I spit his blood on him. “Feast on that, asshole.”
I run to the door and try to pull the heavy door open, but my hands are too slick with his blood. My fingers keep sliding off the handle. While pushing down on what’s left of his member, he brings himself to his feet and screams at me in Spanish. I’m not sure what he’s saying, but I can’t imagine it’s a love sonnet.
In that moment, I know I’ve run out of options. He’s losing blood but not enough to slow him down. I pray my sticky hands can maintain my grip on the knife, because it’s the only advantage I have.
He lunges for me and grabs my hair. He pulls me back to him, and I don’t fight. With the knife tight in my grip, as soon as I’m close enough, I push the knife into the inside of his thigh and pull back, dragging the blade up to his balls. His eyes bug out, and he collapses, his skin turning grey. A thick crimson pool forms around him. God, there’s so much damn blood.
I use the knife to cut my sweatshirt free of the chair and slip it over my blood-soaked body, then I return to the door. My hands are shaking so badly and are so slick with blood that I can barely get a grip on the handle. I take a deep breath and steady myself. Once I get the door open, I run into the maze of the storage unit.
What now? Think! You need a plan. No phone. No money. No car. Wait… that bastard had to get here somehow. He has to have a car. I look over my shoulder at the dim light glowing from the unit.
I have to go back.
The last thing I want to do is touch him again. Scratch that—the last thing I want to do is be sold to some psycho. Grow a pair and get the fuck in there! I scream at myself.
When I step into the room, I’m hit with stench of rusted metal. It reminds me of my father’s shed full of tools and old metal lawn furniture that had rusted through. I always hated going in there—the smell made me gag. Apparently it still does. The puddle of blood around him has wicked across the unit floor, and there’s no way for me to avoid stepping in it. The feel of the thick, sticky liquid under my feet and between my toes coupled with the horrible scent becomes too much. The room begins to spin. I haven’t eaten or drunk anything in days, but whatever I do have in me purges out of me.
Covering my mouth with my sweatshirt to shield the wretched smell of blood and vomit, I take three breaths and psych myself up to push my hand into his pocket. I root around until I find his keys, but as I pull the keys from his pocket, his eyes pop open. Panting, I jump backward. He doesn’t move, but his eyes don’t leave mine. My heart pounds, and I’m unable to pull my eyes away from his. I should run, but I’m frozen. Perhaps it’s fear, or maybe guilt. Life is seeping out of this man, pooling around my feet, and I’m paralyzed. I can’t even breathe. The sounds of death echo in the empty unit. The gurgling, the whispered pleas and curses. I know those sounds will stay with me for the rest of my life.
Finally the tension leaves his body and the room is silent. Just me and my dead captor. Tremors rack my body until I almost think I’m in an earthquake. I’ve killed a man. I watched the light die from his eyes, and I did nothing to help him or comfort him. I’m not sure what scares me more: that I’m capable of taking another person’s life, or that I don’t feel an ounce of remorse for it.
What have I become?
My existential crisis is interrupted by bad techno music coming from dead Jimmy Dean (the man previously known as Potato Nose). I searched his pants for the keys, but I didn’t check his jacket. I lunge to find the phone, slipping in the crimson pool and land on Jimmy Dean’s chest, forcing me to look at his miserable, disgusting face one last time.
“Rot in hell, you piece of shit,” I whisper while I pillage his pockets.
The call is sent to voicemail by the time I retrieve the flip phone. When I open the phone I see he has a few missed texts.
Aterrizó. @Heathrow. Tener la niña lista en treinta minutos – Marco Heathrow! Thank God! I’m still near London. But what does the rest of it say? I tap my forehead, trying to remember any of the Spanish I picked up while living in Arizona. Why the hell did I take French instead of Spanish? I think that last part says thirty minutes. He’ll be here in thirty minutes? I look at the time stamp on the text. It was sent an hour ago, which means he’ll be here any minute. I look at the ceiling and thank God for London traffic! With Marco on his way here, whoever the fuck he is, I need to put as much distance between me and this place as fast as possible. I run through the maze of the complex, in search of the parking lot, and scuff my bare feet on the cold, cracked concrete. I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m still alone and notice I’m leaving a trail of bloody footprints. Brilliant, Lily, lead ‘em right to you! My only saving grace is that I have no clue where I’m going. If anyone follows the path, they’ll end up running in circles like I have. After going down a few rows, I see the blessed sight of blacktop and sprint to the parking lot. I push the buttons on the key fob, but I don’t hear the beep beep of freedom. When I reach the parking lot, I skid to a stop, scraping the skin off the balls of my feet. My getaway car is smashed into a brick wall! I shouldn’t be surprised. He was as drunk as a frat boy on penny beer night. It’s amazing he made it here at all. I guess I should be grateful he didn’t die on the way. I would still be tied up and waiting for Marco to take me to my new home at Casa de Pervert. Knowing it’s the best chance I have, I look at the car. I don’t need it to be pretty. I just need it to go. I jump in the car, shove the keys in the ignition, and pray. Despite my pleas and turning the key with all my might, the damn thing won’t turn over. “Goddammit, just start, you piece of shit!” I scream as I pound my fist into the steering wheel. When cursing the car doesn’t work, I punch the wheel one last time then brainstorm a new plan. I look at the phone and see the battery’s on red and the signal is spotty. When I make this call, it has to count. That’s okay. They don’t put storage facilities in places without people. I must be close to a town. My legs protest when I push myself out of the car and run around the building, looking for an office, hopefully with a phone. At a minimum, I need an address. The office is locked up tight behind a metal gate, and on the gate is a sign. Out of Business. Tenants remove property by 30 January, 2012. A second sign says Demolition set 15 March 2015. Looks like the cavalry isn’t coming from the property managers. At least it explains why this place looks condemned. Losing hope with each passing second, I run to the road and see long stretches of blackness in each direction. Not a car or even the dim hue of lights in the distance. Thankfully, by the road, I have four bars. Crap. Do I call 999 or Gavin? Rational people would call 999, but my confidence in law enforcement has been on the decline as of late. Who knows if they’ll take me seriously? I can’t give them any information on my location. This stupid burner phone probably doesn’t have GPS, so they won’t be able to track me. Even if it did, the battery’s about to die. But I know with one hundred percent certainty that Gavin will move heaven and earth to find me.
I flip the phone open to dial his cell and… can’t remember the number. I draw a complete blank. Fuck! Freaking speed dial! I don’t even know how it starts! I just hold down the two button and the damn phone dials. Who remembers actual numbers anymore?
Think, Lily! Think! I rack my brain, trying to remember anyone’s number, and one pops in my head. I type it on the phone to see if it looks right. It’s been a while, but a few months ago, I called it practically every day while Gavin was MIA.
I hold my breath and hit send. Please work, please work, please work!
“Thank you for calling Edwards Industries. Our office is currently closed. If you’d like to leave a message for…” It prattles off a bunch of departments then says, “For urgent service, press zero.”
I hit zero, praying it will send me to the security desk. Musak plays as the call is transferred. At least three poorly renditioned Beethoven songs go by with no answer. I hope I haven’t wasted all this battery life for nothing.
“Edwards, how many I help you?” says the raspy voice of someone who’s probably smoked
his whole life.
“Hi, I need to speak with Gavin Edwards immediately. It’s an emergency. This is his girlfriend. And—”
“Nice try, you hooligan. Don’t call back again.”
“No, wait, please,” I shout. “I swear to you. I’ve been kidnapped, and they’re going to kill me. Please, I need to speak with Gavin.”
“Miss, your prank is cruel and indecent. You’re lucky I don’t report you to the police.”
“No!” I sob. “My name is Lily Clark, and I promise you I am his girlfriend. I can tell you anything about him. His middle name is Joseph after the man who founded the company. His shoe size is twelve and a half. He has a birthmark in the shape of a crescent moon on the back of his left thigh. His blood type is AB negative. Please, just call him. Get him on the line. I know you feel like you’re risking your job, but I assure you, when he gets this call, he’ll give you a raise.”
The man sighs. “Hold please.”
Chapter Seventeen
Gavin
I pop in to see Roger and find him snoring on his laptop, the floor littered with empty Redline containers. I shake my head. That shite will kill him. As much as I want to know if he’s found something, he needs rest or his brain will be too fried tomorrow. I need him in top shape.
My mobile rings as I’m halfway up the stairs. After fishing it out of my pocket, I see it’s the main number for Edwards. Bloody hell, it’s almost three in the morning! The building had better be on fire.
“Yes,” I bark into the phone.
“Sir, this is Herman at the night desk. I’m sorry to call so late. I normally would discount this sort of thing, but I have a woman on the line who sounds truly distressed. She claims she’s your girlfriend and she’s being held captive.”
Suddenly, I’m stone cold sober. “Put her through.”
I run back down the stairs and throw open the door to the theatre room. When Roger set up base here, he tapped into the Edwards system. He should be able to trace every email, phone call, or fax coming into the building.
“Sir, are there any questions you’d like me to ask to verify—”
“I said put her through, immediately.” I smack Roger on the back of the head. “Lily called Edwards! They’re putting her through. Get ready.”
“Yes, sir. Connecting you now.”
Roger types furiously on his laptop. “I’m texting everyone now so they’ll be on alert and ready to move the second we have a location. Hit record on the call so we can go back through it if we need to.”
There’s a series of clicks, and I silently pray. This man is a security guard, not a secretary. Who knows if he knows how to transfer a call without dropping it?
“Gavin?”
Never in my life have I heard a sweeter sound. For the first time in days, I can breathe. I try to speak, but a lump has formed in my throat. “You’re alive.” I force the words out, but they’re only a whisper. “Deep down I knew you were, but… god, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
“Oxford, I don’t have time,” she snaps. There’s the unmistakable sound of fear in her raspy voice. “This cell is about to die, so shut it and listen. I’m not exactly sure where I am. I’m in run-down storage facility with a sign that says it closed in 2012. I know I’m near the airport because I’ve heard at least ten airplanes in as many minutes, and I think I’m near Heathrow.”
A million things flood my brain that I want to say to her. Is she hurt? What have they done to her? How has she escaped? All will have to wait until she’s in my arms. “Can you tell me anything more about where you are? Landmarks? Street names?”
“Not a damn thing. When I went to the road, I couldn’t see anything in either direction,” she replies.
I sit next to Roger. “How did you sneak away to ring me? Where are the men who took you? How many are there?”
“I’m safe for the moment, but more of them are coming. Please, you have to do your special Oxford voodoo and find me. They’re going to sell me to some sultan or sheik or something. They sent someone to collect me, and I think his text says he’s going to be here any minute. Please, fin—”
The line goes dead, and my heart seizes. “They’re going to sell me,” replays on repeat in my head. Isla swore if Morelia sells Lily, we’ll never find her. Once someone’s sucked into the dark underworld of human trafficking, there’s no trail to follow, no records to find. I could set the whole bloody planet ablaze and may never track down the scum who “bought” my girl. My blood boils at the mere thought of what could happen to her if I can’t find her in time.
I grip Roger’s shoulder as though it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. “Roger, you must find her.”
He winces and rotates his shoulder to jar my grip. “Don’t panic yet. I think I’ve got her.” He continues to pound away on his keyboard. “Nigel, are you there?”
Nigel’s voice comes through the speakers on Roger’s computer. “I’m here with Peter and Richard. Now tell me where I need to go.”
I stand to look over Roger’s shoulder. He has multiple monitors, and he flips through screens so quickly, I can’t follow exactly what he’s doing.
Isaac bursts through the door. “Lily called?” He’s out of breath.
I nod. “Roger’s trying to trace the call. Max is passed out in the garden. Tell him he has sixty seconds to sober up, or I’m leaving him behind.”
Roger nods. “Bronson’s already in the car, awaiting instruction.”
“She was calling on a mobile without GPS. One of those cheap, pay-as-you-go deals if I had to guess,” Roger explains. “But I did triangulate the signal and pinpoint the mobile tower nearest her location.” He taps away without looking at us. “Based on the mobile tower and her description of the building, I think she’s here.” A map pops up on the projection screen. He uses a laser pointer to highlight a spot in Burnham Beeches. “There’s a self-storage place that closed three years ago when the owners declared bankruptcy. It’s been marked for demolition, but they have a squatter problem, so it keeps getting pushed back.”
“That’s a bloody hour away!” I bellow. “We need someone there now!”
“We’re in Slough and can be there in twenty minutes,” Nigel shouts. “Send me schematics and whatever you can find about the building.”
“Lily said there are more men coming. You have to get there quick, Nigel,” I warn him. “She can’t slip through our fingers.”
“I’ll drive like the car is fueled with hellfire. I will get to her,” he promises. “Get your arse in the car and meet me there. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
Roger turns to me. “Go. I’ll coordinate from here.”
Sprinting up the stairs, I call out to Max and Isaac, hoping they’re ready to leave. “I’m leaving right now. If you’re planning on coming, you’d better be right behind me!”
Max staggers into the foyer, sliding a magazine into his gun. “Let’s go.”
Opening the front door, I motion for him to go in front of me. “You’re deep into a bottle of scotch. I’m not sure how I feel about you sloshed and armed when Lily’s life is at stake.”
He slips his gun into his holster. “I went from sloppy drunk to judge sober the moment I heard the words, ‘Lily called.’”
“You can come, but stow your weapon. There’s no room for errors or egos.”
He rolls his eyes, pulls his gun from his holster, and hands it to me. “Whatever, let’s just get there.”
We jog to the car, where Isaac’s already waiting with Bronson. Before Max has the door shut, Bronson slams on the accelerator. “Buckle up, boys. Prepare for ludicrous speed.”
Max leans forward and punches Bronson in the arm.
“What the hell?” Bronson asks as he rubs his shoulder with one hand, keeping the other on the steering wheel.
“Lily’s out there, scared out of her bloody mind that she’s going to be sold into slavery, and you’re quoting movie lines?” Max screams, kicking the chair in front of
him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Bronson’s voice is strong. “It’s what my platoon mate said as he started up the tank before a mission. I meant no disrespect, sir. I didn’t even know it was from a movie.”
“Oh. Yeah, it’s from Spaceballs.” Max abrasively rubs his hands over his five o’clock shadow. “Sorry, dude. I’m a little on edge. My girl’s out there in the wind, and it’s got me rattled. No harm, no foul, right?”
The next time the words “my girl” leave his lips, I’ll beat them to a bloody pulp. But now is not the time. We need to be one hundred percent focused on getting Lily. Wasting time and energy putting him in his place will only hurt Lily in the long run.
“Loose cannons get people killed,” I growl at Max. “Either get it together or I’ll throw you out of the damn car.”
“I’m together,” he assures me. “Tell me it didn’t rub you the wrong way?”
I glower at him. “I was too busy thinking about my girlfriend to pay attention to the driver.”
I look at my watch. Where the hell is Nigel with an update?
Chapter Eighteen
Lily
Standing on the curb, looking down the long, dark road, I weigh my options. Stay until Gavin arrives, or run like hell? Running seems like the smart move. I could run until I find a house or gas station and call Gavin to come get me. But when I look down the road, I don’t find even a hint of civilization. Not even the hazy halo of lights in the distance or sounds of traffic. The only things I hear are crickets, the occasional howl of wolves, and airplanes. Who knows how far I would have to go before I ran into someone. My feet are cut up already. There’s no way I’d make it.
Waiting here feels as if I’m a lamb awaiting slaughter. I’m barefoot and have no idea where I am. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know that when the barefoot blonde runs into the woods and sprains her ankle or gets caught in some hunting trap, the psychopath hunts her down and hacks her to pieces. Did I make it this far to be taken down by a bear trap or serial killer? Of course, if I stay, a serial killer will be waiting here for me as well. Decisions, decisions. Freddy Kruger or Jason Voorhees?
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