Constant Danger (Book 1): Fight The Darkness

by Westfield, Ryan

  The day had started with meetings with clients in Boston. Then on to a power lunch with the boss from corporate at 1:00 p.m., having to talk so much that he’d barely touched his fettuccine portobello wrap. Then it was back to the office to stare at spreadsheets on the computer for the rest of the afternoon, punctuated only by a few calls from disgruntled clients.

  It might not have been the easiest day, especially with the clients who’d yelled at him, telling him that he was screwing them over for the last time. But it was a day he could deal with. It was the day and the life he’d signed up for. After all, you had to put in the time and the work if you wanted to make it to the big leagues. That was what he always told himself and that’s what he’d always told his wife when he wasn’t able to spend time with her because of work.

  In short, it had been a normal day. He’d managed to keep his anger in check, using the breathing techniques recommended by his anger therapy counselor, who he saw due to a court-ordered mandate, requiring a certain number of monthly hours before he was totally off the hook.

  His commute out of Boston to Weston started off okay and he’d managed to keep his anger in check, despite being cut off about a half-dozen times on Route 91 by large pickup trucks and sports cars.

  The commute typically took an hour, during which time he was supposed to be listening to his meditation tapes to further calm himself down. After all, after that last fight with his wife, which had culminated in Tom punching a police horse out of sheer frustration and rage, everyone, including himself, agreed that he really needed to do all he could to keep the anger at bay.

  But, somehow, no matter how far down he managed to push the frustration with his clients, his boss, and his coworkers, the anger always seemed to start to bubble up after the workday was over.

  As he drove home, and as the traffic got worse and worse, he found himself fondling the small handgun in its holster. It was the handgun that he knew he shouldn’t have. It was the handgun that he wasn’t even legally allowed to own as a result of the judge’s rather extreme sentencing, despite his important professional position and standing in the community.

  One thing that kept him sane was his Tesla. It was top of the line, its purchase only possible due to the countless hours he’d logged over the years at the office. It was a great car. A beautiful car. And it was a shame that he couldn’t really push it to its limits, which were quite impressive, due to not only the traffic but also the innumerable moving violations he’d accrued while angry, furious, or enraged.

  One more speeding ticket, one more citation for reckless endangerment, and he’d be locked up for at least a week, something his career couldn’t afford.

  In short, Tom had a serious anger problem.

  But he was dealing with it.

  He was dealing with it so well that when he got the call from his boss, telling him that he needed to postpone whatever evening plans he had, in order to see a client way out in Western Massachusetts, he hadn’t even said so much as an unkind word to his boss. He’d taken the anger and suppressed it, hiding it somewhere in the deep dark recesses of his psyche. In fact, he’d probably even sounded downright cheerful, agreeing politely with his boss and expressing enthusiasm for the task.

  But of course, there was nowhere in the world he hated more than Western Mass. To Tom, who had structured his professional and social life around Boston and its esteemed suburbs, West Mass was just the sticks. It was the boonies. It might as well have been the end of the world.

  But he’d bottled up his anger and driven out there in his six-month-old Tesla.

  It was a good three-hour drive with traffic and soon he found himself in the woods, cruising around. Somehow, despite the sophisticated GPS in the Tesla, he still managed to get lost. And it turned out the client he was supposed to be meeting with was a moron who didn’t understand geography and was absolutely no help in giving him directions.

  A phone call from his wife pushed his anger over the edge. She had really laid into him, calling him all sorts of names, yelling at him and accusing him of having an affair that he wasn’t even having, no matter how much he insisted that he was going to go meet a client.

  So by the time the power cut out suddenly in his Tesla, with no warning, he was already furious. He was already ready to fight someone. He was already ready to grab his handgun and shoot someone, just to vent the frustration that seemed to have his blood boiling, that seemed to be simply impossible to contain.

  When the power cut out in his Tesla, he’d been half-listening to some radio program. The announcer had been saying something about politics, something about some kind of attack, but to Tom it seemed that they were always saying things like that, so he barely paid attention.

  The power cut out suddenly. The Tesla went completely dark, the fancy computer monitor embedded into the dash cut off, showing nothing but blackness. All the light indicators inside the car went dark.

  The headlights cut out, the world in front of him turning to inky blackness.

  The engine power cut off and his foot suddenly was pushing the accelerator against the floor with absolutely nothing happening. The Tesla began slowing down rapidly, its gearing and engine making a strange noise. But, clearly, the motor was no longer running, as its characteristic soft whine was completely absent.

  The power steering was gone and he struggled to keep the Tesla on the road. He couldn’t see where he was headed, but he felt the wheels suddenly leaving the smooth pavement and bumping over the dirt. Terrified of losing his Tesla to some tree, he jerked the wheel hard, throwing all his weight into the turn.

  There was no one around. No lights coming from houses. No street lamps. Hardly a light in the clouded-over sky.

  He’d been coming down some desolate tree-lined road in the middle of nowhere. No one in sight. Nothing around at all.

  Somehow, Tom managed to wrangle the powerless Tesla back onto the road. But, not confident he’d be able to keep coasting down the road, totally blind, he slammed on the brakes.

  The brake pedal just slammed into the floorboards, as if the hydraulics had completely cut out.

  Grabbing the emergency brake was what finally did it.

  The Tesla, completely dead, was finally motionless.

  He sat there, breathing hard, the adrenaline coursing through him, the anger barely containable. He was already looking for someone to blame, someone that he could hold responsible. He reached for his phone, already thinking of what he would say to the Tesla sales rep who picked up the phone, only to find that his phone was dead.

  He cursed a blue streak worse than anything he’d ever heard. His face felt like it was burning. His body was actually shaking with rage.

  And then the vehicle slammed into the back of his Tesla.

  By the time he was out of his car, he already had his gun in his hand.

  He didn’t even hope to not do something stupid. He was too far gone. Too angry. Too enraged. He wasn’t thinking of consequences. He was only thinking of this moment. Only thinking of getting revenge. Nothing else. He’d do anything. He was capable of anything.

  3

  Meg

  Meg cursed herself for leaving her handgun back at her apartment. Hadn’t her dad always warned her about that? And why hadn't she taken her dad's gun when he'd offered it? Where was it now? Was it back at the house?

  Of course, there were reasons why she’d done it. Having spent the better part of a decade out of state, she no longer had a concealed carry permit that worked in Massachusetts, which happened to be a state that was fairly strict when it came to the reciprocal honoring of permits from other states.

  So, if she’d had the gun on her, it would have been illegal. And that wasn’t her style. Not at all.

  In her mind, she was panicking.

  The muzzle of a gun was pressed painfully into her head.

  Her dad was slumped over next to her, unconscious, breathing shallowly.

  The airbag was pressed up against her and it was severe
ly limiting her mobility. And it was starting to get painful.

  Her cell phone, which rested in the center console, was apparently dead.

  This wasn’t a good situation.

  The man with a gun appeared to be a maniac. He was breathing heavily, apparently with anger. He was close enough that she could feel his breath, hot and humid against her cold skin.

  The window was down and the air was freezing.

  The seconds were long. And tense.

  What should she do? What was going to happen?

  She needed to get her dad medical attention. She knew that there was a real risk that he might not make it. His kidney condition made his body much more fragile and she’d been warned that any sort of blunt force trauma, like a car crash, could be the end of him.

  On the outside, she must have appeared calmer than her inner turmoil, because finally her assailant spoke.

  “You don’t seem to care that I’m about to shoot you,” he hissed, his voice horribly vicious. She noted that he had one of those faintly upper-class Boston accents, which were distinctly absent around Western Mass.

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Meg, speaking in a soft voice. “I’m sure there’s something we can do ... we can work something out...”

  “There’s nothing to work out,” snarled the man, his voice quaking with rage, as he pressed the muzzle even harder against her temple. It was causing her severe pain.

  She knew that it wouldn’t take much to set this man off, to have him pull the trigger. She was potentially moments away from death.

  Suddenly, the man’s hand seized her roughly around the neck.

  His hand was immensely strong and massive. It squeezed, tugging on her roughly. She immediately felt a lack of oxygen. But despite the intensity of the situation, she noticed that his hand was smooth, rather than callused.

  She tried to fight back, tried to swing with her arms, but the airbag prevented any movement.

  The man growled as he tugged on her. Apparently he was trying to wrench her from her seat, because now she saw that her driver’s side door had been wrenched open.

  He couldn’t get her out with the airbag keeping her wedged against her seat.

  But, with a sudden movement, there was a knife in the man’s massive hand, which stabbed forward, slicing through the airbag.

  A strange sort of foam, almost like packing peanuts, began pouring out.

  He yanked on her again, wrenching her out of the seat.

  The next thing she knew, she was on the freezing ground. There was dim light coming from somewhere in the starless night.

  She looked up and saw his face, demonic and twisted with rage and anger, staring down at her. A grin appeared on his thin lips, which were barely visible in the light.

  She stared up at that horrible face.

  And he stared down at her, his eyes traveling greedily up and down her body.

  She felt violated, just by the way he was looking at her, the way he was taking her all in. His eyes seemed hungry and he almost didn’t blink as he took in every inch of her.

  His expression changed from one of pure anger to one of anger and lust.

  “You’ve wronged me,” he said, sneering the words. “You’re going to have to pay me. And I know just the way.”

  His meaning was clear. He wanted her body.

  He reached down to his crotch and unzipped his fly.

  He still had the gun in one hand, still pointed at her.

  Meg felt almost nauseous with disgust. Disgust at this man. Disgust at this beast masquerading as a human. She was still dazed from the wreck. And, while her body hadn’t yet started hurting, she felt weak, as if her muscles didn’t have their normal capacity of strength.

  But like hell was she going to let him have his way with her.

  She may not have her gun, but she could still defend herself.

  She was ready for anything. Ready to do whatever it took.

  If necessary, she’d rather take a bullet than let this happen.

  He made his move. And she was ready.

  His body fell heavily on top of her. He moved clumsily, his mind apparently full of anger and lust.

  She brought her knee up at just the right moment. She used everything she had, twisting her hips to increase the power. Even being flat on her back, she managed to put momentum and power behind her knee.

  It struck perfectly. Better than she could have expected.

  She felt the impact as her knee connected with his groin, as it punched upward, through soft tissue that wasn’t designed to receive impact.

  His face changed, his eyes taking on a strange look.

  He didn’t scream out in pain. More of a high-pitched yelp. But not cartoonish in any way. The pain was palpable.

  But there was still anger on his face. And he still had a fight in him, despite the blow.

  “You ... shouldn’t...” the words came croaking out of him, barely able to speak with the pain.

  But he managed to move. He managed to press his body harder down against her. If he had anything to his advantage, it was his anger and also his weight.

  He must have weighed close to twice what she did.

  She may have been strong for a woman and he may have been weak for a man, but he was still stronger than her. That was how it worked. He had more muscle mass. Quite a bit more.

  She found herself pinned down now. His hands drove like pylons into her biceps.

  Shit.

  Was this going to happen after all?

  There was more anger now than ever on his face.

  “You’re going to pay,” he growled, regaining his ability to speak normally.

  Meg felt the cold and rock-hard pavement beneath her.

  He was pushing down against her, driving his legs against hers, pushing his torso down onto her as heavily as he could, with as much force as he could.

  She needed to do something. She needed to do something fast.

  She couldn’t get her knee up again. There was no way.

  Somehow, his anger had overridden his pain. Somehow, the hit to his groin had just made it all worse. His anger felt like hot heat that rushed off his body, escaping from every pore.

  He smelled horrible. She could smell his odor now. A strong and musky scent. Somehow, it smelled of anger, and it smelled of danger.

  He shoved his head down, his red-hot angry face pressing against hers. The back of her skull was ground further into the freezing-cold hard pavement, little uneven bits of the road digging into her hair, biting her flesh.

  She smelled the breath from his nostrils. It smelled rancid, beyond disgusting.

  She wanted to vomit. She wanted to do anything she could to get him off her. But she couldn’t move her hands or her legs.

  This was her nightmare. Being paralyzed like this. Being so vulnerable. Knowing what would eventually happen.

  He ran his tongue along her ear, and she thought she might actually vomit. But the fear was too much. The adrenaline coursing through her had never been stronger. She’d never felt so on-edge, so freezing cold, so full of the fight-or-flight instinct. It was as if every cell of her body was literally screaming. Every muscle ached for something to do.

  She desperately needed something, some way to fight back.

  When he smashed his chapped and broken horrible lips against hers, kissing her, she acted.

  She acted before even thinking.

  She brought her head up as fast and as hard as she could. It was a headbutt. It was instinctive. Just like she’d practiced so many times in high school soccer.

  She didn’t care if she hurt herself in doing it. She only cared about inflicting pain on this monster of a man. She only cared about getting him off her.

  Her head smashed right into his, right into his nose.

  He screamed this time. It was satisfying to hear it. Satisfying to know she’d caused him pain.

  Blood flowed freely from his nose. She’d probably broken it. She tasted his blood. She
didn’t care.

  The man reeled, taking some of his weight off of her. Blood poured down from his nose, not ceasing, like a waterfall of hot blood in the freezing darkness.

  She remembered he had a gun. She couldn’t forget it.

  Meg could move somewhat now, her arms freer than before.

  As she twisted her body with all her force, pulling her torso out from under him, he lost his balance and went crashing down onto the pavement.

  The gun discharged, the noise incredibly loud. She felt as if she’d suddenly gone deaf, her ears ringing horrendously, as if she’d been standing next to an enormous gong that had been struck.

  For a moment, she thought she might have been hit.

  But no pain came.

  Out of his reach now, she managed to stand up.

  But she couldn’t flee. He might shoot her. Even in the darkness, he might hit her.

  And, what was more, she couldn’t abandon her father. He needed help. He needed Meg.

  So Meg did the only thing she could think of. She dashed forward. She was heading right into danger, rather than fleeing from it.

  She was choosing to fight rather than flee.

  She didn’t know what she was doing. Just that she was going as fast as she could. Just that her feet were slamming into the pavement as hard as they could. Just that she needed to get to him before he got off a shot.

  There wasn’t any time to get her arms into position. There wasn’t any time to worry about tackling him.

  But she managed to collide into him.

  She could barely see.

  They fell together. He let out an “ouf” as he fell.

  His head lashed back, his skull smashing into the pavement.

  Meg went for the gun. She knew she had to have it before he finally managed to shoot her.

  Both her hands were wrapped around its handle. She tugged on it, pulling, twisting his wrist until his grip failed him.

  She had it. She had the gun.

  She was in a state of “pure fight.” Rage flowed through her. Rage at this monstrous man and what he’d wanted to do.

  But she couldn’t shoot him. She wanted to. She could admit that to herself.