Hostage Run

  There was only one saving grace to the whole experience. She had heard them downstairs talking about the video. They didn’t realize. Her ear pressed to the floor, she had heard them making their plans about an hour before they’d come up here. That had given her time to devise her simple code, to try to send a message to Rick and his father. It wasn’t much of a code. It wasn’t much of a message. She doubted anyone would understand it or that if they did understand it, it would help them find her. But it was something, anyway. It gave her hope. Maybe Rick would get it. Maybe he was searching for her even now. Maybe he was coming to rescue her like a white knight in a story . . .

  It was a thought to cling to.

  After the thugs had shot the video, they left her alone. They had not spoken to her again. Every few hours one of them had unlocked the door, poked his head in, and tossed her a greasy bag full of fast food. Burger and fries, cold and rubbery. Soda, flat and stale. Disgusting. They tossed the bag at her as if she were an animal in a cage. And she ate the food like she was an animal in a cage. She was so hungry all the time, so desperate for any food she could get.

  That’s the way it had been. Little food. Less sleep. She was exhausted. Weak. Close to despair. She had no bed to lie on. Only a plastic bucket for a toilet. It was cold in the room, but stuffy, so that her whole body had grown sweaty and sticky. Most of the time, she lay on the floor, curled up on her side. She cried a lot. She couldn’t help it. She prayed. She slept. There was nothing else for her to do.

  She had been sleeping just now when something woke her. What was it? Some noise. There it was again. Coming up through the floor from downstairs. An electric song. A phone ringing.

  Molly was still wearing her elastic hairband, but her hair was slipping out of it, coming loose around her cheeks. She had to tuck it back behind the band so she could hear better. Then she pressed the side of her face to the rough wooden boards and listened.

  Downstairs, the phone rang again. Then, a voice:

  “Yeah, what do you want?” It was Smiley McDeath. She recognized his weirdly high-pitched gasp of a voice. “All right. Sure. Fine. No problem. It’s all the same to me. Whatever he wants. We’ll do it now.”

  A moment later there was another voice, thick, deep, dull. That was the Giant. He sounded like Frankenstein’s monster. “What do they want now?”

  “Another video.”

  “Another.”

  “Yes. Only they want us to torture her this time. Really make her beg for mercy.”

  “All right,” said the Giant. “Whatever.”

  “Yes. Let me just wash up and get my tools and we’ll get started.”

  That was the way they talked: casually, as if it were nothing to torture her, just another day’s work: Let me get my tools.

  Molly had thought she was afraid before, but now she understood: she had never really known fear, not this kind of fear. Why would she? She was a student, a university professor’s daughter. She lived in a pleasant house with parents who loved each other and their children. She had a good-natured brother who wasn’t even annoying, as brothers were supposed to be. She had only seen evil people in the movies: the villains in thrillers, the slashers in horror films. She knew such people existed in theory, but she’d never actually come across them in real life, and deep down she didn’t believe in them. Even when the thugs came to get her, even when they kidnapped her out of the gym, she hadn’t really thought they would do anything as bad as this. Deep down, she believed everyone had a conscience, everyone could be reasoned with.

  But the way they spoke. The casual way they talked about hurting her. It shattered all those pretty ideas. Suddenly she knew: evil was real.

  And it was coming for her.

  What could she do? How could she fight them? There were four of them. Every one of them stronger than she was, and the Giant stronger than all the rest. She was tired. She was hungry. She was weak. She was afraid. What could she do? There was no chance for her. No hope.

  She looked up at the ceiling as if she could see heaven through it. You know my need, she prayed. Help me to be strong.

  The moment the prayer left her, she knew: She couldn’t just sit there. She couldn’t just wait for them to come. Anything was better than that. Anything was better than just letting it happen. She had to fight. Even if she lost. Even if they killed her. She had to try at least, no matter how bad the odds, no matter how completely she was outnumbered and overpowered. She had to do something.

  Fighting off her weakness, she climbed to her feet. A weapon, she thought. It was her only hope. She couldn’t do battle against these people hand to hand. She needed a weapon.

  Her eyes scanned the bare room desperately. What was there? Nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a piece of furniture. The bars on the windows prevented her from breaking off a piece of glass. The plastic bucket was too light. What was there? What was there?

  More voices downstairs.

  “Should we bring the camera up like before?”

  “No, we’ll do it here. We’ll bring her down.”

  Panic wildfired through her. They would be coming any minute. If only she had a weapon . . .

  She looked down at the floor. A floorboard? Could she wrench one up? She dropped to her knees. She tried to get a handhold. Impossible. The boards were held solidly in place with heavy . . .

  . . . nails!

  Molly’s desperate eyes went wide as she scanned the floor. Each board was held in place with heavy iron nails. If she could pry up one of those nails, at least she’d have something to strike with. She’d have a chance, anyway. A small chance, but a chance.

  She moved her gaze from one end of the room to another, hoping to see one of the nails sticking up, loose, so she could pull it free. There were none. All of them were hammered in close to the wood, only their heads showing, flat against the boards.

  Almost crazy with terror now, she tried to pull a nail out with her fingers. She could see at once it would be impossible. She could just barely get the tip of a fingernail under the head. If she pulled up on it, her fingernail would break.

  Another voice spoke below. The Giant. He laughed. They were making jokes about what they were going to do to her.

  Molly’s breath squeaked as it squeezed out of her. If only she had something to use, something that would loosen the nail.

  Kneeling there, she ran her hands over her clothes. They had left her nothing. Her pockets were empty. Her keys were gone. Her exercise outfit was all soft cloth, no zippers. The only other solid object she had was . . .

  Her hairband! Her hand went up to it and she felt the two bobby pins that held it in place. Quickly, Molly yanked one of the pins out. Looked at it. Not much. Thin, flimsy, weak. But something. Something.

  On her hands and knees, she worked the edge of the bobby pin’s loop under the head of the floor nail. She wriggled it, trying to loosen the nail. The pin’s metal was too soft. It bent. But she tried again. She worked it in deeper, trying to slip the loop around the head of the nail.

  And she heard Smiley McDeath speak again, his eerie high-pitched voice coming up clearly through the floor.

  “All right. I’m ready. Go get her and bring her down.”

  And the Giant answered in his thick, heavy voice: “Will do.”

  Molly’s breathing was ragged and hard. She worked the pin’s loop under the head of the floorboard nail. Her hair slipped out of the band again, spilled forward over her face, obstructing her view. Sweat poured into her eyes, blurring her vision. Her knees hurt. Her back hurt. The pin itself was digging into her fingers. Its weak metal was starting to shred.

  And now she heard another noise below. A door opening. A heavy footstep. The Giant’s footstep. He was stepping out into the downstairs hall. Coming for her.

  She dug at the nail, sliding the pin back and forth.

  Then, with a little jolt, the pin broke in half. Molly let out a tearful gasp. But without a moment’s pause, she pulled the second bobby pin out of the h
airband. She worked it under the nail as she had the first.

  And all at once, the nail gave way! Just like that. It came loose in the wood.

  With a little gasp, Molly tossed the bobby pin aside. She grabbed the nail head with her fingers. The iron bit into her skin as she pinched it tight, but she ignored the pain. She pulled and twisted, baring her teeth with the effort. Grunting.

  Footsteps. Heavy footsteps in the downstairs hall. The Giant moving toward the stairs. Coming for her.

  Molly gave a little cry and pulled harder. The nail wobbled and began to rise. Bit by bit, she worked it up out of the wood. Up it came. And then it came free.

  The Giant reached the bottom of the stairs. She heard his heavy footsteps start to climb up toward the second floor, her floor.

  Molly held the iron nail up in front of her eyes. It was big. Three inches long. Thick metal. Sharp point. Not exactly a dagger, but something. Something. If the Giant was coming alone . . . if she could take him by surprise . . . if she could deliver a painful blow . . . If, if, if.

  But she had to try.

  She shifted the nail in her hand so that the long shaft slid between her first two fingers. Slowly, she closed her hand into a fist, a fist with a nail pointing out of it. A weapon. Something she could fight with.

  And she would. She would fight. You can’t just stand by and let evil happen. She would fight with everything she had.

  Thump, thump, thump. She heard the big thug’s footsteps reach the top of the stairs. Now they started down the landing.

  Wide-eyed with fear, Molly stared at her fist, at the nail, then lifted her gaze to the door. She had no idea whether she would have the courage for this. But she might. They were evil. They were coming for her. She just might.

  She climbed to her feet.

  Heavenly Father, give me strength. Give me the strength to do what I have to do.

  The footsteps stopped just outside her door.

  14. HUNTER

  VICTOR ONE SAT quietly in the cab of his pickup truck. He was looking through the windshield at the main street of a small town on an ordinary winter’s afternoon. Wilford was a quaint and homey little nowhere of a place. Redbrick and clapboard storefronts. A diner, a clothes boutique, a news agent, a travel agency, and so on. Christmas wreaths decorated the lampposts. Christmas lights lined the windows. The few pedestrians out in the open hurried along the sidewalks with their hands jammed into their jacket pockets, and their chins tucked into their scarves against the cold. The gray sky lowered and the air smelled of snow.

  For miles around this town, there was nothing. Empty fields and swamps and forests, cranberry bogs and wet wilderness loud with the cries of birds and frogs. Occasional mobile homes were planted in the middle of weeds and water. The odd gas station rose up here and there. There was not much more than that. It was a good place to hide.

  Victor One sat very still and watched and waited. And he thought about Molly.

  He didn’t know the girl. He’d never met her. Never even seen her before he’d watched that video. But he couldn’t get the video out of his mind. The image of her kneeling there on the floor while the thug behind the camera hissed commands at her like some sort of bullying snake . . . The courage she’d shown in the face of his nastiness . . . The defiance in her eyes . . . The presence of mind she had to put together that code, to send the message that had allowed them to trace her app, which had led them in turn to Wilford.

  Not to mention the fact that she was extremely cute with those freckles on her soft cheeks and . . . well, never mind that.

  The point was, the girl had touched him somehow. The girl, her predicament, her courage—all of it had touched him. Trained warrior though he was, Victor One was a very easygoing guy. It was almost impossible to get him angry. And really, you couldn’t insult him badly enough to move him to violence. His fighting skills were something he used only on the battlefield, only to protect his own life or the lives of others. Where there was no serious physical threat, he would never raise his hand against anyone.

  But ever since he had seen that video, he had been aware of a fire burning inside him, a fire that felt very much like a steady state of rage. The idea of this Molly girl in the clutches of those thugs . . . Well, it got to him, there was no denying it.

  So he sat in the cab of the truck, and he looked out the windshield at the town, and he watched and he waited. He did not know exactly what he was looking for, but he knew he would know it when he saw it. This was the only town anywhere near Molly’s last known location. It was the only place her kidnappers could come to get supplies. They would come eventually. And when they did, they would not look like the other people here. Victor One would know them on sight.

  He lifted his right hand to the left side of his chest. He touched the bulge of the weapon there in the holster under his arm. A Glock 19. A square, ugly little pistol but his personal favorite nonetheless. Quick to aim and easy to fire, with a magazine that carried a generous fifteen bullets, plus the one in the chamber.

  He would recognize the kidnappers when they came into town for supplies, he thought. He would follow them and he would find Molly and then . . .

  Like Lawrence Dial, the Traveler, whom he was assigned to protect, Victor One was a Bible guy. He knew the book well. He liked to think of himself as more of a New Testament sort of fellow: loving; quick with compassion; ready to forgive even his enemy seventy times seven times.

  But there were situations in which only the Old Testament would do. And right now, the quote that came to his mind was this one:

  Woe to the wicked. Disaster is upon them! They will be paid back for what their hands have done.

  He sat. He waited. It was a long time, almost nightfall, before his moment came, but when it came, there was no mistaking it. On this quiet street lined with parked pickups, family SUVs, and gas-saving compacts, a black BMW sedan pulled to the curb near the diner and stopped.

  Victor One sat up straight in the pickup’s cab, his blue eyes alight.

  The sedan’s door opened quickly. And, as storekeepers and housewives and Realtors and farmers hurried along the Main Street sidewalk from one place to another, a trained killer emerged from behind the BMW wheel.

  Victor One was a trained killer himself, and he knew one when he saw one.

  The killer was wearing a heavy green flight jacket and black jeans. He was small and lithe. His face was narrow and pale. His eyes were watchful and cold. He swaggered from his car into the diner and came back out only a few minutes later carrying four white paper bags, greasy with the food inside them.

  Because wherever they’re holding her, they need to eat, thought Victor One. And they’re not the types to learn how to cook.

  He reached for the pickup’s ignition and started the engine.

  The killer returned to the black sedan. He opened the front door and leaned in to toss the food bags onto the passenger seat, then he lowered himself behind the wheel.

  A moment later, the black sedan drove away.

  Woe to the wicked, thought Victor One.

  He put his truck in gear and followed.

  15. RUN!

  MOLLY THOUGHT THAT moment—that long moment before her cell door opened, before the Giant came in to take her downstairs to her agonizing fate—would forever after be the most frightening moment of her life. Even the suffering to come, she thought, could not be more terrifying than this, this suspense, this waiting. She did not think she could feel more fear than she was feeling right now.

  But she was wrong about that.

  Because the next moment, when the door opened, her fear grew even worse.

  The Giant loomed in the doorway. He grinned at her. The terror that had seemed to fill her to overflowing now flared and exploded through her, filling her even more. She thought she was going to faint. She thought she might simply collapse to the floor and die.

  But she did neither. She stood there, frozen to the spot. Her legs were quivering now like leaves in a
strong wind, but she didn’t lose consciousness. She wasn’t lucky enough to lose consciousness. Instead, she was painfully, horribly aware of everything that was happening. Every second seemed to last for a year, and each was more dreadful than the one before. And she could not block any of it from her awareness.

  The Giant might well have been the single biggest man she had ever seen, bigger even than the guys on the university football squad. Not just tall, but thick around. Not just thick but bulging with muscle. His face was chunky, long, and pale, and the look in his eyes was both stupid and cruel. Molly knew deep down that he would not only hurt her if she tried to resist him, he would be happy to hurt her. He would enjoy it.

  The Giant ducked his head to keep from banging it on the lintel as he stepped into the room. His footsteps were so heavy that Molly felt the floor quake underneath her as he came. He approached her, and she couldn’t move, couldn’t. She just stood there, frozen, staring, watching him rise up in front of her, like a mountain rising out of the sea, until he filled her vision. His huge body. His cruel face. Grinning down at her.

  “You’re coming with me,” he said in that deep, grumbling, thunderous voice. “They want you downstairs. Now.”

  Molly tried to answer him defiantly, but it was as if her voice had turned to ashes in her mouth. She tried to say, “Stay away from me,” but the words came out a whisper, barely audible.

  Her fear made the Giant’s eyes sparkle. He reached out to grab her arm.

  Terror flashed through her like lightning and gave her strength. She made her left hand into a claw and swept it at the thug’s face, trying to scratch at his eyes.

  The Giant barely moved in response. He batted her hand away as if he were flicking at a fly. Then, with the same motion, he wrapped his thick, powerful fingers around her throat. He gripped her neck and lifted her off the floor. Molly’s feet kicked helplessly in the air as her breath was cut off. She was strangling. The Giant lifted her face up to his so that his grin was huge to her.