by J. A. Huss
It’s cold in this room. I’ve been with her for at least two hours so the fire has died down. I throw some wood on it and change out of my wet clothes and stir the stew that’s been cooking over the flame all day to stimulate her hunger response. I spoon some into a camping bowl and sit down on the couch a few feet away from the hearth and eat.
When I’m done I stretch out, pulling the bearskin that hangs over the back of the couch over me, and I think about what to do next.
I think up all the ways I might break her. I have no shortage of ways. But even though I knew how I’d kill her father, Senator Channing, from the moment he fucked with my life, I have no such plan for Sydney. I have run it all through my mind over and over again, but how to do it so it’s satisfying? I’m not sure.
Strangulation during sex is currently at the top of my list. But I’ve always enjoyed slitting throats. It’s quick, which I hate. But messy, which I love.
Then there is my specialty, of course. Assassination-style. Bullet to the back of the head.
I don’t know. I can’t decide. If I get her to take me to Garrett, I could do them both each way. I know exactly how I’m gonna kill that motherfucker.
I smile at the thought and then I turn over and close my eyes, enjoying the warm fire and the stew in my stomach.
It surprises me how satisfied I am with her first real day of questioning. I broke her quickly. A lot quicker than I expected. She’s grown weak, perhaps. He beat her down pretty good, but his absence makes her weak. He must know this. She’s been away from him. Living her seemingly normal life in Cheyenne. Running her little country western bar. Theme nights and live bands replaced her militia training.
But that shit never goes away, I remind myself. It might get rusty. You forget what it feels like to live minute by minute, struggling to go on. But it comes back quick enough if the training is done right.
And her training was exceptional. Garrett knew exactly what he was doing when he took her away that night they tried to kill me. He knew. He set me up then and he’s setting me up now. I can feel it. Something is off. Something is wrong.
Maybe he’s good enough to evade me all these years and get away with it. He was trained better than me, that’s for sure. He was a Company kid and I was just a stand-in after the rest of the assassins were picked off one at a time by a friend of mine. But I’m a natural, they tell me. I’m a natural killer. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.
A psychopath.
A cold, emotionless, empty shell of a man whose only goal in life is to kill this girl and the man who trained her, so I can set my world straight again.
“When all my power is stripped away, I still have choices. Like choosing not to give a shit. That’s a very powerful choice when a person thinks she has no power.”
– Sydney
When I wake my whole body hurts. Everywhere the high-pressure water touched me stings like I was burned. I’m untethered, but when I move my legs, the knife pricks erupt in pain. One alone is not enough to matter. But dozens of them all up the inside of my thigh are far, far harder to ignore.
I swallow and realize I’m thirsty again. He’s drugging me. The drugs make me confused. But I’ve always been thirsty. I drink a lot of water on normal days, and being deprived—
Wait. The sink is dripping again.
It’s drugged, my mind tells me.
But why drug it when I just woke up? No. He’s doing something with me. I’m not sure what, but it makes no sense that the water—
I’m cold, I suddenly realize. My whole body is shivering. My dark world comes fully back to me as I wake up from the fog. Everything is so cold, everything… except my feet. They are toasty warm.
Why? Why does none of this make any sense?
I sit up and get dizzy in the blackness with no reference point to concentrate on. I gather myself and wait for my vision to clear.
It never clears. So I close my eyes and swing my legs over. I don’t need eyes. What good are eyes in the dark? After a few minutes I reach down with my toe, noticing they are no longer warm—so that was not some freak accident of biology heating me up—and touch the rough concrete floor. I stand, sway for a moment as I hold onto the table, and then use it to walk to the end. It’s warm over here.
I drop to my knees and crawl forward, the heat building as I go. I get to a wall—not wood, but metal—and my whole palm flattens against it.
It’s a heater or something. About three feet wide and three feet tall. I press my whole body up against it and I can hear sound from the other side.
A fire. It’s a fireplace, only I’m on the other side of it. Separated by a sheet of metal.
But that is better than anything I could’ve hoped for. I sit there, willing myself to relax. He gave me heat. And water, I think as I absently log the sound of the drips on the other side of the room. Heat and water. And I’m clean.
He gave me three things. Which means he will give me more.
I have a little glimmer of hope.
A sudden grating sound shakes me from this fantasy I’m building and there’s a sliver of light as a tray is pushed through a plate-sized hole at the bottom of the room, where the sink is.
Food. That’s four things. And I didn’t do anything for these last two except wake up. I swallow down what that might imply, and crawl along the wall until I reach the tray. The meat is cold and the fruit is warm. But I don’t mind cold meat or warm fruit.
I take a few berries—absently wondering where he got them in the dead of winter—and stuff them in my mouth. They are not very sweet, but I don’t care. The raspberries are ripe and soft. They practically melt in my mouth.
The meat is gamey, but I like game meat. Have learned to like game meat after so many years camping with Garrett. It’s elk, I can tell. There’s not a lot of it, only a few mouthfuls. But it’s been so long since I ate, my stomach feels full when I finish. I force myself to eat the berries too—needing the vitamins they contain—and then I stand up and feel my way over to the dripping sink. I lean my head down and let it pool into my mouth until I can swallow enough to matter, then repeat this a few more times until I feel satisfied. I walk back over to the heat and lie down in front of it, listening for the crackle of wood.
What is he doing?
I ask myself that over and over again. But I already know the answer. He wants Garrett. Hell, I want Garrett.
No. You want Brett, not Garrett.
Is that true? Do I want Brett? What must he think of me? Running away from our wedding? Does he think I planned an escape? Does he think I’ve been kidnapped? Is he looking for me right now? Did he find my truck out there on the mountain?
There was blood in there. I crashed. So that’s why my body is so sore. Maybe it’s not from the hose? Maybe it’s from the crash?
I’m so confused. Why did I ever leave Brett? He was the only good thing in my life since Garrett left.
Case would kill him and you know this, Sydney.
Case would. I have no doubts now. I did the right thing by leaving. Right thing for Brett, anyway. Me? Not so much.
Case is going to kill me. Whatever kindness he’s showing me now is just a means to an end. He’s keeping me alive for his own purposes. He said as much. He hates me and he’s looking forward to my death.
And he killed my father.
Do I care?
No. No, that was another blessing in disguise. My father was a monster. If Case is the monster in the dark, my father is the monster in the light. Hidden by the brightness of his career, his money, and his status.
I let out a small laugh. “Not anymore, asshole.” Because he’s dead. I look around the room and see only blackness. But I can imagine it in my mind. I have a very active imagination. I can imagine my father writhing in pain on that table. Maybe he had the fire hose treatment too?
I laugh for real, picturing him getting one of his suits cut off him. Case slicing him up instead of poking. I mean, I’m young, and cute, and sexy. Even I know t
his. And my father is old, and mean, and ugly. Case would not be cupping his hand over my father’s private parts like he did mine.
Why did he do that?
He’s going to rape you, Sydney.
I take a moment to let that sink it. He’s going to rape me. I know it. I can feel it.
You can use that against him.
Maybe I can.
A door creaks open on the other side of the room and I force myself not to move. I stare in that direction. No light escapes, like it did when the tray of food was pushed through, so I can’t see anything.
But I can certainly feel him coming in. I can smell him too. And it’s not a rank smell. He doesn’t smell like someone who’s been camping in the woods for a few weeks. This cabin has a shower somewhere, because he just smells like a man.
“What do you want?”
“You know what I want,” he replies.
“I can tell you everywhere I think Garrett is.”
“I know that, Sydney. But that’s not what I want. I want the place you know him to be.”
“I don’t have that information.”
“You do,” Case insists. “And I’m going to get it out of you.”
“And then rape me and kill me.”
He laughs and my skin prickles up and down my arms. He laughs again and the hair on the nape of my neck stands up. I don’t even have a word for how his laugh affects me.
Fear, that inner voice says. Terror.
I take a deep breath. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“You’re afraid of everything, Sydney Channing. I’ve been watching you for eight years and never have I ever come across a weaker girl. I have known twelve-year-old girls who are braver than you are right now.”
“I’m not sure she counts.”
“Fuck you,” he snarls.
“You’d like to, wouldn’t you.”
He walks towards me in the dark and I realize he’s wearing night vision. Has been this whole time. Every moment I thought I was in the dark was a lie I told myself. How could he see me nod my head, how could he see I was wearing pretty panties, how could he cut my clothes off me if he wasn’t wearing night vision?
My stomach churns as his boots thud across the floor and then he’s there in front of me. Before I can scoot away, he’s pulled me up to him, holding me against his chest, squeezing my upper arms so tightly I know he’s leaving marks on my skin.
“There’s a huge difference between brave and stupid. You are stupid.”
“Why should I care if I’m stupid?” I ask him. His breath is hot and it floods across my face, smelling a little bit like raspberries. “You’re going to torture me, rape me, and then kill me. What do I have to lose by being stupid instead of brave?”
“Your fiancé,” he replies.
I have to admit, this catches me off guard.
“I know why you left. How many times do I have to say it? I own you. I own your mind, I own your body, and I own your future.” He pauses, like he’s thinking. “Or what’s left of it.”
I struggle to get away and he lets me slip out of his grasp. I back up a few paces, then trip over the lip of the hearth, falling back on my ass. I look up where I think his face is. “If I knew, Case”—I use his name. Isn’t that what they tell you to do? To make a kidnapper see you as a person instead of a target?—“I’d tell you. But I have no clue where Garrett is. I really thought he was dead. I really thought you killed him. I really—”
Case grabs me by the arms and pulls me to my feet before I can finish, dragging me back over to the table. He picks me up, sits me on it, still holding me tightly, and then leans down into my ear. “I know that’s what you think. That’s why you’re still alive.”
That makes no sense.
But then there’s a prick of the syringe into my arm and the burn of drugs as they are forced into my muscle.
“Why are you drugging me?” I ask, my voice trembling. “I’ll answer any question you have, just please. Stop drugging me.”
“Fear, like all emotions, is a weapon I use with skill.”
– Case
I don’t answer her question, just hold her tightly as the drugs take over. She begins to rest against me, her body becoming heavy. After several minutes she slumps down.
I pick her up in my arms and then lay her down on the table, tying her hands first and then her legs. My fingertips travel up her leg, lingering briefly on the prick marks I made with the knife, as I position myself next to her head. I lean down and whisper, “Are you ready?”
I can feel her nod, just slightly, but enough to know the cocktail I came up with is working. “OK, then. Let’s start from the beginning again. What happened after I left you out at the cabin eight years ago? When I left you with Garrett?”
She mumbles but none of her words makes sense.
Fuck. I gave her too much.
“Sydney,” I try again. “Tell me everything that happened when I left you with Garrett at the cabin eight years ago.”
She mumbles again, but it’s a little better now.
I wait for several more minutes, checking my watch, then ask again.
This time she answers. “He was nice.”
Hmmm. I’ve heard this before. She’s said it several times already when under the drugs. So many times, in fact, that I have to assume it’s true. “How was he nice? What did he do?”
“He taught me to fish.”
I shake my head and sigh. “No,” I say sharply. “Before that. Back at the cabin. What did he say?”
“Nothing. He just took care of me. He took us to the Bighorn cabin and we stayed there. It was nice.”
“Nice?” What the fuck game is Garrett playing?
“He took care of me. He protected me.”
I shake my head and have to draw one of two conclusions. The dose was too high. Or that fucker is not what I think he is. I go with the first because the other isn’t even possible.
My breath comes out in a long huff, a mixture of dissatisfaction and fatigue. I’m tired of this shit. I want this to be over. I want to kill this girl and this guy and move on. I want to go back to my friends and say, “It’s done.” I want to see the look of relief on Sasha Cherlin’s face when she finally gets to put the death of her father behind her.
But I can’t do any of that until I figure out what the hell is going on. I understand that Sasha was a threat. She was a twelve-year-old trained assassin. She was a wild card that needed to be dealt with. She was a liability and an asset, because back then she had all the answers everyone needed thanks to her father’s big mouth.
That got him killed. That almost got her killed. But I saved her ass that night and I saved her ass again, over and over since then. She’s grown now. In college. Living a nice, safe, normal life.
So we won. I tell her that, anyway. We won. And I know she shouldn’t believe it. But normal life makes you forget to be wary. She’s lived normal for too long now. The last time I said it a few years ago, she said, OK. We won.
And she believed me.
But I didn’t. I didn’t believe it when I said it and I don’t believe it now.
We lost. Because we never got the answers as to why. Why?
I need to know this, and Garrett McGovern is the path to that level of satisfaction. And my only connection to Garrett is Sydney.
What if I’m wrong? What if Sydney has no answers? She passed the lie detector test when I drugged her up when she first got here. That was ten days ago. She’s been mostly unconscious since then. And she has no memory of it, for sure. That drug is made to wipe your memory.
I need a different approach.
I place my hand on her cheek, flattening my palm against her soft skin. She lets out a little, “Mmmm,” to that gesture and leans into my touch. Like she craves me.
My eyes close at her murmurings and what they might mean, and I take a deep breath to get my mind back on the j
ob. “I want you to concentrate now, Sydney. When was the last time you saw Garrett?”
She takes her own deep breath, mimicking mine. “Yesterday.”
“Fuck.” This is not working right, goddammit. “No, Sydney. It wasn’t yesterday. It was a long time ago. Tell me the last time you saw Garrett.”
“The night before my wedding.”
“Jesus Christ.” She’s got it all fucked up. She’s got me and him all fucked up. I walk out of the room and close the door behind me. I grab fistfuls of my hair and feel a roar coming up. But I calm myself and walk back out into the main room of the cabin and sit on the couch.
I’m not getting anywhere. She’s had too many drugs. She’s had too much trauma since I took her. She’s, quite frankly, not as easy to break as I first thought.
I consider calling my friend to ask for some insight into how I might’ve fucked her memory up so bad. But I nix that idea. He doesn’t do that anymore. None of them do this shit anymore. I’m the last one. I’m the only one left who’s still in the business.
I walk over to the other side of the room and pick up my guitar. And then I walk back over to the couch and lean up against the soft leather of the arm, kicking my feet up and cradling my instrument at the same time.
I begin to strum. It helps me think. Hell—I smile a little as I remember—this guitar got Sasha and me through some really fucked-up times back in the day.
God, I miss her. She’s gonna graduate from college this spring and I’m gonna be there. I’m gonna be there with a present. A gift of satisfaction. Of retribution. Of revenge.
And this stupid girl in the other room is my only chance at making that gift a reality.
My fingers start strumming the song. One I’ve heard Sydney play over and over again since I started watching her. It’s a soft tune, one that Sasha used to like as well, back when she was into that sort of thing. These days she’s all about school. No time for dates, or parties, or music. That kid is a swift-moving arrow with dinosaurs as her target.