by Lynn Cooper
Even though the glass barrier between us is nearly opaque, I have no doubt he can see my body’s responses to his close proximity. My nakedness seems to be a non-issue for either of us. Unable to bear his gaze on my bare flesh last night, I made him turn away from me. This morning, I feel like a brazen hussy flaunting her wares before a potential suitor. But he isn’t a boyfriend here to woo me. He’s my latest captor, and I’m his prisoner. I can’t lose sight of that fact nor can I give up or give in. I must find a way to escape. To rescue Miss Bliss from the wicked witch of the west and get on with my life.
His voice holds an undeniable authority. “For the foreseeable future, my lighthouse is your lighthouse.”
I nod, seeing no reason to provoke him or argue. If I have learned anything over the last two months, it is patience. Just like I found my opening for escape from the Devil’s Den, I will find a way out of here, too. Wanting to change the subject, I say, “You ditched the suit. Why? Is it casual Friday or something?”
I haven’t seen a calendar in weeks. I have no idea what day it is.
“Just so you’ll know, it’s Sunday. My attire was chosen for its functionality. I have a different sort of business to attend to today.”
I’m as curious as any cat has ever been, but I can sense this isn’t the time to pry into his work activities, especially the kind he might conduct on the Lord’s Day. “So you’re leaving?”
“Yes. But don’t get any ideas about running, Täubchen.”
“How can I run without any shoes?”
“I don’t doubt you would find a way, but it wouldn’t be wise.”
“Why? You posting armed guards outside the door?”
He smiles wickedly. “As a librarian and no doubt an avid reader, I’m sure you are familiar with the classic tale Of Mice and Men.”
“I am, but what does one of John Steinbeck’s greatest books have to do with me attempting an escape?” I ask, shutting off the water and sliding the shower door open just wide enough to take a towel from the rack.
“I’m certain you remember my limo driver. I’ve told him to watch over you while I’m gone. He’s very much like Lennie Small from the story. Should you try to get away, Fernando will become agitated and overly-excited. Believe me when I say he does not know his own strength. In his efforts to stop you, he will wrap his python arms around your torso and anaconda-squeeze the very life from your lungs. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper past the sudden dryness in my mouth while wrapping the towel around my breasts and securing it beneath my arms. “If I try to leave, Fernando will kill me.”
“He won’t touch you as long as you stay inside the lighthouse. When I return, you may venture outside.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
We’re back to one-word responses, I think before pressing him for more.
“How long will you be away?”
“For as long as it takes,” he says, leaving the bathroom.
I follow close on his heels. “To do what?”
He stops at the bedroom door, reaches down and picks up a black duffle bag. “To make things right,” he growls, stalking down the stairs and out of sight.
Rushing to the balcony doors, I stare down at the asphalt. In a matter of seconds, a black Hummer pulls up. Three rugged, well-built men dressed in the same attire as Tretan get out. One of them pulls a map from his pocket and unfolds it across the hood. I had no idea they even made paper maps anymore. I thought everyone on the planet used Google.
With their heads bowed over the hood, the intensity of their voices carries on the cool morning breeze. I can’t make out what they are saying, but I can feel the vibration of their words. These are men on a mission. After a couple of minutes, they disperse and begin to climb inside the huge vehicle. Before Tretan takes his place shotgun, Fernando comes barreling out of the boathouse with a pretty parrot on his shoulder. I quietly crack the door open, hoping to hear the orders my captor is giving to my guard. What I hear instead is, “Raawk! Tretan’s going to kick some biker ass. Raawk!”
My chest swells with a myriad of emotion. I can barely absorb it all. The man who refuses to turn me lose has left to hunt down the bastard bikers who used and abused me. I have no doubt he plans on making them pay. Without anyone telling me, I know the price will be high. The cost might even be their lives.
As I ponder the impending consequences of their actions, I go back to the bathroom. Searching through the drawers of an enormous vanity, I find a hairdryer. After styling my long locks, I study my face in the mirror, wishing I had some makeup or at least a little mascara. I didn’t care one iota about my appearance at the Devil’s Den. If anything, I wanted to look as unattractive as possible in hopes of deterring those dirty bikers. But now, for some inexplicable reason, I find myself wanting to look pretty for Tretan.
Grabbing the warm ups and T-shirt he offered me last night and putting them on, I think, Maybe Alice has some makeup I can borrow. Before I can even fully consider going downstairs and asking her, I double over with the worst stomach pain I have ever experienced.
Chapter Eight
Tretan Voss
ACCORDING TO THE GPS, we are parked in the exact spot on the side of the road where Fernando picked up my dove. With Vadik and Falke flanking my sides and Cort taking the lead, we enter the dense woods on foot. All of us are armed with far more weaponry than needed. But when going to battle, it’s better to be over-prepared than under.
Almost exactly a mile in, we see the Devil’s Den. It’s not impressive in the least. As far as I can tell, it is little more than a damn shack. But the size is irrelevant. This is the place where a bunch of ill-bred, wretched bastards held and tormented the woman who is currently in my care and under my protection. These idiots call themselves demons, but they don’t know shit. Every fucker in there is about to meet the prince of darkness in the flesh, and I’m going to send all of their sorry asses straight to hell.
Using hand signals to communicate, my men and I move in closer. I’m damn near giddy to see five Harleys lined up in a row. I was hoping to catch them all under one roof. On my silent order, Cort breaches the front door. It appears to be the only entrance or exit. He goes in shooting with strict instructions to only inflict superficial wounds.
As the bikers fall like flies, Cort bellows, “There are only four motherfuckers here!”
“Yes,” I say, furrowing my brow. “According to Täubchen, five are responsible for her torture. I want to know where the other shithead is hiding. Now.”
None of the men writhing on the dirt floor offers any information on the whereabouts of the missing member. Each one is too busy groaning while holding onto a bloody shoulder or knee.
Vadik kicks at a filthy, multi-striped rug in front of a rickety, wooden bar. Beneath it is a trap door. Falke moves into position, pointing an automatic rifle at the entrance while Vadik flips up a metal latch and opens it. They’re met with darkness and flying motes of dirt and dust. I motion for Falke to open fire. I’m tired of playing games. If the coward under the floorboards wanted the same chance for a shallow wound that the rest of them got, he shouldn’t have run.
Ten short, staccato shots later, we hear the screams of a terrified man begging for the shooting to cease.
“Hold your fire,” I command.
Shouting down into the darkness, Vadik says, “Climb those steps real slow with your hands over your head, or Falke here will blow it off.”
Whimpering is followed by shuffling of feet and finally the uneven clomping of a scared-shitless man negotiating steep stairs without the use of his hands for balance.
When his head pops into view, I grab a handful of his dusty hair and lift him the rest of the way up. Turning to Falke, I say, “Put a bullet in his shin.”
The sound of cracking bone, along with blood-curdling screams, fills the tiny shack.
Cort steps up with a coil of rope and be
gins tying each man’s ankles together.
Through tears and snort-like sniffles, one of the bikers looks at me and asks, “Who are you? Why are you doing this to us?”
“I’m your worst nightmare, asswipe. All of you are going to pay for kidnapping Täubchen. You will suffer every injustice she did and then some.”
He gives me a pained but confused look. “Are you talking about Nora Adams?”
So that’s her real name, I think to myself, liking the sound of it.
“Yes, and all of you are going to pray for death before I’m finished. You’ll think twice before taking another young woman.”
The biker raises his bloody hands in a surrendering gesture. “Wait, mister. We don’t go around taking women. You got this all wrong.”
“How so, Mr.—?
“It’s just Deumus.
“Very well, Deumus. Are you saying you didn’t kidnap, Nora?”
“No. I—I mean yes, Foras took her and brought her here to the den. But it wasn’t what I’d call kidnapping.”
“Really? What would you call it then?”
“I don’t know. A prank maybe. Look, her mother Taney set it all up. She saw Foras cruising down her street one afternoon on his bike. She flagged him down and asked if he would sort of steal her daughter and keep her on ice for a couple of months.”
I’m feeling more murderous by the second, but I need to keep a cool head and hear this fucker out. It’s looking like the bikers aren’t the only ones who need to pay for their sins. Nora’s mother just moved to the top of my hit list.
“Why?” I demand.
Deumus shrugs painfully. “You’ll have to ask Foras.”
My eyes search each man’s face. When no one cops to being the instigator of the kidnapping, I growl, “Speak up, Foras, or everyone gets a bullet to the balls.
“Fine,” a man cradling his kneecap says through gritted teeth. “I’m the one you’re looking for. Nora’s nutter of a mother said her girl was getting too high-handed. Said she could sense Nora was growing tired of being a caregiver and provider. She figured if I took her daughter and we roughed her up a little for a couple months, Nora would be happy to go back to doing her mother’s bidding.”
I’ve seen and heard some sick shit in my day, but this bitch takes the cake. Digging the toe of my boot into his ribs, I ask, “Did this Taney say the roughing up should include starving, beating and raping Nora? Or was that the gang’s idea?”
Foras didn’t answer. Deumus did. “Those were our ideas.”
“Shut your stupid tobacco hole,” Foras bellows.
“Both of you be quiet,” I say, nodding at Cort. He continues binding their ankles, leaving a few feet of loose rope at the end.
Deumus looks at me with pleading eyes and stammers, “Wh-what are you going to do with us?”
Since he has been the most forthcoming of them all, I offer him a small but sinister smile. “My men and I are going to use your bikes to drag your worthless asses through the woods to the highway. There, we are going to load you into the back of my Hummer.”
“Are you going to kill us?”
“Not until you’ve been beaten, starved and raped for two months. Each of you will get exactly what you gave to Nora.”
Foras speaks up. “Exactly how are you planning to—uh—I—I mean all of you are guys, too. And none of you look gay to me.”
“My men are special forces who specialize in combat and torture tactics. I’m sure they will make excellent use of their imaginations. Anything from metal pipes to broom handles should be sufficient.”
All the bikers go pale, groaning in unison and clawing at the floor in a futile attempt at freedom. Every man begs to be fatally shot instead.
My response: “Death is too good for you. Besides, it is Nora who will have the final say. After you’ve been at the mercy of my men for eight full weeks, I will inform her of your whereabouts. At that time, I will let her decide whether I should let you go or kill you. I think that’s only fair.”
THE BIKERS ARE PILED in the back of the Hummer, and we’re halfway back to the lighthouse when my phone vibrates. It’s Alice, and she is frantic. “Mr. Voss, the woman Fernando brought here yesterday is in real bad shape. She’s in desperate need of medical care.”
My mind races, trying to figure out if this conveniently-sudden emergency is some elaborate ploy my little dove is using to fly away. Since I’m not there to assess the situation, I have to operate on the assumption Nora needs treatment beyond my or Alice’s abilities. Due to the nature of my business and the daily dangers my men face, I keep a highly-skilled surgeon on my payroll. Having them taken care of in a medical facility on my private property protects everyone. Emergency rooms and public hospitals frown on gunshot or knife wounds and are required to report them to the authorities.
Raking my fingers through my hair, I try to keep my voice calm and level. “Alice, have you contacted Dr. Ramhart? He is at my beck and call 24-hours a day.”
“Of course I did. When I described our guest’s symptoms, he is the one who said she needs to be taken to the hospital right away.”
“Why can’t he come to the lighthouse and examine her himself?”
“He says his daughter went into labor early this morning. He and his wife flew out to be with her.”
“Out where?”
“Nebraska, sir.”
“Fuck! That’s in the middle of the damn country.”
“I know, sir. Do you want us to wait for you, or should I have Fernando drive us to Saint Augustine’s? It’s the hospital closest to the lighthouse.”
I groan in anger and frustration. “Yes, take her. What was Dr. Ramhart’s over-the-phone diagnosis?”
“Appendicitis. He says she needs emergency surgery immediately lest the organ rupture.”
“What happens if it does?”
“She dies.”
“Then hang up the damn phone, Alice. Tell Fernando to drive like his fucking life depends on it. I’ll meet you at the hospital as soon as I can.”
Vadik turns his green eyes on me. “What are we looking at, Voss?”
“Nora’s sick. I need you to drop me off at Saint Augustine’s before taking these turds to the dock.”
“You still want me to lock them in the cargo container as planned?”
“Yes,” I say, rubbing my forehead. My mind scrambles with all the different scenarios I might encounter at the emergency room. Alice doesn’t know Nora’s real name. I didn’t want to take time to tell her or explain how I found out. There’s a good chance she hasn’t been listed in any databases as missing. Her lowlife of a mother wouldn’t risk being implicated in her kidnapping. However, without any proper identification or insurance information, complications could arise with her getting proper and expedient treatment.
“Anything else bugging you, Voss?”
“I should have kept my head back at the Devil’s Den and looked around for Nora’s things. Her purse with her wallet, insurance card and driver’s license would come in handy at the hospital.”
Vadik smiles as broadly as any Russian military man is capable of. “You mean a neon pink one like this?” he asks, extending the dainty bag and chuckling.
I snatch it, punching him on the shoulder. “You’re getting a bonus for this. Thanks, Vadik. You are one fine comrade.”
He nods stoically, all signs of softness gone from his expression. “You can wire the extra money to me when Nora is better.”
I nod in reply, mentally willing the Hummer to go faster. But Vadik holds it at the speed limit. The last thing we need is to be pulled over with five bloody, hogtied bikers in our possession.
Chapter Nine
Nora Adams
THE OVERPOWERING, ANTISEPTIC SMELL of the emergency room burns my nose and nauseates my stomach. I’ve always hated hospitals and vowed to only enter one if it was a life or death situation. Apparently, acute appendicitis is close enough. Even before Alice called the doctor on Tretan’s payroll, I suspected h
is diagnosis.
Although I primarily read fiction, I often perused medical journals during my lunchbreak at the library. Not because I am particularly interested in medicine, but I was constantly needing to verify Taney’s various imagined sicknesses as being a direct byproduct of her hypochondria. I couldn’t take a chance on her ever having a true illness and not getting the correct treatment. I mean, even a broken clock is right twice a day. No matter how many times my mother cried wolf, I feared the one time I didn’t take her seriously, she would indeed have something seriously wrong with her.
The irony of me being sick and hospitalized while Taney is likely home watching television and eating ice cream isn’t lost on me. She would love this pungent-smelling environment and especially all the attention. Not me. I detest this place. I figure Alice and Fernando have a strong dislike of medical facilities as well. The moment the nurse took charge, began running tests and drawing blood, both of them disappeared through the automatic exit doors. I wish I could have gone with them.
It’s funny how the very people I have been wanting to escape are now preferable to medical personnel.
A tall, slender man wearing a white coat and horn-rimmed glasses steps inside the curtained-off cubicle the triage nurse placed me in. After briefly studying the laptop computer screen on a stainless steel table beside my gurney, he says, “I’m Dr. Palter, the attending surgical physician. I understand you’re running a high fever, having severe, right-distal abdominal pain and bouts of nausea.”
“That’s correct,” I say, grimacing as another sharp pain hits near my naval.
“I’ve reviewed the real-time compression ultrasound administered by the nurse. An emergency appendectomy is crucial to your well-being.”
I’m terrified of going under the knife. Of being butchered or never waking up from the anesthesia. Trying to keep my voice from shaking, I ask, “Isn’t there any other alternative?”
“I’m afraid not, young lady. Operating Room Seven is being prepped as we speak. We need to get the diseased organ removed within the next hour in order for you to avoid life-threatening complications and enjoy a full recovery.”