After what may be another five or ten or sixty minutes, that door opens again.
I expect Dolph to step inside, a hammer or pliers in hand, intent on doing more damage, but instead a young woman is shoved forward.
“No, please, please stop,” she cries, tears all over her face. She’s white and blonde, no older than twenty-one, wearing tight shorts and a T-shirt, much like I’m wearing, only she still has on sandals. Her hands are bound behind her back, but her ankles are free, so she stumbles forward as she’s pushed into the room, still sobbing, still begging for them to stop, three of them now in masks following her. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry, please just stop, please don’t—”
Dolph backhands her, shouts, “Shut the fuck up!” and grabs the metal chair he’d been sitting on and drags it around so it’s directly behind me. The two others grab her arms and drag her forward, the girl really going at it now, screaming, begging them to stop. Dolph backhands her again, and then she’s shoved down onto the chair and I can hear them tearing off strips of duct tape and using those strips to bind her to the chair.
“Please stop, please stop,” the girl keeps saying, and Dolph shouts, “I should put this tape over your mouth too,” and like that, she goes quiet.
I can’t see the girl, and I can’t see Dolph, and I can’t see the other two, but I can see the door. It’s open. Bright light streams in. My first instinct is to shout for help, but then I remember that this girl was shouting the entire time and that didn’t change anything. So I sit there, quiet, and wait until the three men leave and it’s just the two of us, the girl continuing to sob quietly behind me.
Two hours thirty minutes to go.
Eleven
“What’s your name?”
The girl doesn’t answer, still quietly sobbing.
“Hey,” I say, pushing back in my chair to nudge her. “What’s your name?”
The girl keeps sobbing. I don’t think she’s going to answer me, but then she sniffs and says, “Brooke.”
Of course her name is Brooke. A petite blonde like her, I wouldn’t imagine any other name. Her parents are probably members of a country club, and she drives a Mercedes or BMW, and—
What the hell am I doing? Shit, I need to keep my priorities straight. Escape first, unfairly judge the girl second.
“Hi, Brooke. My name’s Holly. How old are you?”
The question seems to catch her off guard. “How—how—how old am I?”
“Yeah. I’m seventeen. How old are you?”
“I’m—I’m—I’m twenty.”
“Do you go to college?”
The sobbing has stopped, but her voice still continues to tremble. “Yes.”
“Where?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Brooke, where do you go to college?”
“Here,” she says, her voice still trembling, and then sobs, “I don’t even know where I am!”
I twist in the chair, but I can’t see her, so I stay seated facing the door as I speak.
“What happened, Brooke? How did those men take you?”
She sniffs again. “I … I was out with friends. We’re nursing students at the university, and—”
“Where?”
“What?”
“Where is the university?”
She sniffs again, and when she speaks next, the tremor in her voice is almost gone.
“Here,” she says. “At least, I think this is here. I just—I don’t know!”
“That’s okay. So what happened?”
“The Burns School of Medicine,” Brooke says. “That’s where we go. It’s part of the University of Hawaii.”
She seems to just be rambling now, her focus gone, so I try to keep her on track.
“Okay, so you were out with your friends, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Where were you?”
“We went to some bars.”
“Do you remember which bars?”
“Not really. I had a lot to drink. But we were in Honolulu, I do remember that.”
“Okay, so you were drinking at some bars in Honolulu. How did you end up here?”
“This guy started flirting with me, buying me drinks. He talked me into leaving with him. Next thing I know, these guys in masks show up and beat him up and grab me. They threw me into a van, put a bag over my head.”
“How long were you in the van?”
“What?”
“Do you remember how long you were in the van?”
“I … I don’t know. Why?”
“Because if you started out in Honolulu and remember how long it took to get here, it would help us try to figure out where we are.”
“I’m sorry,” Brooke says, and she sounds genuinely sorry, like this is all her fault. “I just—I was so scared. I am scared.”
“I know. Me too.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
Brooke says, “What happened to you? How did you get here?”
“I was out with a guy who turned out to be a douchebag.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was in on this, whatever this is. He took me someplace where men in masks came and grabbed me, just like they did to you. I hate to say it, but there’s a good chance whoever the guy was who got you to leave your friends was probably paid off to get you alone.”
“Oh God,” Brooke says. “But—but—but why?”
“I have no idea.” I pause, thinking. “Brooke, where are you from?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you born and raised here on Oahu?”
“No. I was born in North Carolina.”
“Where in North Carolina?”
“Fort Bragg.”
And like that, the mystery of why this girl was abducted starts to make more sense.
“Which one of your parents was stationed at Fort Bragg?”
“My father.”
“Were you an army brat?”
She snorts, clearly less endeared by the term. “Yeah, I was. Why?”
“Where’s your dad stationed now?”
“Here on the island.” She utters another distressed noise. “Assuming we’re even on the island anymore.”
“What base, Brooke?”
“Schofield Barracks.”
Another piece of the puzzle drops into place.
“What does he do?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“I’m trying to figure out why we’ve been brought here. Before you came in, one of the men wanted me to call my father.”
“Who’s your father?”
“It doesn’t matter who my father is. He’s just a sergeant. It makes no sense why they’d want to get to him through me. That’s why I’m curious what your father does.”
“I don’t know what he does exactly,” Brooke says, “but he’s a colonel.”
“What’s his name?”
“His name?”
“Yes, Brooke, his name.”
“Daniel Heller.” She pauses. “What’s your father’s name?”
“John Lin. But in the larger scheme of things it doesn’t matter because my father’s nobody. But your father … he’s somebody. Did the men who brought you here say anything to you?”
“Like what?”
“Like did they tell you to do anything?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think they did.” She sighs, frustrated. “I’m sorry I’m not more helpful, but I just”—her voice cracks again—“I’m so scared.”
She starts sobbing again.
I don’t bother trying to calm her. She’ll wear herself out eventually. Besides, I got the information I needed.
Both of our fathers are currently stationed at Schofield Barracks. Brooke’s father is more highly ranked than my father. Like, much more highly ranked. It would make sense why these men would abduct her—her father certainly has more sway over whatever it is these men want—but why my fath
er?
Before I can rack my brain even more, the door opens again.
Two hours to go.
Twelve
Dolph doesn’t come alone this time. Two other masked men follow him into the room—maybe the same two that dragged Brooke here—and they stand by the door, their arms crossed, while Dolph slowly walks toward me.
He pulls out the cell phone from his pocket, holds it up. “Ready to make the call?”
I say nothing.
He shakes his head, making soft tsks, then immediately backhands me.
This time he strikes the right-hand side of my face, which will at least even out the bruising, so that’s thoughtful of him.
Brooke, hearing the slap, cries out.
Dolph chuckles. He looks past me, seems to consider something, and circles around to Brooke. I can’t see him, but I picture him leaning forward as he looks up and down the length of her body.
“Are you scared?”
Brooke doesn’t answer, sobbing again.
“Little girl, I asked you a question.”
More sobbing.
Dolph says, “Little girl, do you want me to hurt you?”
Brooke’s voice is a soft, tremulous whisper: “No.”
“Then do as I tell you and you will not be hurt. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to call your father. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Very good. Now understand that we have no intentions of hurting you, but we will if we must. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to make this hard on yourself and disobey when we tell you to do something?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Brooke says, still sobbing.
“Good. Very good. Now I want you to give me the number that will reach your father. I will dial that number, and for your sake, let us hope he answers. When he answers, I will place the phone to your ear and you will tell him what has happened. You will tell him that you have thus far not been hurt. I will then speak to your father. I will tell him that you will not be harmed as long as he gives us what we want. Do you understand?”
Don’t, I think. Don’t do it.
But of course she does. Brooke tells Dolph yes and then he asks her for the number and she rattles off the digits and several seconds pass where Dolph must be listening to the rings, and then Brooke says, her voice still trembling, “Daddy? Daddy, it’s me! They took me and I don’t know where I am and I’m so scared!” and then Dolph must take the phone, because he says, “I’m the man who has your daughter. If you want her back in one piece, you will do as I tell you. Understood?” There’s a pause, as Brooke’s father no doubt promises that he’ll do whatever it takes to get his little girl back, and then Dolph says, “Good. Now listen carefully, because I am only going to tell you this once.”
Dolph walks past me toward the door. One of the masked men opens it, and Dolph steps through, and then the rest of the masked men follow him.
Once the door closes and it’s just the two of us again, Brooke breaks down into tears. She really goes at it again, sounding like she’s going to hyperventilate.
“Hey,” I whisper. “It’s okay. Breathe.”
She doesn’t answer, her sobbing nonstop.
“Brooke, just breathe.”
It takes a while, but then she calms down. Not a lot, but still enough so that she can ask a question.
“Do you … do you think they’re really going to let us go?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. They haven’t taken off their masks yet, so that’s a good sign.”
The very notion of their masks seems to terrify her. “Why—why—why is that a good sign?”
“Because if they planned to kill us, they wouldn’t care whether or not we saw their faces.”
I expect her to freak out again at this, but she doesn’t. Instead, she asks, “Did you say you’re seventeen?”
“Yes.”
“What—what—what high school do you attend?”
“I’m sorta homeschooled at the moment.”
“How so?”
“I go to school in D.C. My dad was stationed out here a few weeks ago, and my mom and I came with him. There are only a couple weeks of school left, so the school let me take all the work I need to complete along with me.”
“Do you know what these people want?”
“No.”
“My dad”—her voice cracks again—“he sounded so scared for me.”
“I’m sure he was.”
“What did your dad say when you talked to him?”
I don’t answer.
Brooke says, “Holly?”
“He didn’t say anything.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“He didn’t say anything because I didn’t call him.”
“Why … why would they make me call my dad and not have you call yours? Did they make you call someone else?”
“No, they wanted me to call my dad. I refused.”
“What?” she says, incredulous. “But why?”
I don’t answer. I just stare at the door and listen to that strange humming coming from somewhere nearby.
“Holly, why did you refuse?”
I whisper, “Because I’m a stubborn bitch.”
That’s when the door opens again and Dolph returns.
One hour thirty minutes to go.
Thirteen
Dolph comes alone this time. Clearly he realizes he doesn’t need the extra muscle to deal with the two of us.
He stands in front of me and just watches me. Doesn’t say anything.
I stare back at him. I can’t see his mouth, but I know he’s smiling.
“Ready to make the call?”
I don’t say anything.
Behind me, Brooke issues a terrified gasp as she realizes my intention.
Dolph’s hand is around my neck a second later.
“I do not know how else to make you understand just how important it is for you to do as we ask other than hurting you. Do you want me to hurt you?”
His grip is tight, but not tight enough that I can’t breathe.
I just stare up at him.
He squeezes harder.
Behind me, Brooke starts to sob.
Unable to speak, I mouth a two-syllable word.
Dolph relaxes his grip but doesn’t let go. “What was that?”
“Okay.”
“You will call?”
“Yes.”
He steps back, pulls the cell phone from his pocket. “What is the number?”
I tell him.
He dials and places the phone to my ear.
After two rings, the phone’s answered by a gruff, tired voice.
“Paradise Pizza, pickup or delivery?”
“Delivery, please.”
“What’s your address?”
I say to Dolph, “What’s the address here?”
Dolph glares at me.
I say into the phone, “I’ll get you the address in a minute. I’d like to order a large pepperoni with extra cheese. Actually, wait.” I turn my head to the side. “Brooke, is there something else you’d like on it?”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps sobbing.
I say into the phone, “Yeah, let’s just keep it a large pepperoni with extra cheese for now.” I mock-whisper to Dolph, “What’s your credit card number?”
Dolph snaps the phone shut. He doesn’t do anything else, though, just stands there glaring at me.
“Shit,” I say. “I didn’t ask if you wanted any special toppings. My bad.”
Dolph slides the cell phone back into his pocket. Leans forward. Says, “It is clear now you do not care what happens to you. But I wonder”—he pauses, his gaze shifting past me—“do you care what happens to somebody else?”
It hits me then what he intends to do, but before I can answer, Dolph steps around me until he’s entirely out of my line
of sight.
That’s when Brooke starts screaming.
I can’t see what it is Dolph does to her, but I can hear it. The sound of his fists striking her flesh. Repeatedly. Again and again. Brooke screaming and crying and begging him to stop.
I shout out at one point, tell him that I’ll call my father, but he doesn’t bite. He just keeps beating Brooke, and Brooke just keeps screaming and crying and begging, until Dolph finally reappears.
His black leather gloves drip with blood.
“No more fucking around,” he says. “You will call your father. You will do everything we tell you to do.”
He reaches for his pocket. Then he pauses, realizing the gloves are bloody, and seems to debate with himself whether he wants to take the gloves off. Finally, he turns and stalks across the room to the door. Doesn’t seem to care at all the gloves are bloody as he tears open the door and storms out.
Behind me, Brooke’s sobbing is soft but persistent.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Brooke doesn’t answer. Maybe she can’t. Maybe her face is already swelling to the point words are impossible.
“I have some good news,” I say, watching the door in case Dolph decides to make another appearance. “We’re one step closer to getting out of here.”
And with one final tug, I manage to release my right hand from the duct tape keeping it bound to the chair.
One hour ten minutes to go.
Fourteen
Here’s the thing about duct tape.
It’s strong, yeah, but it’s not one hundred percent reliable.
The adhesive is bound to wear off sooner or later. Yes, I haven’t been bound to this chair that long, but this is a metal folding chair. And like most metal folding chairs, it’s cheaply made. The metal isn’t entirely flawless. Sometimes there are rough spots. Spots that are sharp. Spots that are sharp enough to tear into duct tape.
I found this particular sharp spot on the chair after Dolph made his first visit and I refused to call my father. I was alone, and I struggled again with the chair, tried to free myself from the duct tape, and that’s when my arm touched the sharp spot. I’d been working at it ever since, rubbing the tape against the spot every chance I had, until finally the duct tape split apart enough for me to free my hand.
Holly Lin | Novella | First Kill Page 4