Drew took the passenger seat, slamming his door shut. “I’ve got to use the john, asshole, didn’t I tell you that? And you didn’t get a bag for her to puke in.”
“She’s faking it. We’ve got to do our job or there’ll be hell to pay.”
Sarge was more astute than she’d given him credit for. They set out again, turning onto what she thought must be the highway as the first drops of rain spattered against the windshield. She guessed they were traveling south but couldn’t be entirely sure.
The rain began falling heavier, the drumming sound loud on the roof. There seemed to be fewer stops at intersections, so she guessed they were heading out of town. Eventually they turned, and then turned again. With the mental map she was trying to keep in her head, she thought they might be in the general area of Rock Creek Ranch. A strong wind was blowing the rain in sheets that the wipers struggled to keep up with. A particularly strong gust sent the van swerving.
“Stay on the road, asshole. We go down the embankment and we’ll need a winch to pull us out.” Drew’s tone turned sullen. “I should be driving.”
“I am staying on the road,” Sarge growled. His earlier affability had evaporated.
Maybe twenty minutes later, with the rain beating harder, Drew swore. “There’s flooding up ahead. You crossing that? We get stuck in the mud, we’ll need to get towed out.”
“We’re going to my house, aren’t we? I know what I’m doing. That dip in the road floods a couple times every winter. This van’s got all-wheel drive. We won’t get stuck.”
“If that water’s deep enough, unless you’re driving a tank, we’ll be stuck.”
“We won’t get stuck.” Sarge sounded like he was pushing his words through gritted teeth.
Ellie scooted to the opposite side of the van to lean against the packing blanket. As much as she could with her cuffed hands, she felt along the blanket. Her suspicions were confirmed when her fingers closed around what was probably the barrel of a long gun. She scooted down until she could trace the hard cylinder, then the one next to it. When she sat back again, she was sure she was leaning against at least three rifles, most likely assault-type, rolled in the blanket.
The throbbing pain where she’d been hit on her forehead made her grimace and she had to force herself to think around it. Focus, Ellie. She wouldn’t let fear paralyze her.
Drawing on her training, she tried to clear her mind and formulate a plan. The engine strained as they steadily climbed in elevation. Through the rain-spattered windscreen, she could make out the tips of pine trees silhouetted against the cloudy sky. They must be in the mountains. Paying attention to details could mean the difference between survival and death. She didn’t intend to end up dead.
The road transitioned to an unpaved surface and they bumped along, gravel hitting the underside of the van. After about ten minutes, the road leveled out. Sarge steered around a bend, then applied the brakes, putting the van in park.
“Your place is a dump, as usual.”
Sarge swung out an arm and backhanded Drew. A second later, Sarge had a gun out, eyes narrowed as he sighted down the barrel at Drew.
Chapter Eighteen
“Watch what you say, dickwad, because it wouldn’t take much to pull this trigger and blow your brains out. The only thing that’s holding me back right now is that I’d have a mess to clean up.” The expression on his face said Sarge was dead serious. A dog barked outside the van.
“All right! Fuck it. I didn’t mean anything.”
“You insulted me.” Sarge’s voice carried over the rain hammering on the roof. He eased back, though continuing to point his gun at Drew. He threw a glance over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about this, sweetheart. We’re not going to hurt you. This loser needs a reminder of who’s in charge and what good manners are.” His attention returned to Drew. “Come on, dickwad. We’ve got to get her settled.”
He holstered his weapon and opened the driver’s door, animosity evident on Drew’s face as he watched Sarge. Sam wasn’t the only one to have earned his brother’s hatred.
Sarge opened the back of the van and Ellie scooted forward. A large mixed-breed dog sniffed Drew’s jeans, then Ellie’s. Sarge grabbed Ellie’s arm to help her stand, using his knee to push the muddy dog aside. “Out of the way, Rex.”
Ellie gazed around, trying to absorb details. They were in a valley between low hills with higher mountains rising behind them. The driveway led past the house to a barn with a sagging roof. She didn’t see any sign of close neighbors. Rain pelted down, immediately soaking her and sending a rivulet of icy water under the collar of her coat.
Sarge pulled up her hood over her hair, and Ellie made a point of thanking him. She would exploit any division between her captors she could, even appearing to want to get on Sarge’s good side.
He led them toward the house, and she surreptitiously studied Drew. His tight expression and clenched fists indicated seething anger. She wondered if Sarge had pushed him too far.
She stumbled over uneven bricks in the walkway. The area in front of the house couldn’t really be called a yard. Weeds grew unchecked around used tires and broken-down machinery, and a large propane tank sat on a concrete pad.
Curls of peeling paint flaked from the window trim and eaves of the house, and the bottom third of the stucco walls looked damp. Ellie detected a faint skunky smell.
The dog followed them into the house, leaving a trail of muddy paw prints as he collapsed onto the carpet in front of a fireplace in need of having its ashes cleaned out. The cramped living room smelled of stale cigarette smoke.
One wall sported a mounted deer head, and a rack over the fireplace held two hunting rifles. An AR-15 leaned against one corner. On a desk shoved in a corner an old-style, bulky computer monitor sat next to a CPU that blinked a red light like a warning.
On the far side of the room a dining table was weighted down with stacks of papers, empty soda bottles, and a couple of overflowing ashtrays. Beyond the table was a sliding glass door that revealed a narrow patio with a rusting barbecue and a muddy backyard. In the middle of the yard was a blackened area that held charred chunks of wood, the remnants of a fire. She wondered if Sarge’s backyard had been used for the book-burning bonfire.
He pushed her forward with a hand in the middle of her back. They passed by a wide doorway to the kitchen where a Nazi flag was held on the refrigerator with a magnet like one would keep their child’s artwork. She glimpsed a backdoor through the kitchen, which meant there were at least three points of entry to the house.
Sarge stripped off his coat and threw it over the back of a chair and she spotted her gun tucked in the back waistband of his baggy jeans, another in a holster at his hip. With Drew trailing behind them, Sarge took her down a hallway where he opened a door and flipped a switch to light a narrow set of stairs that descended into darkness.
Ellie’s stomach churned, the feeling that she was being led into a dungeon doing nothing to ease her apprehension. She hated feeling powerless and at the mercy of these two men. Nothing they had done suggested that they intended sexual assault, but they’d hit her hard enough for her to lose consciousness, and she didn’t doubt they would hurt her again if they wanted. She had to come up with a plan to protect herself.
Sarge flipped on more lights at the bottom of the stairs to reveal a minimally furnished basement room. In one corner, a twin-size bed was neatly made, covered with a thick comforter. A table with a couple of folding chairs had been arranged next to a mini-refrigerator and counter with a small sink. A microwave that had to be twenty years old sat on top of the fridge, and a TV and VCR of possibly even older vintage were perched precariously on a small, wheeled cabinet.
“Here we are, sweetheart. Home sweet home, for the time being, anyway.” He took out his phone and snapped a picture of her. “I’ll be sending that to your boyfriend. Can’t use you for leverage if he doesn’t know we have you.” He dug the keys out of his pocket, and whistling a jaunty tune,
proceeded to unlock the handcuffs.
Ellie moved her arms, biting back a groan when pain shot from her shoulders down her arms. She rubbed her wrists as she looked around the room.
Sarge opened the cabinet doors under the sink. Cup O’Noodles, Cheez-Its, and a box of instant oatmeal packets were among the food items on the shelf next to stacked paper plates and napkins. Ellie had a flashback to her college dorm room.
“See? You won’t starve. And there’s even the VCR for entertainment. It’s old school, but it works. TV’s not attached to the cable, but there are movies you can choose from in the TV stand.” Sarge seemed proud of the furnishings. He waved a hand at a closed door. “The bathroom’s in there.”
“I want to go home.”
His eyes flashed. “Show some respect. We haven’t violated you. We haven’t harmed you other than that little bump on your head. We won’t kill you unless there’s no alternative. I’ve set up a nice place for you to stay where you’ll be comfortable. Show some appreciation.”
The offhand mention of killing her sent ice straight to her bones. “You kidnapped me and are holding me against my will, and I’m expected to show appreciation?” Ellie knew she was walking a fine line.
Sarge seemed to have certain standards for his personal behavior, not that those standards met societal norms. His casually violent treatment of Drew demonstrated how quickly his temper could flare. She would take care, but if she wanted to develop a viable escape plan, getting Sarge to talk might reveal information that could help her.
Still wearing her coat, she crossed her arms against the chill. “This does look comfortable, but I’m scared and confused, and want to go home. I don’t understand why you brought me here. When are you going to let me go?”
“I’ll tell you.” Drew’s face twisted in a sneer. “We brought you here to give my privileged brother the message that he can’t mess with me and he can’t mess with our movement. He hides behind the law to keep for himself what’s rightfully mine. He thinks because he’s a fucking judge he gets to decide who should be protected by the Constitution and who shouldn’t. He’s letting illegals overrun our country while throwing good people like Frank Bannister in prison for exercising their rights. The Second Amendment lays it out that we got a right to our guns. No judge can take that away.” The words came from his mouth with a spray of spit.
“Shut up, dickwad. She doesn’t need to know any of that.”
“I can say what I want to say. She should know what kind of man she’s engaged to.”
“You’re more of an idiot than I gave you credit for. Just shut up.”
Drew’s face flushed angry red. He reached for his holster, fumbled a moment, then raised his arm, gun in hand, and aimed at Sarge. With much cleaner movement, Sarge palmed his own pistol and mirrored Drew’s stance. The sudden silence was broken only by the faint thudding of the rain.
“Well, well. Looks like we got ourselves a Mexican standoff.” Sarge’s sardonic tone indicated a decided lack of concern.
“You think you’re so cool. I’m fucking tired of how you treat me, asshole.” Drew’s gun shook like a fall leaf in a stiff wind.
Ellie stepped toward the stairs, moving slowly.
“Interesting, since I’m fucking tired of you whining like an overgrown toddler. Go ahead and shoot. You’re shaking so much I think I can put a hole between your eyes before you could steady yourself enough to pull the trigger. Want to try out that hypothesis, dickwad?”
Ellie could see the rage on Drew’s face, the desire to pull the trigger as Sarge goaded him. As much as she wanted to bring in both men to face justice, shooting one another would take care of her immediate problem.
Seconds stretched until finally Drew lowered his gun. “I hate your fucking guts.”
“You can hate me all you want, but we got a job to do.” Sarge turned his own weapon toward Ellie. She froze with her foot on the bottom tread “You don’t want to do that, sweetheart, because I won’t have any problem shooting you if I have to. You asked when you’ll be released. That’ll depend on how much Judge Creed wants your freedom.” Sarge motioned Drew to the door. The loathing on Drew’s face made her determined to use his anger if she had a chance.
“You sure she can’t get out of this place?” Drew asked.
“Not unless she’s a freaking ghost. There’s only one door and it’s got a deadbolt. She’s not getting out of here.”
Drew climbed the stairs without a backward glance.
Sarge gestured to the room. “Make yourself at home. You may be here for a few days.”
He turned to the stairs, and Ellie said, “Wait. Can’t you give me my purse? I have Tylenol in there, and a hairbrush.”
“Should I give you your Glock back, too? Nice try, sweetheart.” Sarge shook his head. “Everything you need is here.”
The deadbolt slid into place, locking the door to her prison. The quiet intensified, the only sound the faint hush of air through the vents.
With her arms locked over her stomach, Ellie turned slowly to scan the room. The desire to curl up on the bed and bury her head under the blankets nearly overwhelmed her. She was being held prisoner, her head ached relentlessly, and she could feel panic creeping over her skin like the plague.
She absolutely believed Sarge when he’d said he would have no problem shooting her. Practicing a breathing technique to calm herself, she tried to recall her training and what could help her in her current situation.
First things first. She made a beeline to the door Sarge had indicated. The bathroom appeared recently converted. The space was cramped, containing a toilet, a sink and vanity with a postage-stamp-size counter, and a shower stall so narrow she thought she’d likely bruise her elbows if she actually used it. There were still stickers on the glass door of the shower and the mirror over the sink. After using the toilet, she washed her hands, leaning forward to examine her reflection. “Jesus, I look like I’m made up for a Halloween party.”
With the tap running to get hot water, she pulled open the drawers of the vanity, searching for a washcloth to clean the dried blood from her face. A top drawer contained a multi-pack of toothbrushes, the tube of toothpaste next to it promising to make her breath minty fresh. The next drawer held a hairbrush and comb, both new. She found a first aid kit and set it on the counter. It wasn’t until she reached the bottom drawer that she allowed a tight smile. A metal towel bar and the attachments to fix it to the wall lay inside, along with a long screwdriver. She took out the screwdriver and slid it under the waistband of her jeans and lay the towel rod on the counter. They would be of no use against a gun but might prove worth having in hand-to-hand. She’d take what she could get.
Not finding a washcloth, she dampened the corner of a hand towel and scrubbed the blood. When she rinsed the cloth, red-stained water swirled into the drain. Lifting her hair, she examined the injury high on her forehead, close to the hairline. She hoped it was one of those cases that looked worse than it actually was, because it looked pretty bad.
At the crest of a raised lump, a deep half-inch semicircle cut into her skin, the surrounding area puffy and purple caused by a pipe or the muzzle of Sarge’s gun. It probably needed stitches, but that wasn’t happening.
She found antibacterial ointment in the first aid kit and swabbed it on, then used Band-Aids as best she could to cover the wound.
Once she was done tending to the wound, she went to the kitchen area and examined the contents of the cupboard. She was right about the food being like college all over again. A jumbo container of cheese balls in neon orange was nestled next to a tray of Oreos and little packets of soft cheese and crackers, but there was nothing that resembled what she considered real food.
She wandered through the room and determined Sarge had been telling the truth. Other than the door with the locked deadbolt (she’d tested it), there was no other way out of the basement.
Finding pain reliever in the cabinet, she downed a couple capsules. Lying on the bed
, she pulled the comforter around her shoulders and closed her eyes. Worry churned in her stomach, but for the moment, she was safe.
She only meant to lie on the bed until her headache eased, but it was several hours before she stirred again. When she woke, the time on the VCR told her it was late afternoon. She rose, and keeping the comforter around her shoulders, opened the kitchenette cupboards again.
Cup O’Noodles, she decided. With the Styrofoam cup filled with water and heating in the microwave, she studied her surroundings more carefully. She didn’t doubt that Sarge had hidden surveillance cameras. He might have seen her taking the screwdriver and towel rod from the bathroom. Cameras were tiny these days and easily camouflaged. If they were here, searching would tip them off that she knew about such things, and she wanted them to continue to think she was frightened and helpless.
Ellie sat at the small table and used a plastic fork to eat the noodles. The ceiling above made creaking noises as someone walked about on the first floor—or several someones because it sounded like too much creaking for only Sarge and Drew.
There was a rumble of voices, the slamming of a door, and even faint barking that made her think Rex was outside. She refused to give in to the temptation and lay her head on her arms and have a good cry. Deputy US Marshals didn’t cry. While her situation was bad, it wasn’t dire.
If Sarge had sent that photo to Sam, he was now aware she’d been kidnapped, and regardless of the current problems between them, he’d be worried about her and would notify the team. Her brothers and Bella were no doubt looking for her. She gave a fleeting thought that they might be able to track her phone but guessed her captors had taken out the sim card. Assuring herself that things could be much worse helped, but didn’t do much to dispel the feeling that she was on her own without the tools she needed to get herself out of this place.
The soup’s warmth radiated from her stomach and made her feel infinitesimally better. She munched on Cheez-Its, washing them down with water, and guessed she’d probably surpassed the recommended sodium consumption for an entire month. More creaking came from above, then voices, followed by thumping on the stairs. She sat up straight as the deadbolt slid back and the door to the stairs was thrust open.
Hidden Judgment Page 18