The Assassin’s Heart

by Alexis Abbott

  Usually, on the rare occasion that a motorcycle goes barreling down our street in front of our house, my father frowns disapprovingly and makes a snide comment about “disturbing the peace” or “showing off.” The last time it happened, there was a huge commotion because the loud rumble of the motorbike engine woke up my baby brother from his nap as it passed by. Cue the screaming and whining from little Caleb, as well as the ranting and raving from my annoyed mother. I had almost nothing but negative connotations for motorcycles and those who rode them.

  But this? This was something else entirely. Something totally unexpected. The exhilarating sensation of a massive, hot, vibrating hunk of glossy black metal between my legs. The refreshing, cool wind ruffling through my hair and tickling my bare neck. The roar of the engine, so cocky, so masculine. The scent of my rugged captor’s leather jacket, such a manly smell, musky and deep.

  I feel a little thrill remembering how oddly considerate it is for him to have given me the jacket, to keep my bare arms from getting cold as we ride along. And there is the unique, titillating sensation of my arms wrapped tightly around a total stranger—a dangerous, handsome stranger at that. I can feel his taut muscles rippling under the thin fabric of his white t-shirt as he flexes his arms on the handlebars and leans around corners. Every time he revs the engine, I can feel the vibration jolt through my body, head to toe.

  Well, I certainly never expected my day to go this direction when I trudged into work this morning prepared for a usual boring eight-hour shift of scrubbing toilets and dodging that one busboy who seems to have a crush on me. If not for the electric fear and dread coursing through my entire body at the mystery of what this devilish stranger is planning to do with me, this could be a pretty sweet experience.

  If only.

  Except it’s not just some hot date with a bad boy I’m on right now. I’m not just bucking my parents’ rules and regulations to go on a fun joy ride with a hot, off-limits man in a leather jacket.

  He has a gun, and not just for show, either. Judging by that conversation he had with the man in the hotel room, this guy means business. He’s not afraid to use that gun. If he’s perfectly willing to open fire on an unsuspecting stranger for a paycheck, then what is there to stop him from shooting me, too?

  After all, I’m nothing to him. I’m no real threat. If I wanted to rebel against him and try to make a move to save my own butt, that opportunity has passed. Sure, while I was in the locker room changing back into my street clothes and retrieving my stuff, I could have made a quick call or text. I could have barricaded myself in that room and called 9-1-1. I could have fashioned a weapon out of one of the spare curtain rods or tools stashed in the corner of the closet there. I could have tried any number of things to protect myself and redirect the trajectory my mystery mercenary has set me on.

  But in the end, I decided against it.

  Because although I have never been in a situation like this, and nothing even remotely like it, I still have my instincts. In the two minutes allotted for me to get my things, change clothes, and clock out of my shift early, my mind was racing in a million directions. I followed several different paths of logic, and none of them led anywhere good.

  If I had called or texted someone for help, who knows how long it might have taken for them to arrive on the scene? And would anyone have taken me seriously anyway? I mean, it’s kind of a far-fetched story to explain. 9-1-1 might think I was a prank caller.

  My parents would admonish me for making up stories and tell me lying is a sin.

  Who else was left? Aubrey? There’s nothing she could have done, and besides, she’s probably at work right now, not checking her phone.

  Besides, now I’m glad my intuition warned me away from using my phone, because as soon as we stepped out of that hotel into the parking lot, Mr. Murderer grabbed it from me to check and make sure I didn’t use it. Who knows what would have happened if he had caught me sending a message?

  And what would he have done to me if I screamed for help?

  If I barricaded myself in the locker room?

  If I came out brandishing some useless weapon almost too heavy for me to effectively wield against him?

  In the end, he’s the one with a gun. I may be sheltered and inexperienced in the ways of the world, but I’m smart enough to know you don’t bring a curtain rod to a gun fight. I could have gotten hurt or killed. Or worse, I could have gotten someone else injured or killed. I shudder to myself on the back of the motorbike. I couldn’t live with myself if my actions led to the harm of some innocent bellhop or hotel guest.

  And I have a strong feeling my captor knows all of this. He knows exactly what he’s dealing with and how helpless I am against him. He is the one in control, and all I can do is hold on tight while he drives me to god knows where to do god knows what to me.

  I’m just a terrified, overwhelmed young woman with a blindfold on. And that—the fact that I can’t see where we’re going—is enough to remind me just how much danger I am in. He wants me to be disoriented. He wants me to be lost.

  That can’t be a good sign.

  My parents may have kept me from watching what they call “dirty movies” (which generally refers to any and all cinematography that’s not animated and targeted toward children under ten years old), but they couldn’t keep me from watching the evening news. I have heard horrible stories about young girls being captured and driven out to the middle of nowhere to be assaulted, murdered, decapitated—the list of terrible things a man can do to a helpless woman seems to be endless.

  Clearly, Mr. Murderer is taking me far away from the scene of my kidnapping, and it’s important to his plot that I don’t know where we’re headed.

  Still, even though I can’t see, I do have my other senses at my disposal. I can’t hear much over the roar of the impressive engine, of course, but my sense of smell is still pretty sharp. King of Prussia is a fairly small suburb of Philly, but it’s still big enough to have that smoggy city smell, at least to me.

  It’s a scent of industry, of gasoline and smoke.

  It’s the only place I have ever lived, and I would like to think I know it pretty well by now, despite the fact that my parents have done their best to keep me locked up safely in the family home.

  The suburbs have a familiar, comforting smell and feel to them that I would recognize anywhere. And for a little while, I cling to the faintly flickering hope that maybe we will pass by someone who knows my family. Or maybe a miracle will occur and we will go blazing down the street where I live, and my mother will stomp outside angrily to glare at the loud, disruptive motorbike driver only to see me on the back of it.

  Maybe she will recognize me instantly, even in such a bizarre context, with a blindfold over my brown eyes. Maybe she will scream and alert the neighbors. One of them will panic and call the cops. My sister Chelsea might be quick enough to jot down the license plate and description of the motorcycle to include in the missing person’s report.

  Logically, I know all of this is pretty out there. The chance of someone, anyone, recognizing me and alerting the authorities on my behalf is slim.

  Still, a girl can dream, right?

  It’s not like I have a better plan besides... hope.

  But as we ride on, I can feel a change in the air, in the smells and the vibrations around me. I have no idea how long we have been on the road. At first, I did my best to keep track of when we leaned into a left or right turn, making a mental map in my head so that maybe I could retrace our path once we stopped moving and I miraculously broke free of my captor. But by now I have lost track.

  Too many turns and swerves. Too many miles packed away as we rumble on down the road toward a mystery location, toward what I imagine will be my final resting place.

  After all, that’s how these things always end, right? The girl doesn’t magically learn how to fight back. She doesn’t materialize an effective weapon out of thin air and instantly know how to use it. An angel from the sweet hea
vens above doesn’t descend upon the scene to pick up the helpless damsel and carry her off to safety.

  That’s what happens in those inspirational films my parents play for the little ones. But in real life, nothing goes so smoothly. I am doing my best to come to terms with what will most likely happen to me: my good-looking, mysterious Prince Charming will morph into a beastly villain and add my name to the long list of people he’s eliminated.

  And by now, I know we are far from town. King of Prussia is falling away behind us, along with the last shimmering shreds of hope and optimism I have left. Now we are quite literally rumbling off into uncharted territory, at least, uncharted to me. Because if we are leaving the city smells behind, that must logically indicate that we are heading west. And north. Away from the familiar suburbs of Philadelphia and into the backwoods countryside full of tiny, empty ghost towns and tall trees.

  At first, it’s just the lack of smog I notice. And then there are new smells. Freshly cut grass, chlorine pools in backyards, and even the occasional whiff of a barbecue pit. Charcoal and spices. Cooking smoke and tender meat. I’m a vegetarian, but the smell still reminds me of simpler times, happy days when my father cooks up a veritable feast on the grill, even taking care to grill mushrooms and peppers for me instead of hotdogs or hamburgers.

  The combination of smells around us paints a pleasant domestic portrait of families relaxing by the pool, kids squirting each other with water guns, a mother calling out for everyone to come grab a plate. I could almost muster up a wistful smile if not for the true, gritty reality of what’s happening to me.

  Because these lovely smells fade away, too, replaced by the less familiar smells of pine trees and firs, muddy trails and, finally, truly fresh air. We are in the country now, well and truly.

  How far away do we need to get before we stop? How many miles can the gas tank of the motorbike handle? I don’t even know if my captor has a specific destination in mind or if he’s improvising. Maybe he’s just getting as far out of dodge as possible before finding a secluded area to dump my body.

  That thought makes me shiver and my blood runs cold. I wonder what the news articles will say about me. I wonder what kinds of assumptions people will make about my decisions. Will they blame me for my own untimely demise? Will they use me as a learning device for their little ones?

  Don’t be like Charity Rivers. She was stupid. She was weak. She didn’t fight back. They will accuse me of going along with it, of being a willing participant in my own murder. Maybe they’ll comfort each other with the thought that I went willingly, that I’m just so dumb that my fate is inevitable, and that no one else could possibly be this idiotic.

  Don’t worry, I can hear them saying, that won’t happen to us. We’re too smart and tough and competent, unlike that silly little girl who never even tried to escape.

  It hurts my heart to think that they might twist the narrative that way, make me a damsel in distress instead of a smart girl in a dire situation.

  A scary situation. A murderer with a gun, trained to my back. A two minute window for an impossible escape. A hope that if I just comply, obey, please, that I might make him see me as a person. As someone who isn’t a threat.

  I can’t take him in a fight, but I might be able to convince him to let me live.

  Because I know myself. I know I’m not dumb. I’m sheltered, but I’m smarter than people think I am. And most of all, I am cautious.

  It’s just bad luck that has brought me here.

  Right?

  But the more I think about it, the more frustrated and confused I get. Maybe those imaginary newscasters are right. Maybe I should be trying harder to fight back and escape. Perhaps I should pull some crazy, dangerous, desperate maneuver in a last ditch attempt to break free.

  What should I do, though?

  Loosen my death grip on my kidnapper and launch myself off the motorcycle? Roll off the road into a ditch and just pray to god I don’t shatter every single one of my bones in the process?

  I heard a news story about a woman who jumped out of a vehicle to escape her abusive partner, and she was struck by another motorist right away. As if to tell me to stop thinking about it, I hear the rumble of a transport truck rush past my side and I shiver again.

  I’m not going to die here.

  Besides, even if I did jump off the bike, he’ll be able to catch me in no time. I’m blindfolded, and if I let go for one second to remove it, he will know immediately. The tiny, crucial bit of credit and trust I’ve built up between us will dissolve in an instant.

  The motorcycle careens around a dangerously sharp curve and I let out a whimper of fear, unable to see what’s going on, but Mr. Murderer grabs my hands and presses them harder into his chest, keeping me secure while we cut the corner.

  It’s almost kind of sweet.

  Sweet?! I think to myself with a disgusted jolt. Come on, Charity! You can’t think of your captor as sweet. Isn’t this a little early in the game for Stockholm Syndrome to kick in?

  Not long after that, the roar of the engine softens a little, and the wind feels less intense. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say we’re slowing down. And to my surprise, I’m correct. With a few more minutes of the engine sputtering, we roll to a halt and he cuts the engine. The bike leans to one side and he deftly slides off the seat, grabbing me and setting me down as effortlessly as if I weigh nothing at all.

  My body feels a weird sort of numb, the vibrations having gone up and down my body so long that the lack of them is... off putting.

  “Where are we?” I ask softly.

  “Doesn’t matter,” comes the quiet response. I open my mouth to protest, but promptly close it again, realizing there’s no point. If he doesn’t want to tell me, I can’t make him. Besides, the last thing I need to do right now is further antagonize my captor.

  I’m already at his mercy. Why make it any worse?

  “Is this where you’re going to kill me?” I ask, my voice squeaky with tears and pain, but he doesn’t answer. Still blindfolded, he takes me by the hand and leads me away from the motorbike, away from the road.

  I can tell by the leaves crunching under my feet, by the weeds and bushes brushing against my legs. I smell pine and mulch, the pleasantly dank scent of moss growing on tree bark and rocks. A few times, I nearly trip and fall over a log, only for my captor to delicately catch me and hold me steady.

  Is he trying to keep me safe? Or just trying to keep me from leaving evidence?

  He leads me deeper and deeper into the woods, until we are surrounded by the wild chorus of chattering birds and buzzing insects. I wonder where we’re headed, and I can’t imagine it’s any kind of house or structure, not this far into the forest.

  Finally, we stop and he grabs me by the shoulders. He pulls off the leather jacket and walks me backward against the thick trunk of a massive tree. He reaches around to drop the jacket down on the mulchy earth, then presses me down to sit on top of it.

  “What’s going on? What are you doing?” I demand to know, my voice trembling with terror. I shiver and whimper as a rough cord presses against my arms several times. He’s tying me to the tree!

  “No. No! Please, don’t! I-I promise I won’t cause you trouble. I won’t tell anyone about what I heard in that hotel room, I swear. You can trust me. Promise!” I insist desperately.

  “I really wish there was another way to go about this, but I have a job to do, and I can’t take you with me,” he explains calmly, almost apologetically.

  “Oh no. No. You’re not going to leave me here, are you? There could be wild animals! What about bears? Or-or wolves?” I splutter, my heart racing.

  “I won’t be too long. I’m a quick worker,” he assures me.

  “A quick work—what?” I repeat, trailing off as the realization of his intention crushes me like a steamroller. I can scarcely breathe. “You’re not. You won’t. You aren’t really going to kill someone tonight, are you? Th-that’s crazy!”

  “Y
ou already know too much, Charity. It’s better if I don’t share the details,” he replies. Satisfied with the knots he’s tied, he stands up and starts walking away.

  I cry out after him, “Please don’t leave me here! I’m scared! Don’t go!”

  “No one will hear you out here,” he reminds me softly. His tone is more pitying than threatening. “I will return for you. Try to stay calm, Charity.”

  “Calm? How in the—stop! Come back! Please!” I yelp, straining against the rope. But there’s no use. I listen to his footsteps crunching over dead leaves, getting softer and softer as he walks away, leaving me alone and vulnerable, tethered to a tree in the middle of the wilderness.

  Jake

  The ride from the waterfall to the little town of Sheffield is one of the hardest I’ve ever had to make in my life. It isn’t for the usual reasons. I’m confident about the job, my bike is in good condition, I’m as well equipped as I could possibly want to be, and time is on my side.

  And of course, the pay is spectacular.

  But Charity has gotten in my head, against my better judgment.

  I can’t stop thinking about her. From the moment she was on my bike, something about her felt more right than I’ve felt in a long time, and that bothers me. She’s just a hostage, a liability. She’s a threat not just to this job, but to my life as a free man.

  I still don’t know what I’m going to do with her.

  The longer she’s with me, the more dangerous she becomes. I’ve been biding my time, until some miraculous option appears that means I don’t have to kill her.

  I don’t kill women. And I don’t kill innocents. I’ve done horrible things, but my conscience can’t handle her death on my shoulders.