there for almost twenty-three hours. A dark desperation takes hold of me as I realize the likelihood we’ll find her alive diminishes by the hour.
I need to do something.
Abruptly I turn to the Yukon and climb behind the wheel.
“Where are we going?” Dimi says, climbing in the passenger seat.
“Driving. Looking. Anything but fucking standing around with our fingers up our noses.”
Hutch is the last to hop into the SUV as Bill walks up to my window.
“Looks like the other vehicle went west. Not much there but trees and mountains.”
I’m about to drive off when someone yells for Bill.
“Found something!”
Bree
The pain is brutal.
I stuck as close to the road as I dared, putting as much distance between me and the guy I knocked out in case I didn’t kill him, which in hindsight, I should’ve made sure of. At some point I had to rest and found a large toppled tree I could hide underneath. It was only supposed to be for a few minutes, but as soon as I felt safe enough to rest my eyes, I was gone.
Catnapping in odd places and positions isn’t new to me. Not in this business. But the waking up has never been this painful.
The earlier adrenaline that propelled me also masked the impact of my injuries, but its benefits are gone. It’s hitting me full on now and I need to find some help soon.
I’m no longer able to stand on my right leg, the ankle so swollen I’m afraid of the damage I may have done. I don’t even want to look at the long cut on my other leg, I can feel it’s probably inflamed with the way it’s burning, and I’m sure it won’t be pretty. My left hand is a throbbing mess, but at least my right hand is functioning. I’m still holding onto that fire poker like
my life depends on it.
I tilt my head when I hear the rumble of an engine. Not a car, something bigger like a semi.
I need to get to the road. Somehow.
Chapter Six
Yanis
Trucker found an injured woman on the side of High Grade Road.
I floored it before Bill had a chance to finish telling me it’s the road Deer Creek turns into. He’s behind me now, along with another law enforcement vehicle, both with flashing lights and sirens. I’m breaking every speed limit and if a deer crossed the road right now, we’d be in a heap of trouble.
Dimi is on my phone with Bill.
“He says half a mile up.”
I nod my acknowledgment and keep my eyes peeled to the road. I have to slow down for a sharp curve, but as soon as I clear it, I can see the logging truck on the shoulder up ahead. The SUV hasn’t come to a complete stop when I slam it in park with a jerk and jump out.
I don’t see her at first, just the back of a bulky guy, crouched over something in the ditch. From behind me a flashlight hits the scene.
“Bree!”
I don’t even realize I yelled out loud when the large man turns, but my focus is on the white face illuminated by the beam of light.
Unceremoniously shoving the Good Samaritan out of the way, I crouch down beside her.
“Talk to me,” I bark at her.
“Silver luxury vehicle, sedan. Colorado plates, CX…that’s all I remember. White male, dark cap, dark slicker, about six or six one. Cultured voice and—”
“Don’t give a fuck about that. You, Bree, where are you hurt?”
“Right ankle, left thigh, left hand, ribs,” she lists off with visible effort.
My hand reaches for her face, where a strand of hair has come loose from her ponytail and is in her eyes. I gently stroke it out of the way before I look down her body, noticing dirt and debris stuck to her hair and clothes.
I wince at the sight of her thumb sticking out at an odd angle from her hand. There’s a handcuff still attached to her other wrist. Then my eyes trail down to assess the damage to her legs.