by Stacia Stone
Dad believes that God wants him to be president. And that it’s his personal mission to bring a country that has fallen to heathens and whores back onto the path of Christ. It’s been twenty-one years of weekly bible study groups, Sunday school and an education exclusively with teachers who would have been just as comfortable in a pulpit as a classroom. I still don’t believe in a God that gives a crap about my life. And the bible sometimes reads like its authors were high on shrooms while writing it. The entire book of Revelations is a death metal fever dream.
Dad would send me to a “reeducation” camp if he ever heard that blasphemy.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m like one of those birds that gets laid by its mother in the wrong nest. A mysterious cuckoo who replaced the kid that my dad was supposed to have. I took the place of the good Christian girl who always does what she’s told and doesn’t mind standing a few feet behind her husband at all times.
Me. I crave adventure. I want to see what’s so bad about the world that my dad thinks he has to work this hard to protect me from it.
The whir of my computer fades for a moment. The house seems incredibly quiet. Like too quiet. I listen hard for the creak of floorboards as the house settles into its foundation. But I don’t hear anything, not even the chirp of crickets outside or the slight hum of the air conditioner.
It’s like the world is holding its breath.
I shake away the silly thought. Maybe I’m just worried that God is going to smite me for thinking such awful thoughts. It’s not like I said any of them out loud. God wouldn’t punish me for my thoughts, right?
White_night00: everything okay?
White_night00: still there?
I type in a response before he gets worried.
MadHacker95: Still here. Just got distracted for a sec.
I hear the unmistakable creak of the floor boards in the hallway. But it sounds different. That isn’t the house settling. The clock next to me on the desk glows the time. It’s barely been an hour since Dad and Magda left for the fundraising dinner. No way would they be back already.
The door to my room is closed. It suddenly feels ominous. It’s like that moment when the cartoon character runs off the edge of a cliff. They don’t fall until they look down, like the bad thing that can’t happen until you acknowledge the danger of it. If I open the door, there probably won’t be anything on the other side.
But what if there is?
Don’t be like the cartoon, I tell myself. Don’t look down.
I’m being ridiculous. It’s been too long since the last time I was in the house by myself. I’m letting myself get worked up over nothing. But I still get up and lock my bedroom door before sitting back down at the computer.
I look out my second-story bedroom window and out into the small yard below. It’s completely dark outside. The wind gently rustles through the trees so shadows move along the grass.
Is it just the wind casting shadows from the gently swaying trees or is something moving out there?
Another creak from the hallway and this one sounds closer. I’m not imagining things.
MadHacker95: I think there’s someone in my house.
I wait while the little icon spins to let me know he’s typing. My heart pounds painfully inside my chest. It doesn’t make sense for me to be scared like this. It’s completely nonsensical. But why is there a painful prickle of awareness moving down my spine and why are the little hairs on the back of my arms standing on end?
My body acts like it knows it’s in danger.
White_night00: SERIOUSLY!? Can you get out or call 911?
I swallow a curse. My phone is still sitting on the counter in the bathroom down the hall because I wanted to listen to music in the shower.
White_night00: tell me where you are? I’ll call the cops.
I hesitate. How would that look when there’s a good chance that I’m just overreacting? I can only imagine my father’s face if he came home to find the house surrounded by cops. But I still cast around for anything in the room that can transmit a signal.
My smart watch is sitting next to the computer. I’m about to strap it on my wrist when I stop. I’m not sure where the impulse comes from, but I shove it down into my sock instead so it’s trapped by my shoe.
I stand there frozen for several minutes, ignoring the frantic messages from White_night00. Every sense I have is primed for any breath of sound or hint of movement.
The silence mocks me.
My feet slide across the carpet as I move toward the bedroom door. I press my ear hard against it, desperately attuned to any sound out there. The air-conditioner fan whirs back on, breaking the silence.
Maybe I am just going crazy.
I force my body to relax by tiny degrees, but keep my ear to the door for another few moments. I’m pretty sure that it’s all just in my head, but I’m definitely not opening that door until my father gets home.
I just need to relax.
Strong arms wrap around me and I’m pulled into a chest that’s hard with muscle. The shock of it freezes me for a critical moment. A second later, I try to scream but a wet cloth descends over my face. The heavy hand holding it silences me so completely that I can barely hear myself. A sharply chemical smell like disinfectant or paint thinner overwhelms my senses.
My last thought before the world fades to black is that I didn’t think to lock the window.
Chapter 3
“What do you think, Hunt? Should we cut off a finger or a toe to send to the Senator?”
“Neither, you sick fuck.”
I made Savage drive the getaway car to keep his hands busy. He likes to live up to his name. There’s no doubt in my mind he’ll do the worse thing he can think of to this girl, whether or not it gets us any closer to finding Kidd.
A well of guilt rises in me. The emotion is as familiar as a childhood memory. We never should have left him there. But the Army supply plane we snuck onto to get back to the States was the only escape available. If we hadn’t taken it, we’d be dead. I still remember that flight as if it happened yesterday. Huddled against hard-sided crates and piles of duffle bags as freezing air rushed over us. That fourteen hours had felt like an entire lifetime.
But coming back stateside was the only way to find the Senator and put an end to all this. I owe that to Kidd. Nobody else will have to go through what he has.
I know he’s still alive. I feel it like the knowledge is embedded in my very bones. And I will go back for him.
This girl is the key.
Except, I can’t stop noticing how good she smells. It’s probably her hair. She had just showered when we grabbed her up.
Frost wouldn’t let me put her in the trunk. He thinks waking up with her hands tied behind her back and trapped in a closed space would be too traumatizing.
That means that now I’m sharing the backseat with an unconscious body that smells like vanilla and lavender. The scent wafts up into my nostrils like a spell is being cast over me.
She’s wearing a pair of soft shorts that barely cover the curve of her ass. Her thin tank-top looks like it would rip apart like tissue paper the moment I got my hands on it.
I shove her body toward the far door so the soft of skin of her outer thigh isn’t pressed against mine.
This girl is the enemy.
“You make sure we left no traces?” I ask Frost, to distract myself from the woman practically draped across my lap.
“Of course.” He glances back at me from his position in the passenger seat, expression inscrutable. “Everything went smoother than we could have hoped.”
“No fingerprints or hair fibers. You did a complete sweep?”
His expression is briefly exasperated. “Yes. There won’t be any way to trace this to us. Not until we deliver our message to the Senator.”
“Mailing pieces is pretty loud and clear,” Savage says darkly.
I look down at the girl’s hands. My gaze is drawn back to her like a magnet. Her short nails ar
e painted a turquoise blue. They’d been professionally manicured but the tips are jagged from where she must chew on them. I bet her father hates that. I try to imagine the look on the Senator’s face if he opened a nicely wrapped gift box to find a few of those fingers inside.
“She’s got a little ring on her pinkie,” Savage says. When I look up he’s staring at me in the rearview mirror. “That’s the one I’d pick.”
“What is this obsession with cutting her up?”
“We’re on a fucking timetable here. What about that don’t you get?” Savage’s reflection glares at me in the mirror. His hands tighten on the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. “The clock started ticking the minute we snatched this bitch.”
“Relax.”
“Don’t tell me to fucking relax. We spent the last three months with everyone thinking we’re dead. And dead men don’t kidnap Senator’s daughters. We’re shining a big fucking spotlight on our whole operation right now. The Senator’s going to throw everything he has at us. We have to be ready to do the same thing.”
I don’t like the reminder. We’ve given up everything to see this through. We all had families back home who opened the front door to solemn-faced soldiers in dress uniforms only to hear the worst possible news. Mothers and wives — I know Savage had been married at some point even though he never talks about it — who got a box of service medals instead of the bodies that won’t ever be recovered.
Faking our deaths is what got us out of Mali alive. The people after us never would have stopped coming, otherwise. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t gaping holes inside all of us where our old lives used to be.
“What’s your point?”
“I need to know that you’re in this until the end.” Savage’s gaze doesn’t break from mine in the mirror, even as he zooms past other cars on the highway. “The minute you start thinking about that girl as an innocent victim, it’s all over for us. She’s a fucking means to an end.”
“And that means we have to cut off her fingers?”
“It means we have to do whatever it takes. Or did you already forget about the promise you made to Kidd?”
I can still hear the screaming. Kidd had been in the cell next to mine when they tortured him. The sound of his screaming still sometimes wakes me up at night. I’d yelled useless threats and promises through the bars to Kidd.
Just hang on. I’ll get you out.
I will get you out.
By the time Savage and Frost broke into the makeshift prison, Kidd had already been moved somewhere else.
The men of that commander Savage had tortured for information to find me and Kidd were right behind him. We had less than a handful of minutes to decide whether to take the commandeered helicopter or go after Kidd when we had no idea where to start looking.
Dressing up some dead Malian soldiers in our uniforms and crashing the helicopter with them in it is what has kept us safe for so long. And then we snuck onto the only Army transport plane going out within the next month.
And left Kidd back there alone.
I shove away the dark memories. “I haven’t forgotten shit.”
“Then maybe you should keep Kidd in mind when you’re looking at that little bitch back there.”
She isn’t a bitch. The errant thought surprises me. Maybe Savage is closer to the mark than I want to admit. The girl means less than nothing, I remind myself. Not wanting Plan A to be cutting appendages off just makes me still somewhat attached to my humanity.
Somewhat being the operative word.
Frost is quiet in the front seat, but Frost is always quiet. It’s impossible to tell if he agrees with Savage’s warning or not.
“Leave it alone.”
“Does that mean you have a plan?”
“I always have a plan.” It sounds good to say it, whether or not it’s actually true.
“And if your plan doesn’t work out.” Savage’s voice has gone cold and quiet. “I need to know you’re willing to do whatever it takes.”
The girl is still laying motionless across the seat. The slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathes is the only indication she’s even alive. It’s easier to think of her as component parts — long brown hair, slim arms, long legs — instead of as a person. Only a means to an end.
“We’re going to get Kidd back.” My voice is as dead as his. “No matter what it takes.”
Chapter 4
I wake up hot and drenched in sweat.
It’s dark enough that I can barely see more than a few inches from the end of my nose. The floor underneath me feels hard, but sort of scratchy like it’s covered in a layer of sawdust. The place smells strange too, like a mix of new wood and old rot.
My shoulders are tight and aching. When I try to move my arms, they catch and stop before I can even bend my elbows. And I can’t spread them more than a few inches apart. I hear the sharp clank of metal with each slight movement of my wrists.
I remember the smart watch. When I wiggle my toes, I can tell that my shoes are still on and the coiled up piece of plastic bumps against the sole of my foot. I’ve never been flexible, but I think maybe I can bring my foot close enough to my hand to grab the watch. But when I try to move it, my leg catches after only a few inches with the sound of chain sliding against the floor.
Both my arms and legs are shackled.
Don’t panic, I tell myself as my breathing starts to get fast and shallow. You can’t think when you panic. Try to relax and find of a way out of this.
Because you are alone in the dark.
I consider yelling for help, but quickly abandon the idea. Whoever put me here has left me alone, at least for the moment. I want to keep it that way for as long as possible.
And who would even want to take me?
You hear about kidnappings. Diplomats kids in foreign countries will go missing in exchange for some amount of money. And yeah, my dad is a senator and might run for president some day but that doesn’t make me somebody worth kidnapping. My family is well-off, but not the sort of rich to make that worth it.
But maybe it’s something else. Something more sinister.
I press my legs together, alert for any hint of discomfort or pain. I would probably know if I’d been raped, right? That’s not the kind of thing that you can be unsure about. You don’t get brutally gang-raped and just wake up the same person.
Maybe they just haven’t gotten around to that yet.
Somehow, I just know it’s a they. The footsteps outside of my locked bedroom door and the attack through my window means that there are at least two of them. Maybe more.
If they wanted you dead then you’d be dead, I try to reassure myself. It was too quick and too efficient. This wasn’t a crime of opportunity or chance. Someone planned this.
The question is why. What do they want with me?
Cold, rational questions help to keep the panic at bay. But now I feel it rising in me like a swiftly approaching wave. It’s still in the distance, but only moments away from crashing into me.
I pull at the restraints on my wrists until the fragile skin feels broken and sharply aching. I’m just hurting myself pointlessly, because now I’m trapped and in pain.
There’s a metaphor for my life in that somewhere.
A loud bang makes me jump, the metal shackles sliding painfully against the tender skin of my wrists. And then a bright light is shining directly on me, so bright that I’m nearly blinded.
The floor felt so rough underneath me because it isn’t finished. It’s just plywood full of splinters and harsh grain. I’m handcuffed to a steel girder that extends from the floor to the ceiling. The little circle of light isn’t big enough for me to see anything else. But I’m clearly in the middle of a building that’s still under construction.
I don’t have time to notice anything else before they’re on top me.
Three men wearing Halloween masks are suddenly in my face and yelling. Their voices are oddly pitched and synthetic like the
y’re using those voice-changers that you can get from a novelty store.
Except there’s nothing childish about what the one wearing the Jason mask says when he bends menacingly over me.
“You know what I’m going to do to you, bitch?” He leans closer and his eyes are dark and crazily intense through the holes in the full-face hockey mask. A large knife presses against my cheek so the point rests just under my eyes. “I’m going to fucking cut you up.”
I try to pull away or fight, even as I know that it’s useless. Rough hands — his and others — hold me down on the floor hard enough that it will probably leave bruises.
“Where do you want it first?” Hot breath strikes my cheek. The point of the knife slides a sharp trail down my side and stops in the curve where my waist meets my hip. I shy away but it follows me.
“No… please!” I hate that I’m begging. I hate the way my voice goes high-pitched and reedy with panic.
“Do you want it fast or slow?”
“You don’t have to do this.” I’m crying — blubbering, even — and I hate myself for being so terrified. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to suffer. “I can get you money. My dad will give you anything you want. Just please don’t hurt me.”
My legs are wrenched cruelly apart as far as the shackles will allow. Freddie Krueger leers up from between my thighs. He rests his entire body weight on me until the muscles are painfully sharp and burning.
“Who says we want money?”
Freddie’s voice is somehow deeper and darker than the other one, even though they’re using the same sort of synthesizer. Another frisson of fear runs through me.
God, please no.
His hands grip tight on my thighs, nails digging into the skin. “Maybe we just want to play with you for a little while.”
It’s inexplicable, but the thought of being brutally raped is somehow so much worse than dying. Maybe it’s my father’s conservative sensibilities rubbing off on me, but everybody dies sooner or later. Rape is a violation of the natural order of things. It’s grotesque and terrifying. Unnatural.