Grace was thinking it over when she heard the lock give on the door behind her. It opened.
The walls and the door must truly be thick. They'd muffled a great deal of sound. People talking, in rapid Spanish. People walking along the stone steps. She heard it all, until the door shut once again.
Someone walked toward her. Grace saw a pair of worn black boots caked with mud, camouflage pants and shirt, the shadowed face of a man. She frowned. It wasn't him, the man she wanted, needed.
The guard nudged her with his booted foot, telling her in Spanish that she was being permitted ten minutes to use the facilities. Fresh clothes would be made available to her and, in the end, a bit of food and water, if she cooperated and didn't cause any trouble.
She nodded her acceptance, managed not to flinch as he pulled out a wicked-looking knife and sliced through the thick bands of tape at her wrists and ankles. The pain in her arms and shoulders was excruciating. She cried out as he pulled her roughly to her feet. Her muscles weren't cooperating the way they should, and she had to lean heavily against him as he walked her to the door of the small bathroom and shoved her inside. He flipped a switch, flooding the room with light, nearly blinding her, sending excruciating pain through her head. A bundle of clothing landed on the floor beside her feet.
Ten minutes, he decreed. If she made trouble, there would be no food.
Grace wasted a whole minute huddled against the floor, then somehow managed to get moving, to take care of her most basic needs. The room was surprisingly clean and stocked with supplies – soap, toothbrushes, toothpaste, shampoo, towels. She'd been correct in thinking this was some sort of bomb shelter, a room kept ready for times of trouble.
She scrubbed her face, her teeth, fumbling with the most basic of moves because of the damage done to her arms while they'd been bound behind her back, and then she got into the crude shower, hoping the cold water would clear her head. She scrubbed her body as best she could, her knees weak, her whole body trembling. Then found herself sliding down the wall of the shower, to curl into a ball on the floor, crying, the water streaming over her.
She couldn't get up. Didn't have the strength. Her whole body hurt, her head especially, and she was afraid. Desperately afraid and alone.
She gasped when the shower curtain was yanked back, the guard leering at her. He shut off the water, hauled her roughly to her feet. Grace made a feeble attempt to cover herself, but he batted her hands away, made guttural sounds of appreciation deep in his throat, laughed a bit, his hands coming out to run roughly over her breasts. She flinched, her skin crawling at his touch, and she thought about spitting in his face, wondered if the satisfaction she'd feel from that small bit of rebellion would be worth his angered response. Honestly, she didn't think she had the strength to do much more than spit in his face. Maybe the power to blank out what was happening as best she could, but be would do what he wanted with her. There was no way she could run away, no way to fight. She had never been this helpless.
The man moved menacingly closer. She saw him reaching for the button of his trousers, felt bile rising in her throat. And then he stopped. Someone else was in the room, she realized. Someone was shouting, words she didn't understand. Something about trouble outside. A disturbance. For a second, Grace thought it was him, saving her again. Then she shook her head at her own foolishness, her desperate need.
The guard looked murderously angry at the interruption. He motioned toward the clothes. She picked them up, and he pulled her out into the main room, giving her a disgusting look of anticipation, saying something about "later," before disappearing, locking the door behind him.
Grace fumbled into the clothes – a rough, shapeless, mud-colored cotton shirt and drawstring pants. Then she got onto the cot and climbed under the blanket, wondering how long it would be before the guard would be back to finish what he started and where she might find the strength to fight him.
And then she thought of the other man, her savior, and of sweet, empty promises in the dark.
* * *
They brought her food – some soup and bread – which she ate very, very slowly, despite her hunger. Because she wasn't sure how her stomach was going to react. She forced herself to go slowly with the water, too, knowing her body could only take so much at one time.
An old woman brought the food, a woman who eyed her with suspicion and maybe a bit of concern. Grace figured she had nothing to lose. She asked the woman, "Where am I?"
The woman frowned, looked nervously at the door and lowered her voice. "The compound."
"Whose compound?" Grace whispered.
"You will know soon enough. He will be here tonight. They say he comes for you."
Grace felt a chill race down her spine. A man with a compound, a dungeon, coming for her. A savior who was not.
Earlier, when they'd let her get cleaned up, she thought she'd be making a videotape for them to use in their ransom demand, that they'd want to show what humanitarians they were, treating her so well. But maybe they'd done it for the man who owned the compound. Maybe he preferred to terrorize clean-smelling women instead of dirty ones. She shuddered once again.
"He's coming tonight?" she said.
"Sí. If the weather, it does not get too bad."
Weather? she thought, thinking of the guardian angel she'd once believed commanded the elements, thinking of the string of natural disasters that had fallen into her lap after he'd urged her to go find one.
"What's happening outside?" she said.
The old woman said something indecipherable at first. "Hur-r-ree?"
"Hurricane?" Grace said.
"Sí. Hurricane."
Grace laughed. The old woman looked at her as if she'd lost her mind, and obviously, Grace had. She needed help, and it seemed someone had sent a hurricane her way.
* * *
Grace was back on the cot, legs and arms bound once again, her head spinning from the drugs she suspected had been in her food, when her cell door opened once again. She tried to see through the awful blackness to the face of the man walking toward her.
The faint odor of tobacco gave him away. It was the guard from this morning. Come back to finish what he'd started, she suspected. She was too stubborn to surrender without a fight. He'd have to undo the bindings at her ankles to do what he wanted. She'd have a chance, wouldn't she? She'd had some training in self-defense, and she wasn't as weak as she'd been that morning.
He locked the door behind him. She thought he was already reaching for the buttons on his clothes as he walked ominously toward her.
Grace let out a slow, shaky breath. If she couldn't fight him off, maybe if she made him mad enough, he would hit her. Maybe she would pass out. How awful could it be, if she never even remembered it?
She bit her bottom lip to stifle a scream, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower before him.
Closing her eyes, Grace remembered a promise – a soft, sweet promise. Try not to be afraid. Even if you can't see me, I'll be here. I'll be watching over you, and I'll be back.
But her angel wasn't coming back. He wasn't going to save her now. Nothing was. He was nothing but an illusion, after all. In front of her was the guard, brandishing a knife once again. For the bindings, Grace told herself. He wasn't going to cut her.
She did scream when he reached for her to cut the bindings at her ankles, and she did manage to kick him, getting in one good blow before he fell on top of her, pressing her down onto the cot. He backhanded her once, the blow stinging against her cheek. She was disoriented for a minute, her head spinning, but unfortunately she didn't pass out.
She roused to find him pulling at her clothes, lying heavily on top of her and grunting. Grace had waited too late for the mental games. She couldn't seem to find any kind of distance from the situation, any kind of barrier to bring down in her mind, and he was so heavy. She was suffocating. She couldn't budge him. She didn't think there was anything at all she could do.
She opened her mouth to s
cream again, in anger and frustration, no self-control left, and she must have opened her eyes again, too.
So she saw it all.
Or all there was to see through the blackness.
She saw the shape of a man taking form out of what she could swear was nothing but air. It was as if he fell from the sky, from the heavens.
One minute there was nothing, and the next, he was there. He moved soundlessly, landing on his feet, almost on top of the cot she lay upon. He pulled the guard off of her in one swift, deadly motion, then lowered the guard soundlessly to the floor.
Grace stared, thinking she was honestly losing her mind. There was no other explanation. Unless she'd just been saved by a man who had fallen from the sky. Right after he'd finished conjuring up the hurricane she needed, Grace supposed.
Suddenly, there didn't seem to be enough oxygen in the room to suit her. The guard hadn't made a sound, and she wondered if he was dead.
Guardian angels didn't kill people, did they? And nobody literally dropped out of the sky.
She felt a hand touch her shoulder, cried out a little, the sound as measly as a whimper. She'd been reduced to this.
"Grace?" He turned her over gently and used a knife to free her hands, then moved to check her ankles, found they had already been freed.
Her angel swore. She puzzled over the incongruity of that. He'd saved her with stealth and speed, but in doing so had taken another's life. She was scared enough that she had no regrets about what he'd done. She wondered if he did, if he had a conscience. A soul. If he needed air to breathe and had blood running through his veins.
He ran his hands over her again, gentle, swift, impersonal hands, but she didn't want anyone touching her. She flinched as his hands moved over her rib cage near her breasts.
He swore again and stopped. "Grace, is anything broken? Does anything hurt too much for you to move?"
"Everything hurts," she said.
"Can you walk? Crawl? Could you run if you had to?"
"Crawl? Run?" She laughed a bit, near hysteria. "My hands are numb. My arms. My shoulders."
He started rubbing them, trying to work some blood back into her limbs, some feeling, work out some of the soreness. She gasped, because it hurt. Suddenly everything hurt.
"How long have you been tied up like this, Grace?" he said, his voice insistent, a bit impatient.
"I don't know," she said, angry now. Who the hell did he think he was? What kind of rescue was this going to be? Exhausted, she closed her eyes and pleaded with him, "Make me disappear."
"What?"
"I want to disappear, like you do. Into the darkness." Into nothingness. She thought it would feel good, to feel nothing. To be nothing.
"Ah, Grace," he said, swearing again, sounding as weary as she felt.
"Please? Make me disappear."
"I can't, sweetheart. But I can drag you out of here, if I have to."
She shook her head, shook off his strong, insistent hands. "You just appear out of thin air. I've seen you. Just now, it was like you fell out of the sky."
"It's the ventilation system, Grace. There's a vent and an air duct, right up there."
"What?" she said. Ventilation system?
"Those bastards. They drugged you again, didn't they?"
"I think so. Maybe with the food." Actually, she couldn't think at all. Nothing made sense. He'd come out of the ventilation system? Like a mere mortal?
He lifted her off the cot. She swayed unsteadily on her feet, and he hauled her up against him, holding her close in a grip like iron. She felt steely muscles, in his arms, his abdomen, his thighs. He had shoulders a mile wide, and possessed the kind of strength she'd only dreamed of, and for a moment, it was all hers. It was as if he'd infused a bit of his strength into her, by holding her so tightly. Or maybe he was simply trying to reassure her, to show her the might of the man fighting on her behalf. Either way, it worked. She found it immensely reassuring. She decided there wasn't anything in this world he couldn't do when he set his mind to it.
"I'm getting you out of here," he promised, just as he had the night before.
"If this is a dream," Grace said. "An illusion—"
He took a breath, his massive chest rising and falling. She felt every bit of the movement, through every pore of her body, the way she was clasped against him.
"Do I feel like an illusion?" he asked.
"No," she said, starting dangerously to believe in him once again.
"Then let's go. There's a vent about three feet above my head. I'm going to lift you up, but you're going to have to help me. Pull yourself up."
Up she went, into an inky blackness, a nothingness. No, she realized, just a dark, narrow tunnel.
"Go right," he said, pushing her ever higher.
Grace did, pushing with arms still half-numb, pushing until she was lying in the rectangular tunnel that reminded her of a coffin. She didn't like it one bit.
"Watch out. I have to get in there," he warned.
She made room by rolling onto her side, her back against the tunnel wall. He inched up beside her, until they were side by side, facing each other, the space curiously void of air and uncomfortably warm.
"I don't like it here," she complained, only then realizing how childish she sounded.
He smiled a bit. She could feel it. He was that close.
"Then let's get you out of here, Grace."
"How?" she whispered, putting her faith entirely in him.
"I was hoping you'd be able to crawl," he said soberly.
She gave it her best shot, but her muscles simply couldn't take her weight.
So, in the end, he maneuvered until he was lying on his back and drew her on top of him, as she could have sworn they'd lain that first night in her cell when he'd been trying to warm her.
She'd never understand how he did it, was still having trouble believing it was all real, but she lay on top of him, and he pushed with his feet and his arms and, inch by inch, got himself and her out of there.
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Grace woke to blackness once again. She thought perhaps she'd been blinded at first, it was so complete. But eventually, she calmed down, waited, and the faintest of shadows took shape. None that made any sense. But shapes, all the same. She wondered if she was doomed to live the rest of her life in the dark, if she'd ever see clearly again.
She found herself lying on very hard ground. What felt like a rock, actually. But there was something soft beneath her head. Someone had brought her a pillow, but left her to sleep on the rock? Alone in the dark?
It made no sense.
Her head hurt terribly. Her mouth was dry, her stomach sickeningly empty. She still felt as if she had cobwebs in her brain; it was still so hard to think.
Drugs, Grace remembered. She'd been drugged.
And she'd had the oddest dreams.
Of him.
Nightmares, too. Of being kidnapped? Grace's heart started pounding. She felt each and every beat in her aching head, like a series of rhythmic blows.
Groaning, she closed her eyes.
That's when she became aware of the storm. It had been nothing but a dull, painful roar at first, but now she was able to break it down into distinct sounds. Rain was beating down somewhere. Not on her. She was perfectly dry. Warm, even. Blessedly warm.
On a rock?
No, she realized looking all around her, a cave. The faint shadows made sense now. It wasn't a room with curving walls and a rounded ceiling, but a cave.
Somewhere outside it was raining viciously, the wind positively howling. She shivered as a gust of it hit her in the face, and all around her she heard an odd crinkling sound. She flinched, and the crinkling erupted again.
Grace was wrapped in a noisy, crinkly thing.
She pinched a bit between her thumb and forefinger, rubbed back and forth. It was a blanket. A very, very thin, shiny, noisy blanket. Which, oddly enough, made sense. She'd seen them be
fore. Well-equipped soldiers had them. The fabric was a space-age innovation. Very lightweight, very thin, very warm. Sometimes she'd been able to beg and borrow some for her patients.
Looking around, she saw what seemed to be a neat stack of supplies off to her left against one wall, a passage to her right that must lead to the outside, judging from the noise and the wind.
There was nothing else. No mystery man.
Her heart lurched once again. Had he been real? The question would not leave her alone. Was he someone who existed only inside her head, or a flesh-and-blood man?
The mind was a truly powerful thing, Grace knew. So were fear and stress, which could play tremendous tricks on the brain. So could drugs.
She had definitely been drugged and grabbed off the streets of San Reino. She had vague memories of a dungeon. A dungeon? And a man.
That was it.
Was she even awake now? Or was this part of her illusion? Her nightmare?
Despite all her years of medical training, she could come up with no definitive test of whether or not she was awake, whether she was alone in a cave or delusional.
She was considering her next move when she realized she was not alone. Grace hadn't heard a thing. He'd crept up on her as silently as a ghost. Or an illusion.
At first, he was nothing but a big, spooky shadow coming at her out of the darkness with a wicked-looking submachine gun strapped across his chest. He peeled off the weapon, then seemed to shed something else, she feared his skin. Then she saw that it was merely rain gear, dripping-wet rain gear. She could smell the moisture on him.
Peeling off the poncho, he stood there dressed in what might be camouflage, and he either had enormous feet or he was wearing big, heavy boots. Probably that shadow at the side of his waist was a pistol. He seemed incredibly tall and broad and strong as he stood staring at her through the blasted near darkness.
"It's all right," he said, almost before her fears had a moment to take hold. "It's me."
Of course, she thought. It would be him. It was dark, after all. Safe for him to come out, and she was thoroughly confused. No need to worry she might make sense of him now or ever figure out who he was.
HER SECRET GUARDIAN Page 4