Down By Contact - SR Grey

by Grey, S. R.

  I lean forward, absorbed with the unfolding action.

  The play clock ticks down, and the center snaps the ball.

  Graham falls back and surveys the field.

  “Damn it.” Zane isn’t open.

  But Lars is.

  Graham throws him the ball.

  Unfortunately it’s tipped, and a Toronto Tigers defensive player pulls it in.

  Another interception, but this one isn’t in our favor.

  “This is one crazy game,” I murmur, leaning back.

  Since the opposing player has nowhere to run, he’s tackled almost immediately.

  Still, the Tigers have the ball.

  A few short plays later, they capitalize on it and kick a field goal.

  “At least it’s not a touchdown,” I say on a sigh. “Still, now we’re down by ten.”

  Suddenly, and surprising the crap out of me, there’s a knock on the front door.

  I’m not expecting anyone, as Grady said he’d be shopping after the game, not during it.

  On high alert, I make my way to the entry hall, cautiously peering through the peephole on the door.

  “Phew.” I let out a breath.

  It’s just Grady.

  “I hope I didn’t scare you,” he says once I disarm the alarm and open the door, “but I decided to go to the store now instead of after the game. I thought about it and I don’t want to leave you alone once it’s dark.” He glances up at the cloudy, overcast sky. “I’m afraid with this dismal weather, night will arrive sooner rather than later.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh, scanning the gray horizon. “November sucks.”

  Grady turns to leave. “Okay, well, I’ll stop back once I’ve returned with your coffee.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him. “I really appreciate this. Oh, hold on.” I grab my purse off a nearby table in the hall. “Here’s some money.”

  I give him a twenty, and he replies, “I’ll bring you your change.”

  Waving my hand, I say, “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay.” Hesitating, he says, “You have the alarm system armed, yes?”

  “I do,” I confirm. “Or rather, I will once you leave and I re-set it.”

  “Great. Keep it that way,” he states grimly.

  I promise him I will, and he walks away, hopping into his truck that’s idling outside.

  He leaves, and I return to find the game is in the final minutes.

  Crap, those damn Toronto Tigers are still winning.

  Sadly, there are no last-minute miracle plays, and the Comets lose this one.

  Hey, you can’t win them all.

  Zane says that a lot.

  Despite the loss, I’m really excited he’ll be home in a few hours.

  Settling back on the sofa, I watch the postgame show, anticipating Grady’s return with the coffee.

  But the minutes tick by, and then an hour, and there’s still no sign of him.

  Even after the postgame show ends and I turn off the TV, he still hasn’t returned.

  “This is weird,” I say out loud, the sound of my voice jarring in the silence.

  Since Grady’s number is programmed in my contacts on my phone, I give him a quick call.

  But it just rings and rings, then goes to voice mail.

  I hang up.

  A shiver runs down my spine, even though I have on a thick fuzzy sweater with a long-sleeved tee underneath.

  I just can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

  Nervous, I stand up, hesitate, and then, sighing, walk to the front door.

  I’m sure as hell not going to open it, but I can look out one of the windows that are on either side. I can see way more that way opposed to peering through the tiny peephole.

  Leaning forward, I pull the curtain back just a tad.

  Grady was right, what little daylight we had is pretty much gone. It’s almost completely dark outside.

  Everything looks to be okay, except that Grady’s truck isn’t back. He always parks at the end of the driveway in a little squared-off spot by the garages.

  But he’s not there.

  “How long does it take to buy a few groceries?” I mutter to myself, feeling equal parts worried and frustrated.

  I know the answer—it sure as hell doesn’t take this long.

  Something is definitely amiss.

  What if Grady got into an accident?

  I start to head back into the living room to retrieve my phone so I can call Zane and get him up to speed on the situation. He may also have some advice. He should be on his way to the airport with the team by now.

  Hopefully they haven’t boarded their charter jet yet.

  But just as I spin around to head back into the living room, I hear what sounds like a distressed cat meowing outside the front door.

  I peer back out the window to my right, but there’s no cat to be seen.

  “Huh, that’s strange,” I murmur.

  I start to turn away again and hear more meowing.

  “Okay, what the hell is going on?”

  I cock my head, listening, and hear a super soft mewling noise now. It sounds like it could be coming from just around the corner, where the entry area juts out and, unfortunately, affords no view.

  My first thought is Did somebody abandon a kitten?

  There are a lot of woods nearby.

  It’s certainly possible.

  Maybe the little thing found its way to this house.

  Cats are smart like that, even little ones.

  One thing for sure—I’m not about to let a small helpless animal sit outside and cry in the cold and darkness.

  Swiftly, I disarm the alarm and step outside.

  And that’s when someone places a large gloved hand over my mouth.

  A voice, one I know all too well, grinds out, “Gotcha.”

  Time to Panic

  We lose the game in Toronto.

  That’s okay.

  The Comets still have a winning record.

  Still, no one likes to lose, so we’re all kind of quiet on the charter flight home.

  I’m a little antsy, as well.

  Mostly because I tried to call Morgan right before we took off, and she didn’t pick up.

  That’s not like her.

  As we hit turbulence and I buckle my seat belt, I tell myself her not answering is probably because she was busy when I called or not near her phone.

  But that’s really not comforting, as I know she’d be expecting my call.

  So yeah, I can’t shake the feeling that something is not right.

  Of course, that makes the minutes spent up in the sky drag.

  I think about asking Lars if he wants to play cards, as he’s seated across from me like he was on the flight to Toronto, but when I look over, I notice he’s fallen asleep.

  There goes that idea.

  I decide to just read.

  Taking out my e-reader, I cue up a former football player’s memoir.

  But the words are just a blur.

  I can’t concentrate for shit.

  When the pages do come into focus, I read the same sentence over and over.

  “Okay, this isn’t working,” I mutter to myself.

  Sighing, I give up and slide my e-reader back into my bag.

  From that point on, I just stare out the window at the dark sky.

  When I feel the plane descending, I mutter a grumpy, “Finally.”

  From there, I’m a man on a mission.

  Once I’m off the plane and in my SUV, I try Morgan again.

  Still, she doesn’t answer.

  Now I’m really concerned.

  This is not like her at all.

  There’s definitely a problem.

  I know it.

  “Don’t panic,” I tell myself. “There could still be a perfectly plausible explanation.”

  I call Grady to ask him to check in on Morgan and immediately get back to me, but his phone also goes to voice mail.

  Now it’
s time to panic.

  Oh, Shit

  Oh, shit.

  I know that voice.

  I fear that voice.

  He’s finally found me.

  Sadly, I knew this day would come.

  It’s what I was afraid of from the start.

  And now that dreaded time is here.

  “Neil?” I try to squeak out, but my voice is muffled as he exerts more pressure in his gloved hand that’s clamped over my mouth.

  He hears me nonetheless.

  “That’s right, bitch,” he hisses from behind me into my ear. I shudder. “You knew you couldn’t stay hidden from me forever. My little trick worked beautifully, huh?”

  Ah, yes, his little trick—the cat in distress.

  With his free hand, he holds up a small recorder in front of my face and presses Play.

  “Meow, meow, meow, m—”

  He hits Stop and pockets the recorder. “Fell for it,” he says, laughing sinisterly. “I knew you would.”

  I struggle, and his hand is dislodged from my mouth.

  Desperately, I cry out, “Help! Grady! Helllllllp!”

  Neil doesn’t cover my mouth again; he just starts dragging me toward the garage area.

  He seems to know his way around. He must’ve staked the place out from afar. That would be the only way to not be detected with all the security we have.

  Speaking of which, I call for Grady again.

  Neil replies gruffly, “Is that your stupid guard’s name? If so, there’s no use yelling for him. I ran him off the road about a half a mile from here in the van I stole. He and his truck are in a ditch. I checked and the dude was knocked out cold. He won’t be coming to your rescue, Morgan.”

  God, no.

  As I’m dragged to the outer door that leads into Grady’s room, I continue to struggle like crazy. Fruitless or not—and it seems to be a lost cause to try to escape from Neil’s firm hold—I still have to try.

  I only let up for a beat when I scan the area for this stolen van he just referenced.

  There’s no vehicle in sight, so I assume he left it somewhere after he ran Grady off the road.

  It could just be just farther up the long driveway. I can’t see that far, as it’s pitch black out now. There aren’t even any stars out tonight.

  I think of Grady and hope he’s okay.

  But there’s a bigger problem at hand—if he’s not around to save me, who will?

  I’m not sure what time it is, but I don’t think Zane will be home all that soon. I’m mad at myself that I left my phone in the house. I have no way to call 9-1-1 or anyone, even if I do break free from this maniac.

  We reach the door to Grady’s room, and Neil shoves me forward. “Enter the code so we can go inside,” he demands.

  There’s no sense in pretending I don’t know it, so I do as I’m told.

  As the door unlocks, I ask, “How do you know so much about this house?”

  He chuffs. “You don’t think I wouldn’t do my due diligence, do you? I’ve been surveilling this place for a while, ever since I saw that little picture of you on the Comets’ website. After a bit of research, I discovered you’ve found yourself a football player. Quite convenient, and oh so romantic,” he mocks. “Anyway, filling in the gaps from there wasn’t all that hard.”

  Damn website.

  I knew that picture would be a problem.

  But it’s too late now.

  Neil pushes me into the room and follows.

  He turns on an overhead light and orders me to sit on the edge of the bed.

  I observe him as he pulls up a chair to sit across from me—I suppose to make sure I don’t escape.

  He looks unkempt, his longish blond surfer hair a tangled mess, his eyes pure crazy. To think I once thought he was cute.

  I shake my head, and he asks, “What?”

  “Nothing,” I mutter, looking away.

  Roughly, he grabs my chin and makes me meet his piercing dark gaze. “I asked you a question, dumbass.”

  I don’t tell him what I was really thinking, but I do ask, “What are you planning on doing to me?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe kidnap you and hold you for ransom. I could use the money, and I bet your rich football boyfriend would pay a lot.”

  I shudder at the idea of being taken away by this deranged man.

  So I try another tactic by throwing out, “How about if you just leave, and we forget this ever happened? I promise I won’t say a word that you were ever here.”

  Neil laughs. “Yeah, right, like I believe your bullshit.”

  Crap, he knows I’m bluffing.

  Even if he did leave, I would certainly tell the authorities.

  Yeah, I would do that so fast it isn’t even funny.

  But nothing is funny about my predicament.

  I need to figure something out…and fast.

  I judge the distance to the door, but it’s too far.

  If I run, Neil will catch me.

  I’m also afraid of what he’d do to punish me for such an act.

  He’s actually being kind of calm right now.

  But that could change in a heartbeat.

  That’s why I really need to make some kind of a move.

  Feeling as if I might have a better chance of getting away if we were back outside, I say, “If you’re taking me with you, what are we doing in here?” I wave my hand around. “Let’s just go already, okay?”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Why are you so anxious to leave? What are you up to?”

  “Nothing,” I murmur.

  Damn, he’s a psycho but a smart one.

  Just then there’s a cacophony of noise as the doors of the connected garages sound like they’re all going up at once.

  Zane.

  It’s possible.

  My heart soars that this ordeal might soon be over.

  But then it sinks when, standing at the doorway leading into those garages, and clearly ready to pounce, Neil pulls out a very long, very sharp-looking knife.

  Confrontation

  I’ve never driven so fast in my life.

  Good thing there’s hardly any traffic on the route to my house.

  I’ve been trying both Morgan’s and Grady’s phones repeatedly, ever since I left the airfield where our team charter jet landed, but neither of them has picked up.

  Jesus.

  My heart is pumping so hard.

  I’m so fucking worked up.

  As bad as it is, when I reach the dark country road that leads to my place, I tense up even more.

  I don’t know what I’m about to find at the house.

  But wait, I see something up ahead—a man is walking on the side of the road. A very big man.

  “Is that Grady?” I ask out loud. “Yes, I believe it is.”

  Hitting the accelerator, I reach him in record time.

  Yanking my Escalade off to the side of the road just ahead of him, I skid to a stop, gravel flying.

  Before I have time to power down a window, Grady runs over to the passenger side.

  I unlock the door, and, looking disheveled and sporting a nasty cut above his brow, he jumps into the SUV.

  “We gotta get to the house, man,” he says, forgoing any preamble. “I ran out to the store for a minute, and on my way back, some dude in a van ran me off the road. That couldn’t have been a coincidence. The alarm system is armed, but Morgan is in the house all by herself.”

  I hold up my phone. “I’ve been trying her, and there’s been no response.”

  “Fuck. I tried her too, right before you pulled over. But I got sent to voice mail. I saw you tried me a few times, but I was out cold till a few minutes ago. You were going to be my next call.”

  Barely hearing him, I hit the gas, dirt and gravel flying in all directions as I speed away.

  I know this has to be Neil’s doing.

  He’s found Morgan.

  It was probably that damn picture on the website that tipped him off.
>
  He must’ve seen it.

  I race down the road, almost spinning out of control as I make a sharp turn into the driveway at a high rate of speed.

  “Hang on,” I say to Grady as I correct the vehicle, then barrel down to the house.

  Once we’re there, I throw the SUV into Park.

  Both Grady and I jump out at the same time, slamming our doors in unison.

  “I’ll search the house,” he says. “There’s much more area to cover. And”—he pulls out his sidearm, a 9mm—“I have this.”

  “Shit, okay.” I nod. “I’ll look around the garages and in your room.”

  Hesitating, he says, “You should have something with which to defend yourself.”

  Damn, he’s right.

  “Uh…” I pop open the hatch and retrieve a tire iron. “I’ll take this,” I say, holding it aloft.

  “That’ll work.”

  Before we part, I add, “Call me if you find anything. I’ll do the same.”

  He nods. “You got it.”

  There’s no time for more conversation.

  Grady races toward the house, and I run to the garage area, putting in a code on the app on my phone that opens all the garage doors at once. I figure this will eliminate areas for someone to hide and get the jump on me.

  But a quick sweep shows me there’s no one in the garages.

  Okay, I still have Grady’s room to check.

  If it’s all fine in there, I’ll head to the main house to assist Grady.

  I reach out to type in the code to disarm the alarm and lock to his room, but I notice both are already disengaged.

  “Shit.”

  That immediately grabs my attention, and not in a good way.

  Placing my hand on the doorknob as quietly as possible, I raise the tire iron above my head, ready to strike.

  I just know Neil is in there.

  I feel it.

  That bastard better not have hurt Morgan, or there’s going to be hell to pay on his part.

  I debate for a beat on whether to open the door slowly or just barge in.

  I opt for barging in.

  But as I do, I feel a sharp pain in my left forearm.

  Luckily it’s not the arm holding the tire iron.

  Morgan screams out my name, and I spin around to see a man who has to be Neil.