Then… Tape. My mouth. Taped shut. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I was going to puke, then suffocate on my own vomit. Panicking now, flailing wildly as my stomach rolled again and I clenched my jaw, trying to will the bile down. Not going to make it. Throat gagging… An unbelievable pressure building in my chest.
A man’s hand darted forward, grabbed the edge of the duct tape and ripped it, ripped it from my mouth.
I screamed short, then vomited long, a watery stream of old champagne and yellow bile that spewed past the bumper onto the black tennis shoes and gray asphalt. A man’s voice, swearing again. The tennis shoes, dancing back.
“Why is she sick?”
“I don’t know, man. Crap. Look at my shoes. These are brand-new!”
“Is it from the sedative?”
“No. Shouldn’t be. Hell, it could be anything. Shock. Motion sickness. Exhaust fumes. I mean, she’s been Tasered, drugged and stuffed in the back of a van for the past fourteen hours. An upset stomach isn’t out of the question.”
The voices fell silent for a moment. I opened my mouth, thought I would vomit again, but my stomach was empty. I dry heaved instead. Then the last of my strength left me, and I collapsed onto my side, finally registering the rubbery mat beneath me and the blue sky above me.
Except not all sky. Barbed wire. I made out rolls of razor wire spanning the horizon.
“Walk,” a voice said.
A man appeared, looming over me. Massive shoulders. Perfectly shaved head sporting a cobra tattoo, inked in shades of green. The coils twined around his neck and skull, the snake’s fanged mouth bared around his left eye. I stared at that tattoo, and for a shuddering instant, I swore the tattooed scales moved.
Then it came back to me. The hulking form at the edge of my foyer. The Taser. My husband’s terrible convulsing. My leg’s fiery pain. And my daughter, screaming. Calling out our names.
I sat up. The world spun, but I didn’t care. I had to find my daughter. Ashlyn, Ashlyn, where was Ashlyn?
My wrists were bound at my waist. Too late, I figured out my ankles were restrained as well, as I flopped out of the back of the van and landed hard enough to knock the wind from my chest and send my stomach spasming again. This time, I rocked onto my side until the worst of the dry heaving passed.
“She’s sick. She get car sick?” Tattooed man. Had to be. A menacing voice to go with a menacing face.
The tearing sound of tape being ripped from flesh. A short, hiccuping cry. Then my daughter’s voice, thin, reedy, uncertain. “Not…usually. Mommy?”
The man was moving. I could hear his steel-toed boots ringing out against the asphalt. My head hurt. My stomach, my back, my hip. I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to curl up in a ball and squeeze my eyes shut, as if that would make it all go away. I would will myself back to sleep, except this time, when I woke up, I would be in my own bed, with my husband snoring softly beside me and my daughter tucked safely down the hall.
I opened my eyes. For my daughter’s sake, I worked myself around until, for the first time, I could make out our surroundings.
We were outside, under some kind of covered drive. A large white van was parked a few feet away, back doors still open. Behind it more fence. Tall, maybe twenty feet, topped by razor wire, and buffered by even more rolls of razor wire.
My eyes widened. I searched out my daughter, found her standing next to the smallest of three men. Her shoulders were rounded, her chin tucked defensively against her chest, while her long wheat-brown hair hung down in a curtain, as if to protect her. Her feet were bare and she wore her favorite comfy clothes, fuzzy ice-cream-cone-patterned pajama bottoms with a long-sleeved waffle-knit top. My first thought was that her feet had to be freezing. Then I noticed a dark stain streaking across the shoulder of her pale blue shirt. Blood? Was that blood? My daughter hurt, bleeding…
And Justin? What about Justin? I glanced wildly around the space, then spotted his booted feet, bound with zip ties and poking out the back of the van.
The tattooed guy, who wore a black commando outfit, turned to the younger kid next to my daughter.
“Watch her,” he said, and pointed at me, as if I were somehow going to magically make my escape now that I was tied up on the ground instead of being restrained in the back of the transport vehicle.
The man crossed to the rear of the van, where he was joined by a second guy, also garbed in black and almost as big and frightening looking, except his buzz-cut hair had been dyed into a checkerboard pattern of black and blond. Between the two of them, they heaved Justin’s bound body out of the van and placed him on his feet. Immediately, Justin started struggling.
Cobra-tattooed guy reached up and ripped off Justin’s duct tape.
My husband didn’t scream. He roared, hopping forward and trying to head butt his nearest opponent.
In response, the tattooed guy stepped back, unholstered his Taser and pulled the trigger. Justin dropped like a rock, blue jacket flapping, whole body convulsing. He no longer roared, but ground out gibberish through clenched teeth.
I glanced away, unable to see my husband in so much pain.
Across from me, Ashlyn was crying.
The tattooed guy pulled the trigger a few more times. When he seemed to feel Justin had had enough, he nodded once, and the second man jerked Justin back onto his feet, wires still dangling from his body.
“Here is the deal,” the tattooed guy boomed, and at the sound of his voice, Ashlyn started crying harder, her hands bound at her waist, her teeth digging into her lower lip.
I closed my eyes, not wanting to see my daughter’s tears any more than my husband’s pain. I pictured colors, flowers, melting clocks.
I smelled oranges, and tasted yellow birthday cake.
“You can call me Z. I am your new boss. You will speak when I say you can speak. You will eat when I say you can eat. You will live as long as I say you can live. What is my name?”
Silence. Belatedly, I opened my eyes, found the man staring at me. “What is my name!” he boomed at me.
“Z.” My voice came out weak. I licked my lips, wondered if I should try again, but he was already moving away.
This time, I tried to catch my daughter’s attention, tried to will her to look at me, as if by holding each other’s gazes, this would be easier to take.
“This is Mick.” The tattooed guy pointed to the checkerboard-hair man. “And this is Radar.” He pointed at the smaller, younger guy standing next to my daughter. The one not in black commando garb, but instead jeans and vomit-covered black tennis shoes. He bobbed his head slightly, as if pleased to make our acquaintance. Then he flushed self-consciously.
“And this”—Z turned half around, gesturing grandly—“will be your new home.” The man beamed, appearing particularly pleased with himself. I forced my aching body to turn again, take in the building I was only half aware of. Except this time, it became clear to me it wasn’t just a building, but a sprawling complex. An institution. Four stories tall with narrow slits for windows, surrounded by fencing topped with rolls of razor wire.
What kind of building had such tiny windows? What kind of landscaping involved so much razor wire? Then it came to me. A prison.
These men had dragged us from our home and brought us to a prison. Except…the place seemed eerily quiet, still. Not a populated facility, but empty. Abandoned, maybe.
“I will pay you money,” Justin spoke up clearly. “Any amount you want. Double, triple whatever you’ve been offered.”
For his response, Z pulled the Taser trigger. Once more my husband’s body arched. Once more his lips peeled back from his teeth, forming a macabre grin that went on and on.
He didn’t make any noise this time. He just took the pain.
Z finally released the trigger. Justin’s body sagged, would’ve collapsed, except the other guy held him up.
“You will speak when I say you can speak,” Z repeated. He stared at Justin’s heaving form. “When will you speak?”
&
nbsp; My husband raised his head. His eyes were bright with rage. I could see a muscle clenched in his jaw. Such a competitive man. One of the things I had admired about him in the beginning. Down but never out. Battered but not broken. Now I silently willed him to give up. Keep his mouth shut. Not say another word…
“Daddy,” Ashlyn pleaded softly.
Justin’s look changed. From fury to panic and in the next instant, I understood, as Z wheeled about, headed for our daughter.
“No.” I gasped the word out loud, trying to roll forward, do something. I could hear Justin growling, knew he had to be struggling, desperately trying to break free.
Too late, my daughter realized her mistake. She watched Z’s rapid approach, her sobs reaching hysterical pitch as she raised her bound arms in front of her face…
The kid stepped forward. Straight into Z’s path.
“Hey,” the kid said, “isn’t that a patrol car?”
He pointed his finger, and just like that, everyone was on the move.
“Inside, now,” Z snapped. “You get the women. You get Denbe.”
Checkerboard Hair was already slicing through Justin’s leg restraints, with a single stroke of a huge knife, then dragging my husband’s stumbling form toward the front doors.
Radar fumbled for a moment with my daughter’s restraints, then made it to my side long enough to free my ankles and help me stagger to my feet. I tried to shoot him a grateful look, to let him know I knew what he’d done for Ashlyn, but he wouldn’t make eye contact. Instead, with one hand on my daughter’s elbow and another on mine, he hustled us both toward the doors.
Behind us, I could hear the engine as the van started up. Hiding it, I supposed. The van would be tucked somewhere outside, we would be tucked somewhere inside, and then no one would be the wiser.
Doors, closing behind us. First one set, then another.
The kid and the second commando dragged us deeper inside a vast, empty space. If this was a prison, then this must be the receiving area. I could make out stark white cinder-block walls, a dingy yellow linoleum floor, some kind of command post straight ahead with thick windows all around it.
The room was dimly lit, only a fraction of the overhead lights in use. I had a feeling that was to our advantage, that when every light was flipped on, the starkness would be nearly blinding, miles of bone-white walls to bounce the light and hurt the eyes.
I tried to sneak a glance at my daughter again. She stood on the other side of Radar, her head still bowed, hair down, shoulders trembling. Z was not around, but I still didn’t dare to speak. I noticed for the first time she wasn’t wearing her usual gold hoops in her ears, or the small diamond pendant Justin had given her on her thirteenth birthday.
Belatedly, I glanced down only to discover my engagement diamond and wedding band were also missing. Damn thieves, I thought irrationally, considering everything else they’d done. Robbing us of our own jewelry while we were heavily sedated.
I stole a glance at my husband’s wrist, confirming that his Rolex was also gone. Then my gaze drifted up, and I found my husband’s eyes. He was watching both me and Ashlyn, his features etched with sorrow.
If I could’ve, I would’ve reached out my hand then.
For the first time in six months, I would’ve touched my husband and meant it.
Instead, the three of us just stood there, not speaking, waiting to see what terrible thing would happen next.
Z REAPPEARED SHORTLY, his footsteps ringing down the hall as he approached from a different direction. His minions hadn’t spoken in his absence, and I had a feeling that’s the way things worked. Z called the shots, the other two did the shooting.
The kid, in his jeans and tennis shoes, didn’t bother me. He had a tendency to duck his head and hunch his shoulders self-consciously, almost as if embarrassed to be there.
The other one, with the checkerboard hair, worried me. His eyes were too bright, some shade of neon blue I associated with drug addicts or lunatics. He held Justin’s arm in a white-knuckled grip, his face openly daring Justin to do something about it. The bully, looking forward to the fight.
I noticed the kid, with one hand upon each of our elbows, kept Ashlyn and me a good distance from his partner. And I noticed Justin made no attempt to close that gap.
When Z appeared, both the kid and the checkerboard commando stood a little straighter, ready for the next set of instructions. I wanted to brace myself, call upon some kind of internal reserve. I had nothing.
My stomach hurt. My head pounded.
I needed my purse.
For the love of God, I needed my pills.
“Would you like a tour?” Z’s voice sounded taunting. Because he had not said we could speak, none of us answered.
“It’s a twelve-hundred-bed medium-security facility,” Z continued crisply. “State-of-the-art, completed just last year and, conveniently for us, currently mothballed.”
I glanced up. My confusion must’ve showed on my face, for he expanded: “Welcome to your tax dollars at work, where one hand builds the prison, but a different hand funds the opening and operating of said facility. Basically, capital expenditures fall under appropriations bills, whereas operational costs fall under the government’s annual budget. Except the state’s budget has been facing the usual shortfalls, so this prison has never been opened. It simply sits here, a very expensive shell wasting away in the mountains of New Hampshire. It’s perfect for us.”
He turned on his heel, walking down the hallway toward the direction he’d come, and his commandos dragged us into place behind him.
“Did you know,” he continued over his shoulder, “that eighty percent of prison escapes occur when an inmate is already out of his cell, maybe tending to his prison job, or in the infirmary? That’s because no one, absolutely no one can escape from a modern jail cell. Walls are five-thousand-pounds-per-square-inch concrete poured twelve inches thick. The windows feature one-inch-thick bars formed from saw-resistant steel and positioned every five inches in front of fifteen-minute ballistic-rated glass. That means”—he gave me a glance—“you can fire a small-caliber pistol at point-blank range and the glass might spiderweb, but still won’t break.
“Doors are twelve-gauge steel with a solid one-inch-thick dead bolt. All locks are triggered electronically, meaning there is no way to manually override the dead bolt system. Not to mention there are at least seven locks between you and the outside world. First lock is on your cell door. Get by that, you’re in a locked dayroom. Which leads to a double-locked sally port, where the system only allows one locked door to be opened at one time. After that is a locked corridor leading to a main wing entrance where there is yet another sally port. Two more doors, two more locks.
“Should you finally exit the prison, you must now confront the perimeter fencing. The fences are completely electrified and built in two layers, each sixteen feet high and separated by a twenty-eight-foot-wide no-man’s-land filled with seven rolls of razor wire. Even if you somehow disabled the electric fencing, and/or survived scaling the first sixteen-foot fence, you must still drop down into the no-man’s-land and navigate seven rolls of razor wire in order to make your way over the second sixteen-foot-high fence. After which, you will find yourself plopped in the middle of six hundred acres of some of the most rugged wilderness the North Country has to offer. Nighttime temperatures are currently forecast to be below freezing. Oh, and this area is known for bears and bobcats.”
Z stopped walking. Abruptly, we all drew to a halt.
He stared at my husband. “Did I miss anything?”
Justin didn’t speak. I looked at him in confusion. He and Z seemed to be involved in some kind of staring contest.
“Not that there’s any need to leave the prison,” Z said now, still staring at Justin. “As part of the building contract, this facility was fully stocked. Bunk beds, rec tables, state-of-the-art medical equipment, state-of-the-art dental. Two cafeterias, including a separate, self-enclosed cooking s
pace for the preparation of nut-, dairy- and gluten-free items. Can’t have any of the inmates dying of food allergies, yes? The complex also runs on ‘duel fuel,’ both natural gas and oil, with fifty thousand gallons of oil on site. Plus its own water tower, sewer system and utility plant. A fully independent operation. With redundancy. I believe that’s what you call it? So utilities can’t be disrupted, water cut, sewer stopped. We could hole up here for years without anyone being the wiser.”
Z still stared. Justin still didn’t speak.
On the other side of Radar, my daughter shuddered.
“I served eight years as a soldier,” Z said abruptly. “Still never had it as good as the convicts who will one day occupy these cells.”
My husband spoke up: “I just build—”
“I didn’t say speak.”
“Then stop talking to me.”
“I’ll hurt you again.”
“Then do it. Just tell me what the fuck you want and stop terrorizing my family!”
Ashlyn and I both recoiled, tucking ourselves ironically against the kid, who stood as still as stone.
Z didn’t move. He continued to watch my husband, as if evaluating something. The look on his face was not harsh, but clinical. Sizing up his opponent. He would hurt my husband in the end. He would hurt all of us, I realized. He just wanted to do it properly.
“Please,” I heard myself whisper. “We have money…”
“Not what this is about.”
Justin snorted. “Money is what it’s always about.” He swung his gaze to Z’s cohorts, the kid, the checkerboard man with the neon-blue eyes. “Sure you two couldn’t use some extra cash? I got a company worth a hundred mil. Whatever he’s paying you, I can do better.”
“Just let our daughter go,” I added quietly.
The kid didn’t move. Checkerboard man actually smiled, but it wasn’t a nice expression.
Ashlyn shuddered again.
“Girl stays,” Z stated. “You stay.” He looked at me. “You stay.” He looked at Justin. “And I don’t have to tell you why or for how long. Because I know you, Justin. I know exactly how your mind works. You’re a born problem solver. Even now, you’re not panicking; you’re simply waiting for the situation to reveal itself. Because in your experience, information is power. It enables you to dissect, control, resolve.