by Lori Power
Lorna wiggled her bottom on the chair, squelching in the accumulated puddle that had dripped from her clothes. Moaning, she cast her eyes downward to indicate her need.
“You gotta take a piss?” Her voice was low and harsh like someone who smoked a great deal, but she had yet to leave the hut for a cigarette, and though she’d been in close proximity with the woman for a while now, Lorna could detect no odor on her clothes.
Lorna umm-hummed her ascent, nodding her head.
“Don’t piss on the floor,” she snarled, rising with reluctance to her feet. As Goth approached, Lorna was surprised to see the inky-haired girl was just that—a girl, barely a woman—maybe twenty or twenty-one at the most. Goth’s lips drew back in a hateful sneer. “I don’t want to smell that stench. Bad enough it smells like wet dog in here already.”
A sensitive kidnapper, pardon me.
Goth tossed her head to the side to lift the hank of bang off Lorna’s face as she pulled out a long switchblade. The blade’s mirrored edge caught the Coleman lamplight and seemed to reflect in the girl’s dark eyes as she wheeled it like a pro, bending close to Lorna.
The painted girl grabbed hold of Lorna’s hair, yanking it backward by the roots. Lorna was surprised she still had feeling in her scalp from the hair-pulling Stan had inflicted earlier. Biting the inside of her cheek, she stifled a moan, realizing with certainty that the nerve endings were still well intact.
Lorna’s breath released in a whoosh through her nose when the woman pushed her face level, her dead, emotionless, brown—almost—black eyes stared into hers without mercy. “You try anything, bitch, and I’ll slice you open and leave you for the cougars.” The girl lifted the knife with deliberation towards Lorna’s eye in a control tactic Lorna was all too familiar with.
Never give the bully a target or a victim. Her fair complexion and slender frame often gave the impression of frailty. But she could be as tough as nails when the need arose, and with Kris and Mariam’s lives on the line, the need for tough was an understatement. Survival tactics forced her back to straighten as she returned Goth’s cold stare with one of her own, unwilling to be intimidated. In the close proximity, she could see Goth’s white skin was the result of putty-like foundation that had flaked and marred with the weather. Yuk.
With slow, deliberate intent, the girl lowered the knife from Lorna’s face. The blade gently sliced the thin skin where her pulse jumped, belying her outward countenance. Warmth trickled down her neck as the blood pearled. Holding steady was difficult because of the shivers riding up and down her spinal cord, which had turned into minor convulsions she strove to suppress. With a deep breath through her nose, she kept her back straight and her face impassive, hoping her eyes were as cold as the girl’s.
With great showmanship, the younger woman removed the knife and released her head. The sudden release of tension on her neck muscles caused an almost whiplash-like movement forward. The thick blood made a slow trail down her neck, almost tickling in its progress.
Goth-girl pulled thicker tie straps from her pocket, cutting first one, then the other of Lorna’s arms free of the binding before bringing them together to lash in front of her. The cuts on her wrists had already congealed. Her relief was momentary. Lorna flinched when the girl nicked an ankle when she freed her feet.
“Forget your shoes?” The woman laughed, standing to reach and take Lorna by the hair again.
No answer was expected or received as they opened the door to step outside in the drizzle.
Stan stood under the eaves, taking up the width of the door with his girth. Lorna stepped down one stair, feeling the mud squish between her toes and small rocks dig into the sole of her foot. “Over here.” The woman pushed her towards what Lorna assumed from the smell to be an outhouse. She looked around the compound, praying for the opportunity to check her phone for a signal. With her head tilted at such an awkward angle, from the corner of her eye, she saw her captor in tow close behind, watching.
The door closed only partially, causing the whole emptying-of-the-bladder business to be demeaning. Unable to get to her phone, Lorna kept her attention focused on the return trip. She noticed just one other cabin in the compound. It appeared larger, but she couldn’t be sure through the gloom and dark. Light showed from within, but no shadows moved across the lit windows, one on each side of the door. Gap-tooth stood sentry in front of the entrance. Just the four of us then? She padded slowly forward with her head yanked backward.
The rain had lessened and the thunder rumbled in the distance, giving every indication the main body of the storm had passed. With the cessation of booming thunder, the small clearing seemed eerily quiet. The pitter-patter of light rain hitting against the tin roof echoed loudly as she was pushed back towards her assigned jail.
Her step faltered when whirring and crashing branches announced the arrival of another vehicle. This is it then. If it was Tim, Lorna prayed she’d have a chance to look him in the eye. Despite all she had learned and all she had gone through in the last hours, she still found it difficult to imagine someone as charismatic as Tim Fong could be involved in such underhanded dealings. Was that why she hadn’t sent the package over to Mitch immediately?
Retaining a steady eye on Goth-girl, Lorna was pleased when the younger woman dropped her eyes, snorting as though bored. Logically she knew she wasn’t getting out of this alive. I’ve seen their faces. They’re never letting me go. But she’d be damned if she was going down without a fight. Ensuring Kris’s safety was a chief concern. If he’s not here, my only hope is to get out of here and pray my phone gets a signal. I must get to Kris and Mariam.
Mitch. That was the answer. If she had enough of a signal for even one call, she would call Mitch. He would know what to do. Trapped as she was, clarity without ego allowed Lorna to see the situation from his side. Would I have done anything different if I were him? I didn’t hesitate to pry into Tim’s personal files when I suspected Mitch might be right. How are my actions justified and his not?
Listening for voices and the approach of the new arrival, Lorna waited with a churning stomach, pondering so many aspects of the last few weeks as she hadn’t allowed herself to do previously. Time seemed to stand still, and her breathing became shallow with apprehension. I need more time. I’m not ready. I can’t leave Kris and Mariam like this. This can’t be the way things are left with Mitch. When he held out his hand to me calling me back, I should have given him the chance. I wanted to, but…I should have taken a chance on trust. On him. On us.
The waiting seemed endless. Lorna was thrown back in time: being locked in the basement as a child, being trussed up in an old potato sack in the closet in her uncle’s house, and more. All these you managed to escape, she reminded herself. You’re stronger than they give you credit for. Lorna chewed the inside of her cheek, wriggling her fingers. There is a way out. Think. There is always a way out. I just have to find it.
Time was endless. Nothing happened, and no one came. Despondent, minutes stretched to what seemed like hours. Her nerves stretched like an elastic band, except she couldn’t afford to let the band snap. Yet she was just so tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of her regrets. And most of all, tired of the worry. Exhausted from cold, her injuries, and the ordeal, her head began to loll.
Chapter Eighteen
The white-hot flash of sudden pain, combined with the crack of palm hitting flesh, snapped her head to attention. Her hands jerked against the bindings, bewildered and alert at the same time. Her feet would have shot forward to hoist her out of the chair had they not been tied down. Lorna grunted, eyes wide with fear and shock. She didn’t know where she was or what was happening.
A slender, well-groomed man stood before her, wiping his hands on a silk handkerchief. “Awake, are you?”
At Lorna’s nod, he smiled. “Good,” he said, revealing brilliantly white teeth achieved only through dental cosmetics. Firm, well-formed lips, which also looked enhanced, surrounded this artful smile.
Lorna turned her eyes towards the window. Goth-girl was nowhere to be seen. Being alone with Charles Fong in the one-room cabin did nothing to calm the pounding of her heart. Apprehension filled her, causing her blood to pump loudly in her ears. While his back was turned, she pulled gently and quietly against the straps at her wrists. When this well-dressed man had slapped her, she had jerked hard against the tie straps, causing the chair’s spindle to break loose of a borehole while the strap slipped into a narrow section between.
She halted her movement, striving to keep her face impassive as he faced her, bending slightly in her direction. Coming eye level, he asked. “Do you recognize me?” He addressed her as though they were meeting at a dinner party.
Lorna was breathing heavily through her nose, her cheek smarting from the blow. She shook her head, eyes travelling around the small space to hide the lie.
Blinking meditatively, he rolled back on his heels and chuckled. A high-pitched sound. “You’re lying.” Charles stretched the words out with a sage grin that barely moved his stiff cheeks.
Long, tapered fingers reached into the breast pocket of his immaculately cut jacket for his cell phone. The femininity of his build was overshadowed by the menace of his movements. His every pore emanated danger. Retaining the mobile in one hand, his other shot out to grab her chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding her still while he dialed. Eyes the color of mud in springtime stared through her, as though trying to reach for her soul. Their slight slant and heavy lids gave away his ancestry as questions seemed to collide in their depths. “No tears?”
As his fingers massaged her jawline, she kept her eyes trained on his while she managed to pull her right wrist free of the constraint. Wrapping her fingers around the spindle, she was careful not to alter her pose. Straightening her spine, Lorna returned his intense gaze, giving nothing, as nothing was expected.
Releasing his grip with an abrupt movement, he stood. Holding the phone slightly away from his face, he pressed the green “send” button. Still looking at her pensively and with a knowing shake to his head, he added. “Well, that’s likely to change before this is over.”
***
Both Hank and Mitch were on their phones from the moment they touched the helipad in Prince George.
Luke confirmed the boy and Mariam were safe with him, the three left the house via the backyard to avoid detection from the men in the sedan. “We made it a bit of a game for the kid,” Luke said over the static. “He’s a real cute guy.”
“He is. How’s Mariam?”
“Worried, but holding up fine. A real tough nut there.”
Mitch and Hank were walking through the near-empty detachment with a Sargent Madison who was assigned to take them to meet the local crew that would transport them the rest of the way. Mitch ended the call with Luke and waited for Hank to finish.
Hank gave him the thumbs up. “Lorna rented a Buick Enclave.”
Mitch shrugged, uncomprehending, needing a dose of caffeine to keep him going. The last part of the trip over in the helicopter had been horrendous as they entered the storm zone. Where he had hoped to fly direct to Chetwynd, they had no choice but to power down in Prince George and arrange to drive the remainder of the way. The local detachment was ready for them on arrival.
The trio paused at the coffeemaker. “It’s OnStar equipped,” Hank continued.
Light dawned for Mitch. “Tell me.”
“A satellite signal was relayed. Some sort of impact with air bag deployment.”
“Shit.” Mitch lifted his cap to run his hand across his brow, thinking. “What does that mean?”
“There was no response.” Hank looked down to consult his notes. “The signal went unanswered. Then the line was severed.”
Chills coursed down Mitch’s spine. “How do they know it was severed?”
Hank shrugged. “Dunno. Techy shit is beyond me. But that’s not the interesting part,” Hank continued, closing his notebook. “The car was then moved to a different location.”
“Moved? How do they know? Especially if the line was disconnected.”
“All cars have trackers now. So. Yeah, moved. About twenty kilometers further north.”
“Tell me we have coordinates.”
“We have coordinates.”
Both men turned to Officer Madison standing close by. “Are we good to go?” Mitch asked, forgetting to take a drink from his mug of coffee.
“We are,” the officer confirmed.
They had three police vehicles and a helicopter that would be ready for dispatch as soon as the worst of the storm abated. It wasn’t safe for the chopper when an electrical storm raged. Mitch had his satellite phone in his hand when it started to buzz. He glanced at the display.
Blocked.
Mitch felt his blood stop pumping in his veins.
“Morgan here.”
“Mitchell Morgan. At last,” intoned the cultured voice across the line. “After all this time. I finally get to talk to the now-famous, perhaps infamous—in my family at least—Mitchell Morgan.”
“What do you want, Chuck?” Mitch’s blood was pumping cold now. Although the object of their sting in Vancouver, the closest Mitch ever got to the kingpin was meeting his now-deceased brother, Gary.
“Oh, Mitchell, no need to play games now, is there? Not after all of this time. All we’ve been through. You know what I want.”
“Sorry, Chuck. I’ve no money. No merchandise. It’s outta my hands. There’s nothing I can do about the money. Or the shipment, for that matter.” He paused, turning back to Hank and Madison, circling his finger in the air, pointing to his phone to give the sign for a trace. They nodded in unison, understanding, turning away towards the phone. “You know that. Anything confiscated is out of my hands. It’s not like I can just run and grab the cash,” he ended sardonically.
“Well now, Mitchell, you’ve caused me a great deal of trouble.” The man paused on the line. “In case you missed it, we Fongs like to pay back in kind.”
“Even to your own family members, I see,” Mitch baited the family head. “Surely you can come up with better resolution tactics than bullets.”
“When something works, why change it?” The man sounded almost amused with the banter. Almost. “You know what they say about something that ain’t broke–don’t fix it.”
Mitch shrugged, declining to answer, thinking of Veronique.
“You have such lovely taste in women, Mitchell,” Charlie’s voice took on a honeyed tone. “Vonnie was the perfect blend of Asia and America. Lovely dark eyes, glossy black hair—I loved how she always wore it long and straight—flawless skin. Unlike other Asians, she was tall and capable, almost athletic. If only she had learned the Chinese way of obedience to her elders, she might still be alive today.”
Mitch clenched and unclenched his fist, waiting for, almost anticipating, what was to come.
“As dark as Vonnie was, this one is fair. Golden eyes, fair, and shapely. A little worse for wear just now, but oh, Mitchell, she is a woman to enjoy. She—”
“What do you want?” Mitch growled.
“Despite her age—exquisite. I can picture her in the Orient at one of our special houses,” Chuck continued as though Mitch hadn’t spoken. He could hear muffled breathing in the background and knew it was Lorna. “It’s called payback, Mitchell. You don’t fuck with a Fong and get away with it. I need to earn back money. The woman and the kid will bring in a pretty price.”
Sweat moistened his palm and he gripped the phone. Mitch sent a silent prayer of thanks he had Luke remove Kris and Mariam from the house to safety.
“Where she ends up—and what I do with her—really does depend on your cooperation, Mitchell. I think by this point you know better than to let me down…”
“How do I even know you have her?” Mitch said, striving to control his breathing as they walked briskly towards the waiting trio of vehicles. “Let me talk to her.”
***
“So demanding, Mitc
hell, really,” Charlie’s voice mocked as he walked around the small room. “No wonder Vonnie was jealous enough to track you down.”
Mitch? Vonnie? Kris? What’s he planning? Sell Kris and me? Where’s Mariam? Lorna watched her captor intently. Her every sense focused on his movements, his inflection of tones. Mitch knows something’s happened to us?
“How do you know she wasn’t a plant, Mitchell?” Charles turned to face her but kept a wide separation, standing just in front of the woodstove in the middle of the room. His eyebrows raised with the question as though addressing her. “She is working for us, after all.”
Lorna ceased her movement for fear of being caught. She wished she could hear the reply. Whatever Mitch said was enough to agitate the cosmetically enhanced man before her. Charlie’s movements became obsessive as he stared sightlessly ahead. If there was one thing she had learned as a young child, it was this: all tormentors have tells. While holding the cell in one hand, his back turned to Lorna, his incessant clinking of coins in his pocket betrayed the outward shell of calm.
With her vision focused on the back of the silver suit jacket of the pacing man, she resumed her efforts to free her hands. Tilting to one side, she moved the tie strap further down the spindle. Gnashing her teeth to bear the pain and hold any sign of triumph from showing on her features, she slid her trapped appendage into the narrow section of the spindle. There, she pulled her hand free of the binding.
Resuming her position, holding her arms firmly to the sides of the chair, she focused on her legs, lifting her heels off the floor. Somehow, the fact Mitch now knew she was being held made her much less afraid. Despite present circumstances and her fright for the safety of her son and Mariam, she allowed a flame of hope to grow. He’ll come for me. I know he will.
Memories flowed like the water down the dirty pane of glass on the lone window. All the times when she’d tutored Mitch, and he’d constantly ask her out, finding excuses to drop by her dorm. His boyish smile charming Natasha, and however much she tried to resist, she loved the attention. Not ever feeling worthy. She always put him off with one excuse or another. What would they have in common? She remembered asking that very question. She wasn’t athletic, and certainly, academics didn’t date jocks. She had assumed the mantle of a geek after all.