“Are you all right, lady?”
I met his eyes with my own and considered how best to answer that question. If I confided in this man, if I told him what was happening and gave him Tank’s number at Wenn… I already knew that it would be disastrous.
Obviously, whomever I was dealing with had someone watching over Wenn. They were watching to see if Tank, Jennifer, Alex, or perhaps even Blackwell launched into any kind of unusual behavior throughout the day. They knew that these were all of the people that I held dear to me. If Tank and his team made any sudden movements at Wenn, they’d know that I’d used the time it took me to get to West Sixteenth Street to alert Tank of what was happening.
And they’ll kill him, I thought. They’ll kill all of them.
I was so sure of it, I could feel it in my soul. I couldn’t allow it to happen. The man who had hold over me already had revealed himself, simply by the way he spoke, as belonging to—or heading—a religious group that was unhinged. Insane. Delusional.
Had they read my book when it was available on Amazon? Because he’d referred to it, they must have read one or all of them. Perhaps they’d also seen my provocative billboard advertisement in Times Square and my ad in the Times.
Had they found it all blasphemous? My gut was telling me that they did.
Worse, because the AP story had gone around the world, they probably knew that my book soon would be released to the masses. Is that what this was about? I felt that it was. The man on the phone—whoever he was—had called Jennifer’s red coat ‘sluttish’, which fell in line with what I was thinking.
To a normal person, a red overcoat was a red overcoat—it wasn’t sluttish. But to a religious fanatic, it probably was. Is that how we were being judged? If it was, what did he and his minions make of my lips, adorned with diamonds and taking up so much space in Times Square? And also in the Times? To him, I likely looked like a whore in those advertisements. Worse for me, I wrote about apocalyptic worlds. Did I represent evil to him?
Does he even understand what fiction is?
I recalled what he’d just said to me.
We’ll have a little chat inside that either will result in the end of your life, or in you being freed from all of the sins you’ve allowed into your soul, all the lies you believe to be truths, and all of the damnation you’ve already spewed forth with your filthy, blasphemous writing. We want to stop one thing from happening, Lisa. Just one. If we succeed—great. If we win, you win. If we don’t, then we will have failed to stop you from sending forth all of the poison you’re about to unleash upon our already fragile, morally battered world. And if that happens, you die. Hopefully, it won’t come to that. I think we can succeed. All we want is the elimination of one thing.
It had to be the publication of my book—and possibly even the elimination of me for having written it. The hype Blackwell and Wenn’s publicity team had built around the book and me had captured this group’s attention. They were sick about it. They thought that the book—and I as the author—could do harm to the world at large. They didn’t want either of us out there. I could, after all, write another book in the same vein.
Have they even read it? And if they have, have they even processed what I wrote—that in the absence of God and morality, we are left with an apocalyptic world? The undead I write about are the result of a world that has eschewed God. A selfish world that has given itself over to hedonism and selfishness to the point of no return. They’ve misinterpreted what I’ve written. Two of my books are still available on Kindle—the third was pulled so Wenn could republish it themselves. But that book was a number-one best-seller on Amazon before I took the Wenn deal. Had they read it when it was still available? If they had, did they understand the undercurrent of what I was trying to say? Or are they just reacting to the advertisements, the interviews, and the hype about Wenn publishing my new apocalyptic zombie novel? If that’s the case, I’m fucked.
Even before I arrived on the corner of Sixteenth Street, where it was no coincidence that I saw a church just down the street, I knew that they’d likely read into it what they wanted to read into it, and that they didn’t want the book out there. I also knew that they’d take my life—and the lives of those I loved—if I couldn’t pull the book back from publication.
But all of this was supposition on my part. Was I even close to what they were thinking? I thought I was. Whomever I was dealing with had already given away his agenda—he wanted my book to disappear.
And he likely wanted me to disappear as well.
CHAPTER SIX
When the driver pulled to the curb at Sixteenth Street, I paid him and tried to collect myself before getting out of the car.
“Is there something you want me to tell anyone?” he asked.
His question startled me. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you were shaking when you handed me that fifty. And because I heard you on the phone. It’s none of my business, but something isn’t right.”
I looked through the windows and saw the dark blue van parked just behind us and across the street. The sign of a cross was painted on the driver’s side door. Whoever was inside was waiting for me. Watching me. Silently calling me. I needed to leave.
“I’m fine,” I said, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. “I just need to get into that van over there. The dark blue one. You might see it if you’re discreet.”
His eyes narrowed as he checked his side mirror. “I see it.”
“Wish me well,” I said. “And please drive away the moment I leave.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t stay here. It can’t appear as if you and I have talked.”
“Lady—”
“Just remember the van,” I said. “And maybe the license plate number. Telling anyone that number can’t happen today—it can’t, so promise me that it won’t. Not today. Otherwise, everything will go wrong for me and others. So promise me that you’ll say nothing today. They will kill me if you do.”
“Who are they?”
“Just promise. I need to leave.”
“I promise.”
“Maybe tomorrow you’ll remember that plate number. Maybe you’ll remember that my name is Lisa Ward. And perhaps you’ll tell the police that I’ve been abducted.”
“I’m not about to let that happen.”
“You have no choice. They will kill my friends and my fiancé if I don’t go to them.” He moved to speak but I stopped him. “I’ve already said too much. Please remember what I said. And thank you.”
I got out of the car, shut the door, and felt my heart quicken in my throat. I waited for the taxi to merge into traffic before I crossed the street. The van was forty feet ahead of me. I approached it, shaken and scared, as if I was walking toward my own death.
You are.
Run, I thought.
I can’t.
You don’t have to do this.
I do.
Get their license plate number and run. Call the police. Get the hell out of here.
If I run now, they’ll still come after me one way or another. Who knows how large this group is? We’ve already killed one of their men. If I run, it only will get worse. They’ll kill Tank. They’ll kill Jennifer and Alex. And me. They’re serious. They’ll find a way.
And so I moved forward.
And as I did, I wondered if this was it for me. Is this how I would die? I didn’t know, but what I did know was that by going forward with this, I had done everything in my power to protect Tank and those I loved most from becoming targets.
When I approached the rear of the van, the next few moments happened with such speed that I knew at once that they had done this before.
The rear doors burst open. A young, muscular man with blond hair held out his hand to me, and I was pulled into the vehicle. Inside, I saw three other men sitting on benches—all of them older, all of them wearing business suits. They looked at me with open hostility before a black velvet hood was shoved over
my head. The sudden darkness frightened me, but it also heightened my senses. I could hear movement. Whispering. I detected the distinct scent of something rotting. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it smelled like spoiled meat.
Who are these people? What is that smell?
I was pushed down into a seat and buckled into it, and in the blackness that had overcome me, my heart began to race even faster. I could feel the beginnings of a panic attack coming on, but I had to still it. I needed to get myself under control. Panic would get me nowhere. I needed to be sharp, coherent. I needed to listen to whatever else they had to say to me, process it, and find a way out of this. If that was even possible.
I took a deep breath, and the rancid scent of death enveloped me again. Before my imagination could take over and start to question what it was, the van darted away from the curb, jettisoning us to a destination unknown.
It was at that moment that something thick and wooden cracked against the side of my skull, and I was slammed into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When I woke, my eyes fluttered open first. My face was slumped forward and my chin was resting on my chest. I was drooling. My head ached. Why did it ache? Then I remembered. Something hard had struck me in the head. Something that splintered when it hit me. As I lifted a hand to wipe the saliva from my mouth, I realized just how heavy my hand felt. It felt like an anvil.
And it was covered in dirt.
I tried to lift my head, but I couldn’t—I didn’t have the energy. At least not yet. Maybe in a minute I would. Maybe when I pulled myself together I would. I closed my eyes and allowed my memory, as sketchy as it was right now, to fill in whatever gaps that it could.
I’d gotten into a van. A hood was placed over my head. I’d allowed myself to be abducted. In the van was a rotten smell that was so powerful, it had overwhelmed me and sickened me.
How much time had passed? How long had I been out? Was this the same day? Was it the next day? The next week? If it wasn’t the same day, had that taxi driver reported that I’d been abducted? Had he called the police? Given them my name and the van’s license plate number? Were Tank and the police looking for me now? I had no idea because I didn’t know what time or what day it was. Worse, I didn’t know where in the city I was—or if I even was in the city. But since the hood had been taken off my head, I could see that I was in a basement.
At least that I knew for sure.
Even though I was still wearing the coat Blackwell had purchased for me weeks ago, the room was so cold that a chill overcame me. I was sitting on a dirt floor and leaning against a stone foundation. I managed to lift my head a bit and saw that across from me, sitting in a chair beneath a shining bare bulb that hung low from the ceiling, was the blond man who had lifted me into the van. He had a gun in his lap, and his eyes were closed.
Is he sleeping?
I couldn’t be sure—the bulb was the room’s only source of light, and it cast a web of shadows across his face. He seemed somewhere in his late thirties. Maybe younger. Maybe not. It was difficult to tell, but I thought I was close. He had a square jaw and a large nose that was slightly askew, as if it had been broken once. Or twice.
In a rough sort of way, he was good looking. And built.
He was wearing faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved sweatshirt that strained against his chest. At the end of his left wrist was an oversized watch that was too shiny for its own good. Black boots were on his feet. His hair was parted on the side and gleamed in the light, likely from whatever gel he’d put in it.
Who are you?
When his eyes opened, it gave me a start. He looked straight at me, and it was then that I realized that he wasn’t sleeping at all. He was smoking a cigarette. He lifted his right hand from his side, took a drag, and blew the smoke at me.
“About time you woke up,” he said.
His voice was deep, and undercutting it was the faintest hint of a rasp. I didn’t answer. Best to say as little as possible until I had no choice. I was out of it, but gradually, I was coming back into myself. I reached up to rub my right temple, and when I did, I felt a bandage there.
“Don’t touch it,” the man warned, taking another pull off his cigarette. “You haven’t healed yet.”
I watched the smoke curl up from his mouth, and into the bath of light above him. As I saw it rise, I noticed that behind him was a narrow, rectangular window that punched a weak slant of bluish light into the room. It appeared to be iridescent. The light from a streetlamp.
So, it’s dark outside.
I lowered my hand from the bandage, and glanced fleetingly at the window. If it didn’t have iron bars shielding it and if I had a chance, I was small enough to potentially squeeze through it. Not that that was happening. Even if the bars weren’t there, my smoky friend and his loaded gun were right there in front of it.
I scanned the basement. On the brick walls was a series of crudely painted crucifixes that gave me an even deeper chill than I’d felt when I first woke. They were of various sizes—some small, others large—and all appeared to have been dripping when they were in the process of drying. Despite the poor lighting, I must have counted at least forty of them. Were there more in this room?
Of course there are. You just can’t see them.
But what do they represent?
Nothing good.
I looked to my left, saw the faint outline of a staircase not far from me and then nothing but a deep well of darkness that ended some thirty feet away with another window, which I assumed was the opposite end of the basement.
My gaze returned to the staircase that went to the first floor where I knew those who’d had me abducted were waiting for me. I wondered what time it was. I wondered if they were awake. If they were, now that I was awake, would this man bring them to me?
I looked to his left, where the light was brighter. The basement appeared to be large and neat—it had a bumpy dirt floor and, at least from what I could see, there was a workbench running along the periphery. It was too dim to see if anything substantial was on it. From where I sat, the surface appeared to be clear, though above it, hanging on the walls, were hammers, saws, an ax, a tire iron, other work tools—some of them gleaming like surgical instruments—and a wooden ladder that stretched horizontally above the bench.
It took me a good twenty minutes—and several stops and starts—before I mustered the courage to speak.
“Why am I here?” I asked.
The man shrugged. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
“For what?”
“For them to tell you.”
“You don’t know?”
“Not really. Well, maybe. Actually, yes. But frankly, I could care less.”
I lifted my head higher, pushing through the pain so that I could face him, but as I did, the room started to spin. I closed my eyes and waited until I could shake off the dizzying sensation. When it abated, I looked at him. “Does anyone know what you’ve done to me? Does Tank know?”
“What the fuck kind of a name is Tank?” he said.
“Does he know?”
“Let’s get this straight—I’m the hired help. But from what I gather, the whole idea is that he will know. So will others. From what I’ve heard, your being here is all about motivation, lady, and this room is filled with it. So don’t sweat it. He’ll find out in time, if he hasn’t already. I don’t know what they’re thinking up there, who they’ve called, or what they plan to do to you. What I do know is that nobody knows where you are. And there’s no way that anyone will find you here. Nobody ever finds anyone down here. So good luck to Tank and to whomever else tries to figure it out.”
“You’ve had other people here?”
“You’ve seen the crucifixes. Each one represents a life.”
“What does that mean?”
“What do you think it means? They murder people here. Those crucifixes are painted in the blood of their victims.”
I felt my skin start to shrink away fr
om me in fear. “But there are so many….”
“What’s your point?”
I’m going to die.
But I kept it together—I had to keep it together. And so I pressed on. “They sent me the martini that night. And the black rose. Why?”
“To mess with your head. To frighten you. To unnerve you.”
“They also sent a man to kill me, but we killed him instead.”
“They know that. And don’t think they’re happy about it.”
“Where am I now?”
“Looks to me like you’re in a basement.”
I wasn’t about to let him sway me. “Are we still in Manhattan?”
“That’s the question of the day. Who knows? Seems to me that we could be anywhere.”
Again, I looked out the window behind him. Save for the streetlamp, it was dark, and I was still confused about how long I’d been out. “Is this the same day?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But just shut the fuck up, OK?” He pointed his gun at me. “Because if you don’t, you’ll eat this.”
“I have money,” I said. “You said you were hired to do this job, which means you’re not one of them. I can best whatever you’re being paid.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Why? You must know who I am and whom I know. Money isn’t an issue. I can pay you whatever you want and we can forget this ever happened if you let me go.”
“You see? Right there? That’s a lie. You won’t forget. How could you ever forget? You’ve seen my face. You’ll tell the police what I look like. They’ll come up with a composite. Eventually, my cover will be blown. For me, that’s an issue that no amount of money can make go away because I’ll be damned if anyone is going to send me to prison. Been there, done that.”
“I’ll give you whatever you want as long as you set me free. Nobody needs to know. Please, just get me out of here.”
“Now you’re sounding like a bad movie.”
“I just want to leave. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Unleash Me: Vol. 3 Page 3