Torn in Two

by J. D. Weston

  Judging her distance by the volume of each heel click and keeping to the shadows, Frankie searched for any sign of movement. Only when Sophia’s heels stopped clicking did Frankie stop. Searching ahead, he saw a narrow side street off to the right and the flick of a vehicle’s headlights. Coming to a stop at the corner, Frankie peered into the side street.

  Parked cars and motorcycles filled every space on either side of the narrow back street. Seeing no place for Sophia to have disappeared, Frankie began to walk the centre line.

  He was just about to turn back when the window of a sleek, black Mercedes rolled down, revealing a familiar round and tanned face.

  “Mr Black, we were just talking about you. I hear you haven't made much progress. I must say, I am most disappointed.”

  Peering past Mr Saint, Frankie saw Sophia with her legs outstretched sitting beside her father on the back seat, busying herself with her phone. She ignored Frankie and her father as if sneaking out of the hotel room was perfectly normal.

  “Are you spying on me now, Mr Saint? Is that why Sophia was sent to work with me?”

  “I’m a business man. It is good practice to keep an eye on my investments. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I need more time.”

  “You don't have more time. Emma doesn't have more time. Today is day six and you have failed, Frankie. I must go now and inform Mr and Mrs Fletcher that we have lost her. I can no longer fund a failed attempt.” Leaving scant room for Frankie to reply, Mr Saint offered a sympathetic smile. “I have a reputation. You understand, I am sure.”

  A gentle whirring accompanied the tinted, black window sliding up and Mr Saint’s head turned toward his daughter who averted her eyes in embarrassment when Frankie locked onto them.

  “Wait.”

  Stepping over to the car as the driver began to pull out of the space, Frankie reached out, jamming his hand in the window. A very unimpressed looking Mr Saint peered up at him through the gap.

  “I don't have time for this, Mr Black.”

  “I need more time.”

  “I told you. We don't have any more time. We made a deal and I do not have an open cheque book.”

  “Just give me one more day. I have an idea I’m working on.”

  “Remove your hand, Frankie. And if I remember correctly, you also have some bad news to deliver. I hope you do not expect me to tell Mr and Mrs Fletcher of your failure.”

  “Don't do this, Mr Saint. I can find her. Sophia, help me here.”

  She turned to face him, her face a picture of bitterness and resent.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” said Frankie. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”

  She stared at him but said nothing.

  “Please, Sophia. I’m a good man. I have a son. If the situation was different, then maybe it might have been different.”

  Mr Saint, wide-eyed, looked between them both until Sophia relented with a sigh.

  “Let him, Father.”

  Shocked at Sophia speaking up for Frankie, Mr Saint opened his mouth to voice his annoyance. But Sophia’s fast thinking beat him off the mark.

  “Give him more time, Father. After all, two days is not much time, and he has come so far.”

  “Mr Black was aware of the terms, Sophia.”

  “But, Father, please. Think of poor Emma.”

  Sighing again, as if Sophia’s words had melted his heart, Mr Saint looked up at Frankie, who held onto the window not willing to let it close.

  “You have until midday today, Mr Black. If you do not find her before then, please do not return.”

  At a nod from Mr Saint, the driver released the brake and pulled out of the spot, forcing Frankie to step away and remove his hand.

  With failure looming over him, Frankie ran through everything he knew in his mind. The diary. Angela’s photo shoot. Adrian Lockwood in the hotel.

  A car horn blasted behind him, shaking Frankie from his thoughts. He stepped from the road onto the footpath to the tune of an angry early morning driver. But watching as the car accelerated away and turned a corner, Frankie’s eyes fell on the final piece of the puzzle.

  Parked between a motorcycle and an old Citroen was a small, blue SUV like the Fletchers’.

  Running, now that every second counted, Frankie crossed the street and with every step he saw the dent in the wing become clearer.

  Just two hundred yards from the hotel, the pieces of the puzzle began to merge. For the first time that morning, Jake’s smile became a real possibility in Frankie’s mind.

  A light morning rain began to coat Athens with a glossy sheen that would evaporate before the sun breached the mountains. As Frankie sprinted back to the hotel, the first of the many coffee shops opened its doors.

  Few cars dotted Syntagma Square as Frankie ran across the road. The early morning dogs that scavenged from bins ran at the sound of his heavy boots, unlike the still sleepy doorman who fumbled with the door only to have Frankie tear it from his hands and dive into the lobby.

  Slowing to a fast walk, Frankie glanced around the huge room to find the receptionist behind the counter.

  “I need the room number of Adrian Lockwood.”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  The receptionist took on a panicked look, seeking assistance from the doorman, who had followed Frankie inside.

  “Adrian Lockwood. I need his room number now.”

  “I am sorry, sir, but I cannot-”

  A hand landed on Frankie’s arm, but before the doorman had time to pull him away, Frankie grabbed it, twisted, and the man dropped to his knees, staring up at him, confused at the speed of Frankie’s reaction. Holding the man on the floor, Frankie returned his attention to the receptionist.

  “Adrian Lockwood. Now. Or I break his arm.”

  Flustered and panicked, the girl began to type onto her keyboard.

  “Faster.”

  “It’s 508. Mr Lockwood.”

  Releasing the doorman’s arm and dropping him to the ground, where he rolled and rubbed his elbow, Frankie offered the receptionist a curt smile then made for the stairs.

  “Sir, if you go up there, I will have to call the police. Please come back. I will call them.”

  “Call the police. But don’t call Mr Lockwood’s room. I need surprise.”

  Bounding up the stairs two at a time, Frankie turned at the first half landing and called down to the receptionist.

  “Tell them there’s a girl being held hostage in your hotel. Tell them to hurry.”

  Leaving the stunned receptionist with her mouth aghast and the doorman staggering to his feet, Frankie ran up the stairs to the fifth floor where he entered the corridor, navigated the first corner, and came to room 508. He put his ear to the door but heard nothing. As the first police siren began to sound in the distance, Frankie took a single step back, and for the second time in two days, he slammed the heel of his boot into the hotel door.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “It’s time to go.”

  The man’s gruff voice with its heavy Greek accent was a sour replacement for the gentle tones of the lady that Emma had been hoping for.

  “Where’s the lady?”

  “You, up.”

  Snatching the covers off the bed, a brief look of disappointment fell on the man’s face as he realised that Anna was still dressed and not naked or semi-clothed. He pulled a small can from his rear pocket and held it up, threatening them both with pepper spray.

  “Where is she?” said Emma. “Who are you?” Choosing not to succumb to the man’s ignorance, Emma raised her voice, but from the corner of her eye, she spied the open door and the empty corridor beyond.

  “You will see her no more. Move now. We must go.”

  Dragging Anna from the bed by her wrist, the man turned to leave the room, reaching to grab hold of Emma as he passed. But she spun from his reach and backed up to the door, closing it with a side kick as a plan as loose as the gown she wore formed in her head.

&n
bsp; “What is this? What are you doing?”

  Dropping Anna’s wrist, the man raised his hand to strike Emma. But she stood her ground, daring the man to hit her with a defiance in her stare and nothing left to lose.

  “Go on. Go on. Hit me.”

  But the blow didn’t arrive.

  “Who are you?” asked Emma.

  The hand was dropped and the man lowered his voice. “I was sent to take you away.”

  “Where to?”

  “The port. From there, I do not know.”

  “And who do you work for?”

  “Enough questions. Open the door.”

  “I asked you who you work for.”

  “Listen to me, you little bitch. Open the door or I’ll drag you from here by your hair.”

  “How much are they paying you?”

  “That’s it. I have heard enough.”

  The man’s hand rose once more with a closed fist and his face contorted as he prepared to deliver the punch.

  “What do we need to do?”

  Emma’s words came fast but long behind the thoughts that trailed in her mind.

  “You need to come with me.”

  “You don’t understand.” Reaching behind her back, Emma tugged at the zip on her dress. She spoke softly and somehow the quivering that ran from her toes to her pounding heart was not relayed in her voice. “What do we need to do to stay? Just a little longer.”

  “Emma, what are you doing?”

  “Be quiet, Anna.”

  The zip came away with ease, as did the first of the thin straps that held the fabric over Emma’s body, opening a seed at the very pit of her stomach.

  “What’s your name?”

  Unsure of what was happening, the man clung to any upper hand he had remaining, his dominance dissipating with every move Emma made.

  “What are you doing?” he said. “I told you. We must go. It is time.”

  Taking a step toward him, knees trembling and barely able to hold her own weight, Emma locked onto his eyes as she slid her first arm from the dress.

  “And I asked you your name.”

  Stepping backward and glancing from Emma to Anna, the man reddened. His confidence fell as if some invisible masculine shield had been whisked away.

  “Basil. My name is Basil. We do not have time for games.”

  “Oh, this is not a game we are playing, Basil.” Emma stepped closer, pulling her second arm free and biting her lower lip as the warmth spread through her body, the power hardening her chest and tightening her skin. “This is life and death. For us, death is wherever you will take us. But for you, life will go on.”

  With his escape blocked by the wall, the man watched as Emma closed the gap between them, holding her dress up until the perfect moment. Until Basil was ready to break.

  “We are just young girls, Basil. There is a world out there that we will never see. Entire continents, countries, people that we will never enjoy. There are beaches with seas that we will never swim in. There are cities that we will never experience. We will never enjoy the rush of people, the buzz of activity, and the thrill of life.”

  Letting the front of the dress fall away, Emma placed her index finger on the man’s lips, watching his eyes avert from her bare flesh and listening to the sound of his heavy breathing. The dress fell to the floor, allowing her to step out of it and leaving her as naked as the day she was born.

  A surge of warmth coursed through her, stronger than ever before. Her legs weakened and her chest rose and fell in time with her rasping breath.

  “Two girls, Basil, who will never feel the touch of a man.”

  Tracing the outline of the man’s face, Emma ran her hand down his chest, feeling his taut body and racing heart. She stopped at the touch of his thick, leather belt.

  “Show us, Basil. Show us what it is to be with a man. It’s our last chance.”

  With her own heart matching the pulse of Basil’s ragged breath, Emma closed her eyes and felt the swell beneath his jeans.

  “It’s just you and two girls, Basil. Show us how much of a man you are.”

  “But I have to take-”

  “Shh.”

  The leather belt came away with ease despite Emma’s shaking hands. Teasing, she began to tug up his shirt, exposing his torso. Then, as a wave of trembling heat rushed through her mind, her fingertips found his skin. With the softest, most delicate touch, she teased at him until she felt his body tense, and his desire overcame reasoning.

  Two strong hands grabbed her arms and with a show of strength, he reversed their positions, pinning Emma against the wall. Exploring hands, hard and aggressive, found her soft flesh with little show of care, compassion, or tenderness.

  “You asked for it, you little bitch.”

  Using one hand to hastily unbutton his jeans, Basil forced Emma to turn and slammed her into the wall, pinning her with his chest and groin. With her cheek pressed against the cold wall and the plan escalating out of control, Emma’s eyes landed on Anna who stood frozen to the spot, her mouth open and her eyes wide with fear.

  It was only when Emma felt the warm hardness of Basil against her thighs, his strong, feverish hands exploring her body, and his hot, sour breath on her neck that Emma saw a light. A chance. If not for her then for someone else.

  Just moments away from giving all she had to give, a tear rolled down her face. Any sign of the power that had controlled Basil for the smallest of moments, which had coursed through her body like poison, dissipated and faded to nothing.

  Emma mouthed a single word to Anna, praying that she would understand, hoping that she could read her eyes and her fear, and that she would understand Emma’s sacrifice.

  “Run.”

  With Basil’s face buried in Emma’s nape, he sucked at the skin on her neck as a predator might nuzzle its prey, seeking the softest flesh. His ragged breathing was the only sound she could hear. Her skin, numbed to the lust-filled heat of his body, shed a layer of cold sweat.

  “You wanted this,” he whispered. “Just remember that.”

  The words came as if emerging from a fog with little clarity and deep like the rumble of a storm.

  But as Basil’s body tensed against hers and Emma closed her eyes, bracing herself to give everything she had left, he stopped.

  A moment passed that seemed to last an eternity. But still, Emma held her eyes closed, readying herself for the pain.

  Basil gave off an angry roar, loud enough to shake Emma from the place in her mind where she had hidden. She opened her eyes in time to see the flash of his hand before it slapped her hard across the face. And she dropped to the floor.

  Pulling his jeans up, Basil pulled something from his back pocket. In the milliseconds that followed, Emma pictured a gun or a knife. She envisaged the pain but welcomed the silence of death. The ending of all her pains.

  But instead of a gunshot or a stab to the heart, a fine mist of pepper spray filled the air, finding her airways and eyes like stinging ants descending on a carcass.

  She rolled away covering her face, daring to open her eyes in time to see Basil burst through the open bedroom door. He glanced right then left and bounded after Anna yelling a torrent of what Emma could only imagine were Greek curses and threats.

  With no time to lose, hands shaking from her ordeal and eyes stinging as if her skull was on fire, Emma gathered her dress from the floor and pulled it over her body. Staggering into the corridor, she looked left but saw nothing through the haze of tears, and she heard no sound of a struggle. Then, holding the hem of her dress away from her feet, Emma ran to the right. She banged the flat of her hand against the first two doors she found but dared not to scream for help. Emma checked over her shoulder to make sure she was alone as she hit the next doors, but instead of finding resistance, she fell through onto the hard, painted, concrete floor of a fire escape.

  Emma pulled herself up. The soles of her feet slapped against each step as she bounded down the stairs one at a time, clutching the
rail for stability and moving as fast as her semi-blind state would allow. Round and round she descended, losing count of the floors until, at last, she burst through a doorway and fell onto the cold pavement.

  On her knees in the light rain that clung to her matted hair, Emma breathed the fresh air and a wave of hot tears stung her eyes. As the first sound of the distant police sirens sang like faraway angels, she raised her hands to the sky above, embracing her freedom, and wept.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  A burst of activity greeted Frankie as he barged into the room. Covers were pulled back to hide flesh, and the look on Adrian Lockwood’s face dropped to a sneer before launching into a barrage of abuse.

  “What the hell do you call this? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Checking behind the door and the corners of the room, a habit from his military days, Frankie pushed the door closed as far as the broken lock would allow. By that time, Adrian had climbed from his bed, naked and unabashed, and come at Frankie. But a side step and a twist of the man’s arm was all Frankie needed to control him. Adrian dropped to his knees, his face twisting in pain.

  “Who do you have here, Adrian?”

  “None of your bloody business. Get out before I call the police.”

  “You don’t seem to be in any position to be making threats, Adrian.”

  “Let me go. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Mrs Fletcher, I’ll turn my back for twenty seconds. I suggest you get dressed.”

  Turning to face the broken door and keeping the pressure on Adrian’s arm, Frankie listened to the rustle of bedsheets and clothing. After twenty seconds, he turned around to find her unable to meet his stare.

  “It’s not what you think, Mr Black.”

  “Let me tell you something, Mrs Fletcher. It’s always what I think. I’m not here to judge. I’m here to find your daughter.”

  “You don't know what it’s like to be married to him. You don't know what he’s like. He disappears at night and doesn't come home. What’s a woman to do?”