by Camryn King
It wasn’t until awakened by the slamming of a car door that Kennedy realized she’d fallen asleep. Despite her bound, vulnerable state, she kicked against the hand that reached for her and scooted as far into the car as she could away from him. The victory was short-lived. She was pulled out of the car and with no time to gain her balance or footing—as much that could be gained with bound ankles—she was half-carried, half-dragged into some type of shelter and down a hall, recognized because of how her body bumped against it. The hands squeezing her shoulder and arms released her suddenly, pushed her forward. She fell on a bed. No! Kennedy made a promise to herself right then. She would die before being assaulted and was so busy trying to roll to a sitting position and scoot to the headboard where she could brace herself and kick that it took a while before she realized there was no reason to fight. No hands grabbing at her, no pulling of clothes.
“Hello?”
She held her breath, the only sound in the room. Faint noises from another room told Kennedy she still wasn’t alone. It pained her to not know who was in there or what he was doing. Minutes passed. She felt her life hang in the balance, wondered if her torturer enjoyed toying with her emotions, the power of setting the time she would die. Footsteps in the hallway suggested he’d made his decision. She struggled to sit up, but he placed a knee on her legs and held his torso against hers to hold her still. She felt the bonds being loosened on her wrists. The weight lifted, footsteps receded, the door closed, a car started. In that moment, Kennedy knew the only thing worse than being with her captor was being blindfolded, bound, and totally alone. Even though her captor had said not one word.
It took only seconds to shift her thoughts from dying to living. For reasons that did not matter, her captor had loosened the ropes. He’d removed her from Harriet, but the ancestor’s spirit remained. Kennedy could get free! She stopped the frantic maneuvering against the ropes and after a couple calm breaths, she carefully twisted her wrists, this way and that, the ropes began to slide. For the first time since a wet cloth was placed over her nostrils, Kennedy felt hope come alive. A couple minutes more and her wrists were free. She shook them to get the blood flowing, rubbed them together so they could be used to remove the tape that had served as her blindfold. The tape was tougher, but she managed to push it up far enough to see her surroundings, then, while blinking to adjust to dim lighting, wrestled the rope from around her ankles, scrambled off the bed, and almost fell when she tried to run on legs that had been bound for a while. A few seconds to regroup and she ran for the door. Since the man hadn’t killed her, he’d probably be back. She didn’t plan to be there.
She raced to the door, grabbed the knob and prepared to yank it open. It didn’t budge. She ran her fingers around and over the knob, looking for the way to get out. There was only a keyhole. She was locked inside. A jolt to her nerves, but Kennedy stayed focused. She crossed over to one of two windows in the front room and yanked the cloth shade. Bars. Her heart dropped. She quickly checked the other windows, already knowing what she’d find. Using one of the empty beer cans, she broke a pane of glass, hoping the bars were loose or maybe unlocked. Five windows, five sets of bars, and no such luck. The door to the home’s only entrance was locked tight, the windows were barred shut.
Great. Now what?
It was becoming more difficult to stay calm. Kennedy took another turn around the small cottage, slower this time, looking for something, anything that could help her escape. The house was not only totally devoid of personal effects, it was almost empty. An old Playboy magazine and a newspaper sports’ section were in the single nightstand drawer. The dresser drawers held nothing but dust which was also evident on the tabletops. A second bedroom was empty save a dartboard on the wall, a couple of chairs and some empty beer cans. The dirty bathroom’s cabinet revealed little more than the rest of the room, an unopened toothbrush, mouthwash, and a used bar of soap. No shower rod. No tools. The kitchen was her last hope. Flinging open cabinet doors, her heart sank. There were canned goods, crackers, a jar of peanut butter, fast food condiments, a few paper plates. The drawers were no better. Aside from plastic utensils, fast food napkins and a rusty steak knife, they were empty. Clearly, whoever owned this place hadn’t been here in a while. She looked around, fighting off thoughts that this mission might be impossible. She took a deep breath. That’s when the situation went from bad to worse. That’s when she noticed the distinct smell of gas. She raced to the stove where the smell was stronger, and a hissing noise releasing the gas. Turning the knobs was useless. Then came a glint off the steel. Kennedy looked up. There was a small skylight directly over the stove, maybe six square inches; hope, and on the heels of that sheer terror at the implication. Today was supposed to be hot, almost a hundred degrees. Could the sun get intense enough to cause an explosion? If this gas was confined and built up enough pressure, would it matter?
The ceiling looked to be about seven feet high. Kennedy raced for one of the chairs and placed it under the light. The cover was plastic, screwed in. She thought about the rusty knife in the drawer, but Kennedy didn’t know if she had time to fuss with four screws. Instead, she took yet another turn around the house, throwing open a closet in the first bedroom she’d passed the last time. There were hangers, at least something, and then one thing more—the metal bar on which the hangers hung. It was set, unlatched, in plastic holders. She flung the clothes away, snatched up the bar and raced back to the kitchen. Adrenaline gave her the strength of ten men. She jabbed straight through the plastic and was rewarded with a hole that blessedly let in the sky. She didn’t need much more motivation. She continued stabbing at the plastic, and once she accidentally hit the ceiling and pieces of drywall hit her face, she tried to punch through that as well. Her arms burned with the effort but there was no time for rest. She created enough of a hole around the skylight to pull it down, a space of about eight square inches. Jabbing the metal bar again, she hit a beam. Would wooden beams in the ceiling trap her inside as the metal bars had on the windows? Delirious with fear, Kennedy balanced the metal bar across two of the wooden beams, then used a third one to hoist herself up. With a portion of her weight now held by the back of the chair and one arm wrapped around the beam, she used her other arm to try and clear enough plaster, insulation and other stuff to make a hole big enough to crawl through. A set of clicking sounds stopped her movement. Whether real or imagined, the gas smell increased. Something told her she only had minutes to live. Scratched, bruised, bloodied, sore, exhausted—she called on strength from deep within her and lifted herself through the hole. There was a small attic, more of a crawl space really. But at the end of it . . . a window! Ignoring the pain of skin meeting rough wood, she shimmied over to the window and using the bar she held, broke out the glass. As she heard it break, another sound pierced the otherwise quiet morning. A car engine. Shit! Her kidnapper was back.
27
Plans changed. Not long after Zeke had crossed the Indiana state line, he’d gotten a call. It was Van Dijk.
“I need you to make a stop on your way to Springfield.”
“That’s no problem. Where?”
“Chicago.”
It was the last city Zeke had expected to hear. “What’s in Chicago, Mr. Van Dijk?”
“Not what. Who. The assignment you’d been working until a few days ago. You’ll get to finish it after all. You’re going to get a text from an international number, with an address for a place owned by . . . a friend. It’s not far from the city, a place you can stop and rest a bit. But be sure not to leave any trash behind. We want to keep the place clean, understand?”
“Absolutely.”
“Don’t take too long. I’ll expect to hear from you sometime tomorrow, from Springfield.”
Zeke had shifted his thoughts as quickly as the gears in his Jeep, reprogramming the GPS and heading to Chicago. He didn’t allow himself to wonder about the change or entertain questions unproductive to the job at hand. He’d followed the instructio
ns as he would an order in combat. He’d arrived at the location, scoped the area, and in a stroke of luck had watched his target practically walk into his snare. That was the easy part. He found himself wrestling with what happened next, and didn’t like the feeling at all.
Focus, Zeke. It’s over. Forget and move on.
Over the years, Zeke had developed the ability to compartmentalize areas of his life, to stay focused on the orders he’d been given that were often ends justifying means. He didn’t think about collateral damage as people. To imagine them with families, brothers and sisters, parents or even children, could lead to a crack in the armor around his heart. Before, it had always worked. It’s what helped him get through four tours of duty and raw, heinous wars. It’s what kept him sane through the knowledge of collateral damage created when drones hit the wrong targets, unsuspecting civilians, and bullets landed regardless of innocence or age. It’s how he moved forward with assignments like this one, when he wasn’t fully informed of the details, or other times when he hadn’t totally agreed. He was able to carry out an assignment or hit, put the experience in a box, and forget it. Maybe it was the fact that he drove her vehicle, or had heard her voice, or felt her struggle, but for whatever reason, he remembered. Not the Wade that he’d ambushed, rendered unconscious with a drug-soaked cloth and taken to a designated location to meet an explosive end. The woman invading his conscious now was Kennedy, the sun goddess he’d seen in the Bahamas.
He should have paid more attention to that first tear, the moment she woke up and spoke and he felt an emotion. Feeling anything at all was a sign. But he’d ignored it, turned up the radio and zoned into hard rock. Once at the home she’d fought him, as if for her life. Bound and blinded, but still courageous. She did not want to die, and for an instant, a nanosecond really, he hadn’t wanted to kill her. But he’d been given an order, and like a good soldier, he followed it.
Once inside the house he’d dumped her on the bed, witnessed the body language screaming that she thought he would sexually assault her. She had no need to worry. Dispose of an enemy? No problem. But he would never rape a woman. Instead he’d gone to the kitchen, and quickly, methodically, loosened a bolt on the gas line to create a leak that would take a couple hours to tip off the ignition, sort of like a detector, and explode. Then he returned to her and loosened the ropes on her wrists. Seeing what a hellion she’d been, he had no doubt she’d try to escape. But every window was barred and the doors were secure. There would be no exit for her until she woke up on the other side. He’d also loosened the ropes on her hands, knowing she’d struggle out of them. What she wouldn’t know is that her actions would play right into his plans. Without those bonds, the scene would look like an unfortunate accident. He knew he could leave then, knew that two seconds after hearing the car take off, she’d be hell-bent to get free. It’s exactly what he wanted, just as he’d planned. If firemen discovered bound remains in the ashes it would be investigated as a murder, not labeled an accident due to a faulty gas line, the way they would now. He figured there was enough time to wipe down the car, park it in a sketchy neighborhood, pick up his Jeep and continue on to Fort Leonard Wood. Ideally, he would have reported for duty by the time it happened. Though he was ninety-nine percent sure his execution was perfect, he never underestimated that one percent.
He’d walked back to the car and jumped in, fired it up, and hauled ass down the dirt road. He’d rolled down the window. That’s when it happened. He’d caught a whiff of perfume that rent the tear into a hole. The fragrance unlocked the box where he’d put her and pulled out the memory of when he’d first seen her, when they’d first met. When she thought he was a nice guy and when for a minute he felt normal, like someone really out on a date. He’d been surprised by how much he’d enjoyed it; how easy she was to talk to and how attractive he’d found her. He’d always leaned more toward the blonde-haired, blue-eyed babe. But there was something about how the sinking sun had hit her toasty complexion, turning it almost golden that moved him, something about how the light danced in her brown eyes. She’d been sarcastic, but playful, guarded but real. He didn’t get real so much with his paid companions. The conversation had been enjoyable even though every word on his end was a lie. Something about Wade’s easiness had calmed and relaxed him, even scared him a little. He knew that for her, the night would end badly. He shouldn’t have cared about it, but he had, even attempting to prolong the friendly interlude when she was ready to call it a night.
* * *
“Are you sure I can’t talk you into extending the evening? The company is amazing and it’s a beautiful night.”
“I agree on both counts but tomorrow will come early. I have a plane to catch.”
“Where’s home?”
“Chicago. What about you?”
“Virginia.”
“Really? Where’s the accent?”
“Back on my grandfather’s farm, where it belongs.”
“It’s probably good you don’t have one.”
“Why?”
Kennedy shrugged. Stifled a yawn. “I think a southern accent is sexy and since I’m away from home and feeling relaxed, that could have gotten me into trouble.”
She’d yawned again, proof that what he’d slipped in her coffee was working fast.
“Whew!” She began walking across the lobby, toward the elevators. “I’m more tired than I thought. Even decaf coffee usually gives me a bit of a bounce.”
They reached the bank of elevators. He pushed the up button.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To my room.” Zeke’s smile was easy. “I’m staying here, too, remember?”
* * *
She’d offered her own sexy smile, then leaned against the elevator wall and closed her eyes. He’d asked for her room number, then pushed a button that was higher. Someone had waved from across the way for him to hold the elevator. Instead he’d jammed the close button, put his arm around Kennedy and once they reached her floor helped her to her room. Then he’d waved goodbye while discreetly placing a pin in the chamber so that it would not lock. Ten minutes later he’d entered the room to find Kennedy on the bed, fully clothed, and sound asleep. He disconnected emotionally, carrying out the orders that had been given. He didn’t understand then, or now, the value of whatever pictures she’d taken. Nothing he’d seen pointed to a threat of any kind, unless it was to trees. Between the Bahamas and Chicago, every electronic device she had was confiscated, but the damning pictures of Van Dijk had yet to be found. She had to be eliminated for the secret to remain hidden. Even if someone else had the pictures, hearing of her “accident” would no doubt make them think twice.
The accident he’d set up to have happened to Wade was making him think . . . too much. He’d almost reached the main highway when he saw a sign showing the number of miles to the next three small towns. He took the exit for the second one and though it was barely after eight in the morning he soon found what he was looking for—a bar with a neon open sign, brightly lit. Meds would make him sleepy or too foggy for this stage of the game. But a shot or two with a cigarette would settle his mind down. Small towns were known for their tight-knit communities, able to see a stranger from a mile away. So he pulled on a red St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap and reached into a fanny pack for wire-rimmed reader glasses. He parked directly in front of the Grown Capone with a story ready to roll off his lips like gospel. He reached for the door and entered a dim room empty of patrons, with a pool table on his right side and three chairs facing the window on the left. A makeshift aisle ran between two sides of tables that led to a bar along the back side of the wall. The owner or whoever had been tasked with holding down a watering hole this time of morning was barely visible behind the counter, watching a fishing show on TV. Midway in the room was a jukebox, above it a large picture of Trout and a larger American flag. Zeke felt calmer already. This was going to be a piece of cake.
Pulling the bib of his cap a bit lower, Zeke sli
d on to a bar seat. Without looking away from the screen the bartender asked, “What can I get you?”
“Shot of Wild Turkey.”
The bartender’s eyes slid over briefly before returning to the screen. “Early morning or late night?”
“A bit of both.”
The bartender picked up a glass, walked over to a row of bottles and picked up one in the middle.
“Make it a double,” Zeke said.
The bartender set down the single shot glass and picked up a small tumbler. He poured a liberal amount of the amber colored liquor and slid the glass down the surprisingly smooth counter.
“Trying to forget something, buddy?” he asked, walking back to the chair.
Zeke didn’t hear him. His attention and eyes were glued to the “Breaking News” banner crawling across the screen beneath pictures of Braum Van Dijk and the pharmaceutical heir Edward Becker juxtaposed over each other.
“Hey, can you turn that up?”
The bartender turned around. “You watch his network?”
Zeke offered a curt nod. “Damn right.”