Hellbent, page 6
Someone put a clammy hand on her bare thigh and pinched. She kicked out explosively, unable to stop herself.
Whack, right to the head. Her punishment.
Don’t vomit in the bag, she begged her heaving stomach. Just don’t.
She was grimly resolved to stay conscious. This was no bad dream. The monsters had gotten the better of her. She was fucked. But she had to at least try to fight.
It couldn’t have been longer than twenty minutes, if her time sense was to be trusted, when the vehicle slowed to a crawl. The front passenger side door popped open. She heard a clang, the groan of a rusty gate. Cooler air rushed in, giving her goose-bumps.
Something horrible was going happen here. Soon. Go down spitting nails.
That persistent hand insinuated itself under her skirt again, fondling her hip. She clenched her teeth and did not allow herself to react. She didn’t need another punch to the head. Her stomach was already heaving. Bile burned in the back of her throat.
She had to look as limp and beaten and helpless as possible. Wait like a patient predator for her best chance to do the most possible damage.
It might not be significant damage, bound hand and foot. But she had knees, teeth and her own hard head, and absolutely nothing to lose.
Chains rattled. Bolts were drawn back. The vehicle moved…then stopped.
She stayed limp as she was pulled out, hoisted up. One man took her by the armpits, another by her legs. They hauled her from some place with very little light to a place with no light at all, at least not through the bag. She smelled motor oil, cement dust, mold. Sounds echoed, like a big warehouse. An animal had died nearby some time ago and decomposed. She caught a dank whiff of bat shit.
An abandoned, forgotten place, far from help. No one would hear her scream.
They flung her down and she hit a cold, damp concrete floor, whump. A bone-rattling, full-body slap. Their voices faded in and out as waves of pain swelled and broke.
“…big waste, if you ask me. I say, have some fun first and then cut it out. She’ll be a fucking bloody mess afterward.”
“The boss said get the capsule and don’t get distracted. He wants her for himself.”
“The boss ain’t here! Who’s gonna know? We don’t want all that blood on us, right?”
Fiona’s gorge rose. Her heartbeat swelled in her ears.
Play dead. Helpless. Harmless. Beaten. No threat. Just a vulnerable girl.
“…heard how she fought off the guys in California, right? Did you miss that detail, genius? This one’s tricky. A real bad bitch. Leave her the fuck alone.”
Crap. So much for the harmless damsel act.
“Gimme a fucking break,” the first voice complained. “There are five of us. One for each arm and leg, and we take turns.”
“Wilson told me what happened after that clusterfuck up at the Hole,” the other guy said. “The squad leader was the only survivor and the boss shot that fucker right in the face for screwing up. Wilson spent the rest of the day cleaning up the mess. We get the goods, and we take her straight to him. Boss gets first crack. Maybe you’ll get lucky after he’s done. If there’s anything left.”
Dread swamped her, making her mind go dark. She fought to stay conscious.
God, what was it with her? From heaven to hell in a blink. That moment with Anton had been sweet beyond her wildest dreams. Typical, that she took a nosedive into the shredder right afterward.
For something that good, there had to be a reckoning.
And that was the Prophet talking. She had to get that guy out of her head.
The bag was whipped off her head. Fiona coughed out dust and gulped air, spitting out mouthfuls of hair from her dry mouth. She blinked in the thin light of a naked bulb that was dangling on a cord from above. The weak pool of light didn’t penetrate far.
The place was what she expected. Empty, echoing. Endless shadows as far as she could see. Shelving units, machines, dust and grime and garbage.
The guy who took off her hood was big, with a face as wide as a dinner plate, pitted with old acne scars. His balding scalp was shiny with oil. He held a long, wicked looking notched knife in his hand. No fussy scalpel for this guy. He meant business.
She cleared her throat. “What do you want from me?”
He backhanded her. “Shut the fuck up, cunt.”
She started to mouth off, just on principle, and thought better of it. There was going to be so much pain tonight. No need to beg for more.
“Hold her up,” the plate-faced guy growled. “Pull down that dress.”
“Now you’re talking.” It was the first guy she’d heard, the one who had been lobbying to get his raping in before the cutting started. A horse-faced guy with sunken cheeks, wet, purplish lips and bushy eyebrows. He smelled like meat gone bad.
Horse-face wrenched her dress down to the belt around her hips and let out a growl of lascivious approval.
“Stop that shit,” the top guy growled. “Hold her still. Move that hair over to the side and get the fuck out of my light.”
The other men milled around. One gathered up all her hair in his fist, twisting it into a thick rope and wrenching her head to the side.
“At least we know it’s the right girl this time,” Horse-face said. “She’s got a fuckin’ diagram on her back.” He pinched her nipple. His hot breath made her gorge rise.
Pop. The sound was big but dull, like loud clap. The chortling and muttering suddenly stopped. No one moved, or breathed.
Fiona saw it first. One of Horse-face’s eyes was a dark, gaping hole. Dark blood trickled down his face like tears. The other eye was still looking at her, blinking.
Then the crushing grip of his enormous hands eased. He toppled backward like a chopped tree.
“Fuck!” someone bawled. “Rafe’s shot!”
Pop. Another man lurched forward, falling to his knees. Someone was out there in the dark, shooting with a silenced gun. How…?
The room erupted into gunfire and Fiona hit the ground. She opened her eyes, and found her face just inches from Rafe’s one staring eye. Blood was pooled below his head, spreading toward her. She didn’t dare move. Gunshots stuttered over her.
Rough hands grabbed her and hauled her up against a man’s chest. Plate-face was using her as a shield. His thick, sweaty arm crushed her throat. She couldn’t move her neck. All she could see was the swaying light bulb, but Horse-face and at least one other guy were down, leaving three. She heard more shots. A screech from across the room.
Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Passing out. Air.
A gun barrel was shoved against her scalp, hot as a brand from being discharged in quick succession. She tried to flinch away, but her head was clamped against his chest, immobilized against the burning metal. Fuck, that hurt.
“Stop shooting, or I blow off her head!” Plate-face bellowed.
7
Fiona struggled in the moon-faced guy’s grip. Every detail of her half-naked body was crystal sharp. She looked like she was lit from the inside in the light cast by that watery, dangling light bulb. Even smeared with blood, she glowed like a star.
Anton stared through the scope of the MP5K, crouched behind a stack of crates. Precision shooting required detachment. He sought the necessary calm. Utter stillness.
The smothering arm of the moonfaced guy had forced Fiona’s chin way up. His gun barrel was still buried in the tangled mass of her fiery hair as he backed away, keeping Fiona between them. “I’ll blow her fucking head off, prick!” he bellowed.
Anton barely heard him. All he saw were crosshairs wavering over the explosive tangle of Fiona’s blood-drenched hair and her assailant’s wild eyes, half hidden behind it.
The SUV parked inside the structure fired up. Headlights sliced through darkness as the engine roared to life.
Boom. The sound of glass shattering. Nate had shot out the Dodge’s windshield. The headlights slewed away toward the big open door. The guy holding Fiona twisted to look, opening his mouth to yell. Fiona wrenched her jaw free and bit down on his arm.
He shrieked, yanking at his arm. Fiona sagged in his arms, sliding down—
Anton squeezed the trigger. Boom.
The man jerked and toppled, taking Fiona down with him.
Anton bolted toward her. He heard the fleeing SUV rev its engine and thud-thud loudly over something. Muzzle flashes and gunshots came from the open back door, and then the Dodge accelerated out the open garage door and was gone.
Anton skidded to his knees in a pool of blood. “Fi?” His voice sounded faraway to his own ears after the gun blasts. “You all right? Hurt?”
“I’m good. Just trying to get this beast off me. I can’t breathe.”
He heaved her attacker’s bulk off her and helped her sit up. Her arms were wrenched back behind her. She was covered with blood. Not only blood. The back half of her attacker’s head was gone. The former contents of his skull were everywhere.
“Are you shot?” he asked. “You’re bleeding.”
“Theirs, not mine.” She wheezed and coughed. “I was lying in a puddle of it.”
“Oh. Fuck. Fi.” His hands were shaking. “You’re not hurt?”
“Nope. Um, Anton…my hands? Got a knife?”
“Uh…yeah. Sorry.” He rummaged for his pocket-knife, cursing at how clumsy he was. Since when did his hands shake? What the fuck was that about?
He got the knife out and open, and sawed through the duct tape. Fiona let out a gasp of pain as her hyper-extended shoulders released.
“Anything broken? Or cut?” he asked again. “You’re sure?”
“I’m fine, just cold.” She struggled to tug the dress over her blood-spattered breasts. “I’d like my legs free, though. Can I use your knife?”
Get with the fucking program, Trask. “I’ll do it.” He got to work on the plastic ratchet cuffs that bound her ankles.
Nate emerged into the light, and made a startled sound when he saw the state she was in. “Holy shit! I’ll call an ambulance.”
“Not her blood,” Anton said. “But call one anyway.”
“No!” Fiona sounded panicked. “I don’t need an ambulance!”
“Call it,” Anton reiterated grimly, as the cuff snapped and her legs came free.
Fiona rubbed her legs and tried to get them back beneath herself, but kept thudding back down onto her ass. Anton felt like he’d been disassembled and then put back together backward with all the bolts loose.
“Fi,” he said. “You scared me out of my goddamn mind.”
“Tell me about it,” she said fervently. “I had a few bad moments myself. How many were in the car that got away?”
“Two, I think. Both wounded.” It was Wong walking into the pool of light, his rifle slung across his shoulder. “We took down three.”
Nate turned back, putting his phone into his pocket. “Ambulance on the way,” he said. “Cops, too.”
“Oh God, no,” Fiona said, dismayed. “I don’t need medical attention. Or cops. They’ll just slow me down. What I need is to disappear.”
“You’re not disappearing until you see a doctor,” Anton told her. “Which means you have to talk to the cops, too. So prepare your thoughts.”
She made a distressed sound. “Great. That’ll be about as much fun as it was in Highettsville. Are any of them alive to interrogate?”
“I shot one in the knee on purpose,” Nate offered. “But his own people ran over him on their way out. I’ll check on him just in case, but I’m pretty sure he’s done for.”
Her ankle wobbled. The boot heel had broken. “Shit,” she muttered. “Of all times to break a heel.”
“I’ll call someone and have them bring you fresh stuff,” Anton said. “What’s your shoe size?”
She shot him a look. “Anton. I have my own stuff. Don’t stress yourself.”
“What did those pricks want from you?” Wong asked.
Fiona’s bloodied hand drifted up to touch her earring, reassuring herself that it was still there. “This,” she told him. “They wanted this.”
“Your jewelry?” Nate looked dubious. “This was no robbery. These guys had a plan, and they weren’t after earrings.”
“There’s a microchip inside,” Anton said. “But we don’t know why they want it.”
Nate and Wong looked each other and then at Fiona. “Sounds like quite a story,” Nate said. “Whenever anybody wants to tell it.”
“It wasn’t my story to tell,” Anton said.
Nate gave him a level stare. “It is now. And I’m entitled to hear it.”
“We’ll talk later,” Anton told him. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“Just tell me this,” Wong asked Fiona. “If you had what they wanted, why didn’t you just give it to them?”
Fiona gave Wong a blank look. “Are you kidding? They would have killed me anyway. Why make it easy for them? Fuck those guys.”
The three men exchanged eloquent looks.
“That’s one way to look at it,” Nate murmured. “Damn. This girl is lethal.”
“As lethal as she needs to be,” Anton said. “She’s still alive, right?”
“Guess you have a point.”
The amusement in Nate’s voice bothered him, and Fi was swaying on her feet, so Anton swept her up into his arms and carried her outside toward his Porsche, ignoring her confused murmurs of protest. They could wait for the ambulance out there. It was sheltered and private, not soaked in blood or littered with corpses.
He set her on her feet by the SUV and opened the back door. Fiona almost fell inside as she got in. Her movements were stiff and halting, but she scooted over to make room for him.
Anton took off his coat and slid in after her, wrapping it around her. She was trembling violently, and her teeth had started to chatter.
“You saved my ass again,” she said. “But I’m not thanking you this time, buddy. I can’t encourage you. Don’t get in the habit. I’ll go soft, and we can’t have that.”
“Making you go soft sounds like fun,” he told her.
She let out a jerky laugh, pulling the jacket tightly around herself. “As lethal as she needs to be, hah. You know what, Anton? That might just be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said about me.”
He slid his arm around her shoulder, squeezing gently. “You’re a sad case, Fi.”
“Don’t I know it,” she said, and promptly passed out.
8
Fiona drifted in and out. She was dimly aware of flashing lights, concerned faces. Lights shined into her eyes. Hands, palpating her skull and spine. She heard voices, felt the sting of needles, and sank into a fragmented jumble of nightmares.
When she floated back up to consciousness, she had an IV rack beside her and a needle taped to her arm. She was lying in a bed in a hospital room.
It was very quiet. The lights were low. She wore a hospital gown, and someone had swabbed the worst of the dried blood off her but it was still matted in her hair. She put her hand to her ear to ascertain that she was still wearing her earring. Yes. Thank God.
She sat up, wincing. Everything ached and stung, and she felt fuzzy and out-of-focus. Must be whatever meds they had given her. She struggled to concentrate.
Then she noted the shopping bags and shoeboxes piled against the wall near the bed. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and leaned over, hissing with pain, to peek inside them. Wow, look at that. Jeans, a sweater, underwear, socks. The other bag had a warm winter coat. Slate-blue Gore-Tex. That Anton. What a guy.
Fiona sat a minute listening to the hospitals sounds. It was so quiet. It was very late, or else very early. Her first thought was to check her phone for the time, but smiled at herself. As if her bag could have made it through the evening’s adventures. It must still be in her abductors’ van, along with her car keys, driver’s license and cash. God, even her hotel room key, too, which sucked, since the hotel where she was staying printed the hotel name on their key cards. Unfortunate, given that all her stuff was in that room. Her cash and all her credit cards were in the safe, such as it was. She hadn’t used her credit cards since she ran away from Highettsville.
Cash-only had narrowed her choices of lodging, but she didn’t dare use the credit cards. They would leave a bright red arrow for her enemies to follow if they were tech-savvy, which she had to assume they were. They wanted that microchip, after all.
She’d been lucky that she had a stash of cash in her house. Another holdover from her GodsAcre mindset—to have her emergency go-bag always packed in case of…well, whatever she could imagine, and she could imagine quite a bit. A few thick wads of banknotes was part of that go-bag. But she’d run through most of it, by this point.
She had no choice but to risk going back to the hotel. If she survived, she would retrieve her stuff, then go to a bank machine and take out the biggest cash advance she could get from each of her credit cards to replenish her money stash. Then she’d run like hell again. Dive back into hiding while she pondered her next move.
A shitty, no-future kind of plan, but the best she could do with her limited resources.
Fiona pressed her bare feet against the cold floor and lurched to her feet. She hated to hurt Anton’s feelings after he’d fought for her so valiantly, but she didn’t have any bullet wounds or broken bones. She wasn’t at death’s door. A few bruises, a sore spot on her head. No biggie. She could walk. Run, too, if she had to. And she most definitely had to, with no cash for cab fare. Or even a city bus.
Boo-hoo. Too bad.
Waiting around passively for other people to make decisions for her was not a long-term or even a short-term strategy. She was immensely grateful to Anton and his men for coming to her rescue, but if he didn’t believe her story, she had to keep moving.
The truth was, she didn’t have the energy to oppose that overwhelming alpha-wolf vibe that Anton had going on. She wouldn’t be able to keep him from playing the macho hero, just like he’d done tonight. He’d get himself killed, and it would be all her fault.
