Stealing Her

by Alexis Abbott

  The full moon is just barely casting light through the scattered drizzling clouds, but it’s enough for me to be able to tell that everything looks slightly different in the trailer-restaurant, and when Ryder reaches the oven and puts his hand on it, I notice what’s different.

  The window opposite where Ryder is standing has been shattered open. It used to be so caked in grime that it kept the room dark, so dark that rats would usually scurry away when we entered. I take a step into the kitchen and see that it has indeed been punched through…thoroughly.

  As I furrow my brow, I feel my phone buzz, and I glance at it to see a text from Tank. He wouldn’t message me unless it were urgent.

  Someone's in the fun house

  My eyes snap up, and I see that the window in the kitchen has a straight line of sight to the top level of the fun house.

  “Get down!” I bark at Ryder as I barrel forward, and every muscle in my body kicks into gear as adrenaline lets me race forward toward him. He looks up and back at me just a split second before I reach him.

  Our bodies make contact just as I hear the gunshot of the hunting rifle.

  I feel a bullet fly so close to my head that I could have sworn it brushed against the hair on my neck. Ryder and I hit the ground with a heavy, painful thud as the bullet hits the wall behind the oven.

  This is a fucking trap.

  “What the fuck?!” Ryder shouts.

  “Sniper in the funhouse!” I bark, and without a second thought, I take off running through the other end of the trailer.

  The back end that used to be used by the staff has long since had its door torn off, and thick brush has already started creeping inside. I take a running dive into it, and I hit the ground rolling, feeling my skin get scratched by the twigs. I start barreling through the brush around the cul-de-sac, not willing to run out into open territory.

  That would be a death sentence, but we have one other thing working to our advantage— whoever is here must not know about Tank and Hawk.

  I hear two gunshots go off from the old petting zoo, and I hear them ricochet off the funhouse. When the bullets hit, I see what they saw moving on the top level: a dark figure in one of the windows, right in front of the distortion mirrors. He slips back further inside when my men shoot at him, and that gives me the cover I need.

  I dart out across the cul-de-sac, heavy boots hitting the ground hard as they propel me forward to my target. I reach the front of the funhouse in a matter of seconds, and in one fluid motion, I take hold of the rusty bars that used to form the queue, and I haul myself up and over into the entrance.

  I take my gun out, holding it in front of me as I enter the house while I hear Tank and Ryder circling around the outside and back. I walk through a cylindrical hallway that used to turn slowly when the park was operational. There’s very little room to hide here, and if the assassin is good, he’ll take advantage of that.

  I round the corner with my gun forward, and almost immediately, I see the glint of a knife as the attacker lunges forward. I fire my gun, but it hits the metal ceiling and makes the whole room ring as I twist away to avoid the knife.

  The man is dressed in a similar set of dark clothes, turtleneck, and black beanie as my gang and I are. He’s also clearly no amateur. He wastes no time recovering from his missed attack, and I don’t have time to aim my weapon before he comes at me again. He’s brought a knife to a gunfight in one of the few possible situations where that would be a good idea.

  I put a gloved hand around his forearm when he lunges forward, but I can’t get the grip I need to twist the knife out of his hand, and I’m forced to drop my gun. Immediately, I kick it into the darkness so that he can’t grab it either, but he doesn’t seem interested in it.

  I can feel the strength in his arms alone, and I know he thinks he doesn’t need it.

  If we were just some random gang of thugs, he might actually have the upper hand here, but I’m not going to let him have that.

  We grapple. I try to get the knife from him while he tries to swing it around to drive the point into any part of me he can reach, but I can tell which parts he’s going for— throat one moment, kidneys the next, then the gut. I narrowly avoid him, but when he tries to stab me in the gut, I twist away just late enough that the blade rips my shirt. The turtleneck is almost in shreds over my shoulders, but I don’t have time to care.

  His knife comes down so close to my face that I feel it brush against my beard, and I move in around his side, taking the one opportunity I see. With one hand, I get a grip on his wrist and tighten my fist until I hear a crunch on the downswing. The assassin lets out a howl of pain, and in the same motion, I drive my knee into the back of his.

  It sends him to the ground on his knees, hard, and I waste no time in wrenching the knife from his grip and putting it to his throat.

  The second I finish, Ryder staggers into the funhouse after me, gun out and ready, flashlight in another hand.

  We lock eyes as I hold the attacker at knifepoint. We don’t say a word. We don’t need to.

  Ryder knows every bit as well as I do that I just saved his life. He gives me a solemn nod, and I take it as a vow that he won’t do so much as think out of line ever again. If he does, he’s not the man I grew up with.

  I hear the sounds of footsteps behind me, but I recognize the gaits— it’s Tank and Hawk.

  “Got a live one,” I say gruffly once the whole gang is inside with me.

  “Who is he?” Ryder asks, stepping forward.

  “Answer,” I order the assassin, pressing the knife to his throat.

  “You know who sent me,” the man says grimly. His voice is rueful, but he doesn’t make a move to try to struggle away.

  “You’re a professional,” I remark. “You were paid good for this, weren’t you? I got questions.”

  “A shame,” he growls, and I realize that he has been inching his hand closer to his belt while we spoke.

  The second he grips the holster of the gun and pulls it out, I drop the knife, put my hands around his neck, and I give it one hard, firm twist.

  The sound of his neck breaking echoes in the metal room, and the man’s body slumps to the ground before I grab the gun in a gloved hand, looking around at the others with a set jaw.

  “Let’s move. We have a problem.”

  Back at the asylum a few hours later, fresh out of the vehicle, I throw the door to the walkway open and march down to where I see Bear standing guard outside the root cellar.

  “Holy shit,” he says when he sees me storming forward, turtleneck in rags and fire in my eyes. “What the fuck happened out there?”

  “Good question,” I say curtly. “Go inside. I need a word with her.”

  He stands back as I storm up to the heavy iron door, slide the key into the padlock, and pull it open, and see Lila sitting at the back of the room. Her face goes white as she sees me stride into the room in heavy, menacing steps, and I slam the door behind us.

  Lila

  I wake from a dark dream to find myself in an even darker reality. As soon as my eyes flutter open, I know what woke me up: the sound of the lock being disengaged and the metal door creaking open. It’s still dark, that hazy glow faintly shining through and confusing my mind. It could be twilight, it could be dawn— I have no way of knowing. I remind myself that I should be trying to keep tabs on the days and nights.

  Maybe I should be etching lines into the filthy, earthen wall like the tenant who came before me. Maybe that’s the only way to cling to some tiny, thin shred of sanity. But I feel like I have already pushed beyond that boundary. I’m already losing my mind. Time feels simultaneously stretched out and tightly compacted. Minutes pass like hours. Hours pass like days.

  I don’t have a single idea what is going on when I see the dark-eyed captor’s hulking figure come barging through the open door, shoulders raised, hands clenched into fists by his sides. I can’t make out much of his facial expression, but I do see his furrowed brow. That combined w
ith the rest of his aggressive body language tells me I’m in trouble of some kind. I don’t know what I did wrong or what I did to deserve what he’s got in store for me.

  I’m wide awake the second I lay eyes on him, regardless of the hour.

  I manage to clumsily stand up and press myself as far back against the wall as possible, gasping for breaths while my whole body goes into survival mode. I have to be realistic about this, even if it’s terrifying to think about. The truth of the matter is that I’m completely vulnerable here. I have little recourse. If this man is about to attack me, there is very little I can do to protect myself.

  What will I do?

  Cry out for help?

  Nobody here is going to help me. That much is obvious. In fact, it’s bad enough that this dark-eyed man has had to protect me from his own associates. That tells me that in the hierarchy of evil intentions, my dark-eyed captor is at the bottom— the least evil. And considering he kidnapped me and threw me into a filthy cell and left me here, I would hazard a guess that the base level for evil is at an all-time low.

  He is not a good man, despite the little gifts he has given me. Despite the undeniable and confusing electrical jolt of attraction that seizes me every time he touches my body, I have to remember that he’s not my savior. He’s the one who put me here.

  I should hate him. I definitely should at least fear him. The things he could do to me, the ways he could hurt my body, break my heart, shatter my soul… well, I should know better than to let myself feel anything warmer than ice-cold hatred for him.

  And yet when he first comes hurtling at me, my first instinct is not to defend myself, it’s to rush into his arms. A split-second flash of longing, the image in my mind of his powerful arms wrapped comfortingly around my much smaller frame. He could scoop me up and hold me to his chest. I can perfectly imagine hearing his heartbeat, feeling it thump against my cheek as his huge, rough hands stroke my hair and cup my chin.

  But then, when I see the anger flashing in his black eyes, reality comes knocking again and I am swiftly, violently reminded that this man does not have good intentions for me. I have to defend myself as best I can. I can’t give in so easily.

  So, I do the first thing I can think of to try: I dart two quick steps away to snatch up the pencil he gifted me earlier, from where it’s lying on top of the journal. It’s an old-fashioned pencil, not the mechanical kind, and to my relief the tip is pointed and sharpened. It’s like a very tiny, fragile dagger. I thank my lucky stars for whoever sharpened this pencil as I hold it out in front of my chest, the whittled point aimed out at my captor as he approaches me angrily. He glances down at the pencil, raises an eyebrow incredulously, then glares right into my face. I gulp back my fear and stare at him, trying to look as defiant and brave as I can. I know that’s all I have right now. A bluff.

  There’s a brief pause, then he grunts in a way that could almost be a laugh. Like he’s laughing at me, at my weak defense. He’s calling my bluff. He keeps coming closer. Now, every nerve in my body is on fire, screaming for me to run, shout, stab him with the pencil. Anything to keep myself alive for a few more seconds. But what can I do? I grit my teeth and wait as he steps closer and closer to me, slowly now, almost like he’s daring me to attack. It’s cruel.

  “You won’t do that,” he murmurs authoritatively. “You and I both know it.”

  “You don’t know me at all,” I hiss back, brandishing the pencil like it’s a switchblade. “You don’t know if I’ve done this before. You don’t know anything.”

  “Oh, on the contrary,” my dark-eyed captor says, tilting his head slightly as he looked at me, almost with more curiosity than rage. “I know so much about you. Too much. Everything.”

  “Then you know my father trained me never to throw a fight,” I whisper.

  He scoffs. “Your father would sooner throw you to the dogs himself,” he says, every word dripping with pure venom. My heart begins to pound.

  “Don’t talk about him that way. It’s not true. My father loves me,” I insist.

  I hold out the pencil even farther, warning him to keep back. The captor lifts both hands in mock surrender, smirking at the tip of the pencil, held in my visibly trembling hand. Now that his arms are up and my eyes are adjusting to the dim lighting, I can see that his shirt is torn, revealing strips of bare skin and the hints of rippling muscle beneath. His biceps bulge, and when I glance over at the long shadow he casts behind himself that he looks absolutely monstrous compared to me. Like he’s some mystical beast and I’m some fairytale waif, about to land myself in some tragic moral lesson. And when the soft natural glow from beyond the door comes streaming in over his facial features, I nearly forget to breathe.

  He does not have the face of a mystical beast. He doesn’t look like a monster at all, or even a villain. He looks like a damn menswear model, with his sharp cheekbones, angular jawline, and perfect physique, evident even in the darkness and under his clothes. I shiver, realizing for the first time that danger can be beautiful to the eye.

  And then another, even darker thought occurs to me: I have officially seen his face now. I’ve watched enough true crime television to know what that means. If I’ve seen his face, I could potentially identify him to the police. Which means I’m a liability. I’m a risk.

  He will have to kill me.

  “And here I thought you were a good girl,” my captor purrs, his voice soft and sharp at the same time somehow. “I thought you were going to behave.”

  “I’ve done everything you want. I-I don’t scream. I don’t fight back. I’ve been a model prisoner. And for what? You said I would get out of here soon, but you lied. You just wanted to give me false hope to mess with my head,” I accuse bitterly.

  He rolls those gorgeous black eyes and chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “Maybe you’re behaving, but nobody else is,” he says rather cryptically.

  I frown at him, still holding the pencil out in front of me. “What do you mean? Who else is there? Are there other kidnap victims?” I ask, almost breathless.

  “In the past, yes. There have been many. But none so difficult as you,” he says.

  “Difficult?” I repeat indignantly. “How? I’ve done nothing wrong here.”

  “Your father is difficult. Our little business we run here depends on the humanity and empathy of wealthy men. Most of the time, that’s an oxymoron at best. A man with that kind of money has no space left for his heart,” the dark-eyed man explains.

  “What does that even mean?” I groan.

  He smiles faintly, sending a shiver down my spine.

  “It means that your daddy isn’t cooperating with us. He won’t follow instructions. You may want to blame me for this, but I’m telling you, the blame is all his,” he says. “You could be back home in your cozy bedroom. You know, the one with the floral wallpaper and the shag rug. That elegant four-post bed. That teddy bear you try to keep hidden under your pillow. The little moon-shaped light behind your nightstand. Wouldn’t you rather be there right now? Sleeping comfortably? Without a care in the world?”

  I can feel the color draining from my face.

  He just perfectly described my bedroom. In detail. That tells me not only has he been there, but he’s inspected it. He’s explored all my little secrets. He knows me better than I thought he could. And he’s mocking me. Trying to turn me against my own father. Anger bubbles up inside of me.

  “So you’re trying to tell me it’s Daddy’s fault you kidnapped me?” I spit.

  A languid, beatific smile crosses his face and he lowers his hands to his sides. “He made himself a very large, very bright target. And now he’s disobeying. We gave him careful instructions on how to get his precious little girl back, and he chose not to follow them. In fact, he very nearly got me killed,” he says.

  “He’s defending my honor,” I insist.

  The dark-eyed man snorts derisively. “No. He’s choosing ego over love. If I had died, nobody would ever find you. He needs m
e to get you back, but he was willing to sacrifice you to defend his own reputation. He would rather let you disappear into nothing than negotiate with the likes of me,” he explains coolly.

  My heart is sinking down through my body. I feel ill. Something about the way he describes my father rings perfectly true, but I’m not ready to confront it yet.

  “My father is a brilliant man. A master negotiator,” I say defensively. “I’m sure he has a plan in mind to get me back. He’s probably setting that plan in motion as we speak.”

  “No. I hate to shatter your fragile worldview, Lila, but that just isn’t true. If I had died, there would be no one left to tell your father where you are, how to get you back. You see, he was willing to risk that for his own sake. He cares more about his arbitrary code of manly honor than about saving the life of his only child. I have to wonder, though, would he work a little harder to save you if perhaps you had been born a son?” he suggests, taking another step closer.

  I can feel my lower lip quivering, the tears stinging in my eyes. Every word he says twists the dagger a little more deeply into my heart. I know, deep down, he’s not lying.

  He’s not sugarcoating, either.

  For once in my life, someone is telling me the truth, and it’s ugly. All the dark things I refused to believe, but always knew, deep down.

  I will never be enough for my father.

  I will never make up for my mother dying in child birth.

  No matter what I do, he will never be able to love me.

  “Please stop,” I mumble tearfully. “Please just… don’t tell me anymore.”

  “No, Lila. You need to know this about him. You need to understand exactly who is keeping you here, exactly who to blame. It isn’t me. It isn’t any of my associates. Hell, it’s not even your fault. You’re right. You’ve been a good prisoner. But that rich daddy of yours… he’s the reason you’re here instead of curled up in your sweet little bedroom,” my captor explains, his voice softening in a way that hurts my heart even more.