Fear for Hire Page 2

  She stood again, more cautiously this time, propping herself in the corner. Once steady, she scooted her bound feet the few inches needed to reach the center of the double doors. She fumbled with her taped hands to release the bolt. Metal clanked against metal and she quickly tried to muffle the sound with her body.

  The van decelerated, sending her tumbling forward. She collapsed to her knees to stop the propelling motion before she slammed into the windshield. Her shoulder hit the bench seat, wrenching her neck. At this rate, she’d do him a big favor by killing herself so he wouldn’t have to.

  “Do I have to pull over?” he said, his voice threaded with a new timbre. Menace.

  She sat. What did it matter? There was no escape without him seeing. Maybe when they stopped, if she moved faster than last time, she could get up front. Then what? Out-hop him? Oh boy, brilliant thinking.

  While she fought panicked tears, the road’s surface became bumpier and the vehicle rolled to a halt. This was it. The quaking of her limbs surged to a bone-rattling intensity. The lock released, the doors banged open. She cringed, scrambling backward.

  The tape around her ankles tugged hard and her body slid toward him. He grunted as he lifted. Breath whooshed from her lungs when her stomach bounced against his hard shoulder. The bite of a strong wind stung her bare thighs.

  She hoped they didn’t have far to go. Oh God, how could she think such a thing? Whether she froze or not, when they got to his destination, she’d lose her chance to escape.

  Terror threatened to smother her. In a blind attempt to overcome it, she focused on her surroundings and counted his footsteps. The snow seemed deeper here. She got the impression he lifted his knees over drifts as he plowed through frosty air. Keys rattled and boots stomped before they entered a room, warm and smelling of cedar. Her body dipped downward. A flight of one, two, three, four, five, six, seven steps.

  She tipped backward, freefalling for one endless second. The gag muffled her scream. She landed with a soft bounce on something padded. A mattress? The familiar warmth of her comforter, settled over her head, was lifted off again, and the tape binding her thumbs to her fingers ripped away.

  “Are you ready to give me the sign?” An underlying current of impatience vibrated in his words.

  She didn’t know why he bothered asking. With her mouth covered, she couldn’t reply. Could it be a rhetorical question? It sounded cult-like. A sign from God? Or the devil? Maybe the phrase held some clue to her freedom.

  “Fine. Get some sleep.” He yanked the tape from her mouth and she gasped at the sting. The scream welling in her throat sputtered to a disgraceful, dry croak. Was he leaving?

  His weight lifted from the mattress, a door opened, and she heard a lock click into place after him. The darkness immediately felt denser, and she imagined the room to be windowless and seeped in blackness.

  Afraid she didn’t have much time, she rocked off the edge of the mattress and landed on cold concrete. She tried to rise to her feet. Knees bent, she swayed, regained her balance, and straightened. Hop, hop, hop, stop; she bumped into the wall. Smooth surface, like painted plaster. Turn, hop, hop. Her hip banged a doorknob. Locked, of course. Holding her breath, she listened. Dead silence. But there had to be someone nearby. She screamed and then shuddered; the desperate sound in her dungeon unnerving her more.

  Using the wall as a guide, she resumed her search. Hop, hop, scream. Hop, hop, scream. After several repetitions, the doorknob again. Full circle.

  Hoarse, but unable to rest, she awkwardly lowered her body to the floor and rolled. No furniture; nothing to use as a weapon. The top of her head brushed the mattress. Inviting and warmer than the concrete floor, she dragged herself up on it, clutching the comforter to her freezing limbs.

  Scream again; don’t stop. Someone will call the police, her friends, her saviors. Tears choked through her frantic cries, but she continued.

  Her life depended on it.

  Chapter Two

  Sweet silence greeted Jack the next morning. As expected, he’d slept hard. Hell, he’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours before he’d crawled into bed. Exhaustion had generated a dream-filled night — ending with the one about Andy. The same nightmare he always had: His son bounding into Jack’s study, freckled cheeks rosy, reddish-brown hair sticking straight up. “Know what day it is, Dad?” Every Thursday they went to the park, then the library.

  That Thursday, they never made it to the library.

  He willed his mind back to the matter at hand — his prisoner. He stretched beneath a pile of blankets. How long had she screamed before calling it quits? Or had she lost her voice? He’d make her talk and find out which. One thing was true, she sure played the game. She should audition for a Stephen King movie.

  Not in a rush to start what was sure to be a shitty day, he showered and slipped into a clean pair of jeans and a worn flannel shirt. Thick cotton socks warmed his toes. He moved to the kitchen and brewed a full pot of coffee, deciding his captive would kiss his feet for some of it if her throat was as raw and dry as he imagined. Maybe he’d give her a sip — if she gave him the sign.

  He stared out the kitchen window, gazing at the lake. The tension in his neck slowly ebbed, and the knot in his gut loosened. Snow rested on top of the ice, a giant frozen block. Deceiving, that endless carpet of white. How far could someone make it out there before the fragile crust fractured? Before frigid water gushed around flailing limbs, immobilizing, stiffening fingers and legs, seeping into lungs. Silence forever.

  Peace.

  He took a deep, shaky breath. The glassy surface hadn’t been thick enough the last time he came to the lake. A two-hundred-pound burden would’ve collapsed it within a few steps of the beach — still in the shallows, safe from drowning.

  Not today. All week the temperatures had hovered in the teens. Now, it’d take a great amount of force to crack the ice, to make falling in look like an accident.

  His gaze lowered to the floor where Laura waited below. No sense in stalling any longer.

  Fingers wrapped around a travel coffee mug, he unlocked the basement door and opened it a sliver. Now that he knew of her strength and determination, he half expected her to leap out and scald them both with the steaming brew.

  As he peeked around the door, the light from behind him spilled into the room. Laura lay on the mattress asleep, or faking it. He stepped closer, watching her face, and for the first time noticed the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, making it appear crooked. Her red-rimmed lips looked even puffier than the night before. The skin below the blindfold seemed bruised, possibly from hours of crying.

  Guilt stabbed him. Maybe he should’ve set the alarm and asked her to give him the sign in the wee hours of the morning. But he reassured himself that they’d be a lot safer driving home now that he’d had some sleep.

  As he took in her stubborn, rounded chin, he noticed her resemblance to that blond woman who’d starred in The Princess Bride. Forrest Gump’s girlfriend, Jenny. ‘Run, Forrest, run!’ This woman’s hair was a shade darker than the actress’s, with more strands of copper and gold. Definitely a performer though — she deserved an Oscar.

  Why would such a feisty, beautiful woman allow fear to invade her life? He’d asked his mother a similar question when he was old enough to know it wasn’t normal for the man of the house to beat his loved ones. His mother didn’t have an answer. She’d solved her problem by running away as soon as Jack’s dad couldn’t chase her. Laura — he didn’t know her last name — was tired of running from the nightmare and fought back by facing her fear. He admired that, but he thought her solution whacky — way whacky.

  Squatting beside the mattress, he reached out to touch a strand of her coppery hair. She sensed him there and gasped, jerking up her knees.

  “Morning,” he said, lifting the mug to his lips.

  “D-don’t.” Her voice came out in a choked whisper, proving she must’ve kept screaming long after he’d succumbed to slum
ber.

  Another jolt of guilt kicked him hard, making his coffee slosh in his stomach.

  “Don’t what?” He sat beside her.

  She used her bare heels to scoot away. Her rump slid off the end of the mattress and she landed on the floor with her feet in the air, her panties riding up like a thong. He gave her credit for a quick recovery. She rolled to a crouch in three seconds flat, convincing him she’d had special training of some kind. Her dexterity was phenomenal for a private citizen.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said.

  Extra points for bravery too. “Want some coffee?” Her pitiful voice sounded so raw he had to offer, although she hadn’t given him the sign.

  She licked her chapped lips and he approached her from the side, not surprised when she flinched at his touch on her shoulder. He grasped the back of her neck to stop her leaning away from him and held the mug to her mouth. When he was sure she wouldn’t yank her head back, he tipped the mug, satisfied the coffee had cooled enough not to burn her tongue. Her swallow sounded strangled, but eager lips followed the rim when he moved it away, so he pressed it against her mouth again until she gulped more down.

  “I need to go to the … the bathroom.”

  He lifted her to her feet and sliced off the tape around her ankles. Holding the bonds at her wrists, he led her, stumbling, out the door and down a short hallway to the bathroom. He reached in and flipped on the light switch. Why had he bothered? She couldn’t see. He walked her to the toilet and turned her until the back of her legs were up against it.

  “You aren’t going to watch?” Hmm. More question than statement. She must have lost some of her courage.

  “I don’t get my kicks like that.”

  She sagged and he let go to give her some privacy. Then he remembered his role. “There’s nothing in here but a toilet and a sink. No razors, no tweezers, no weapons of any kind. So get the job done. Yell when you’re finished and I’ll come get you. If I don’t hear the ‘all clear’ in five minutes, I’m coming in.”

  As he walked away, she called out, “Will you free my hands?”

  “No.” The door shut with a slam and he leaned against it, proud of his performance. He sounded damned scary, but he’d had loads of practice intimidating felons.

  He’d listen to make sure she’d peed before he went in there again. After all these hours, she likely had a sore bladder. Shit, why hadn’t he thought of that sooner? If he couldn’t scare her into giving him the sign, refusing bathroom rights would work for sure.

  He could hear Rudy’s chiding voice in his head again. That would defeat the purpose, Jack. She needs to get over a fear of abduction, not a fear of losing bladder control. Yeah, yeah, Rudy. Easy for you to say, back in your ritzy office at The Harrison with your feet propped up.

  Relatively certain she was done, he opened the door and found her facing away from him, squeezed between the sink and the wall, in obvious search of an escape route or weapon. Her crooked panties revealed a fair amount of one rosy butt cheek. He itched to cup that soft, rounded flesh. Instead, he used the tips of his fingers to adjust the material, modestly covering her again.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Please, tell me why you’re doing this.”

  Jesus, she played games. Why didn’t she give him the damn sign? He had a disturbing thought. Could she possibly enjoy this? Could it be she didn’t want it to end, and was playing both him and Rudy for fools? Maybe the abusive boyfriend didn’t exist and she merely got off on bondage.

  Nah, her fear seemed too real for that. So what was going on?

  He yanked her out the door and back to her prison with more force than he should have.

  “Do I know you?” she asked, her voice breathless as she jogged to keep up with his longer strides.

  He wanted to get her back and gag her so he wouldn’t have to listen to her soft, pleading tones. He’d dealt with some crazy people before, but this one, oh, this one played on his sympathy big time and he didn’t like being manipulated into her kinks. This sicko therapy session needed to end right now.

  He tossed her on the mattress, then snatched a piece of tape from the scraps he’d cut from her ankles. He pressed the strip to her mouth. It fell off.

  “Please, just let me go. I haven’t seen your face.”

  “You know how to make it end. Give me the damn sign.”

  “I don’t know —”

  He pressed his palm to her lips since the tape didn’t hush her. “Shut up. I’ll bring some food.”

  She was ready for him when he came back.

  After several frantic tries, she arranged the comforter on the bed, hoping it looked like she was lying beneath it. Now, she waited behind the door. The only weapons she had were her legs, but with five years of kickboxing under her belt, she knew the vulnerable areas to target on a man to overpower him. Groin. Throat. Nose. Finding those areas blindfolded would be the real kicker.

  She inhaled a slow breath. The key jingled in the lock. She tensed, preparing her body to deliver swift, precise hits. Bending one knee, she kept the other resting against the side of the door to feel it open. Without her hands for balance, it’d be difficult to stay on her feet after landing. If she didn’t connect with solid flesh, she’d fall. She tried not to sweat the fact she’d never kicked a person before. He wasn’t a person — he was a monster.

  By slow degrees the door brushed against her foot and she held a second, waiting for his first step into the room. Bounding to the left, she kicked up and out, hoping to catch him offguard and bean him under the nose, or at least the side of his face. Instead, her toes clattered against something hard, and warm chunks spattered her throat. Her lunch? Determined to do some damage, she leaped again and threw her entire body behind a kick in the same vicinity as the last. This time she connected with flesh.

  A calloused hand wrapped around her foot and she tottered, one-legged, on the slippery floor. He released her before she toppled over, only to grab her by the tank. A rip sounded and the fabric over her breasts gave way.

  He hauled her against his solid chest. “You’re becoming a real pain in the ass, Laura.” He spoke the words inches from her face, his breath hot on her lips. A hard hand clamped around her jaw, then gentled, stroking up the side of her cheek.

  He was going to kiss her.

  “My name isn’t Laura!”

  Chapter Three

  “What!”

  Her kidnapper’s roar shook the small room. He thrust her away from him.

  Molly Rhoades gulped a quick breath of air. “My name isn’t Laura and I don’t know anything about a sign. You have the wrong person. I’d have told you sooner, but you didn’t give me a chance. If you let me go —”

  The palm of his hand muffled the rest of her words.

  “Your name’s not Laura?” he asked in a shocked voice, giving her a warning shake. “You don’t know about the sign?”

  She tried to twist her chin from his grasp to answer, but he held her firmly.

  “Details about the sign were specifically outlined in the contract,” he mumbled, sounding completely bewildered.

  Contract? A business contract? Or was it something else, something criminal? Did someone have a contract out on her? She’d seen that in movies millions of times, but the target didn’t sign anything before it happened.

  His hand left her mouth and she licked her lips.

  “Are you telling me you didn’t request this kidnapping?”

  “You think I asked for this nightmare?” She wanted to shriek her disbelief, but instincts warned her to speak softly. “What kind of person could possibly want something like this to happen to them? I’m not a masochist.”

  He released her and she could hear him pacing around the small room.

  “See, it’s all just a big mistake. You kidnapped the wrong woman. No hard feelings. Just take me home and I’ll forget it happened,” she said in a babbling rush of words. “Good thing I never saw your face
.”

  He stopped by her side again, fiddling with the knot behind her head.

  “Hey! You’d better leave my blindfold on.” The scarf dropped to her neck and she squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m not looking at you no matter what. I won’t give you any reason to kill me.”

  “You’ve already given me plenty of reasons to kill you. But I’ve got my mask on, so you can open your eyes.”

  “What if you’re lying to me?”

  “If you don’t open your eyes, I’ll gag you again.”

  Her eyelids flew open.

  He snorted and stepped back, crossing thick arms over a wide, flannel-covered chest. “I knew that’d work.”

  Molly gazed at him. The black ski mask covered his face. He stood well over six feet. No wonder he could cart her around with no effort. A pair of faded jeans hugged his narrow hips and bulging quadriceps.

  “Now, look me in the eye and tell me what you know,” he demanded.

  Molly snapped her gaze back to his face, obediently staring at the two slits in the mask. A light shade of blue? Or green? “I don’t know anything about this.”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he prowled the confined area. Now that she could see, she glanced down, appalled at the remnants of her tank top. It gaped open to mid-chest and a good portion of her breasts showed through. Breasts flushed pink with embarrassment. Had ripping the fabric been intentional or merely the result of preventing her fall? She longed for a way to cover herself, but with her arms still tied behind her, she couldn’t.

  While he paced, she scanned her prison for an escape route, fearing his confusion was a trick and he didn’t plan to release her. To the right, the bare mattress she’d slept on looked brand new. Her bright yellow-and-blue striped comforter sat on top in a heap. The rest of the room was as dull as she’d imagined, the walls painted white. No windows. Water leaks spotted the ceiling. Brown gravy with hunks of meat and potatoes pooled by her feet. Canned stew? A beige plastic tray and a chipped ceramic bowl lay nearby. She caught sight of a fork across the room against the wall.