He was my chance at happiness.
I had always thought I was a happy person before meeting him because I loved my work and career. Cruce made me realize how much I’ve been missing in life, but it disappeared in a heartbeat when his stopped beating.
The screech of metal sliding against metal—so ominous sounding that my heart thuds like a giant drum—pierces the silence, and I jerk against my bonds. My sadness over Cruce vanishes as fear takes root deep in my gut.
I strain to see toward the area I believe the door to be in, then a flood of light blinds me as it opens. My eyes involuntarily snap shut against the pain of it, yet my fear won’t let me sit here in continued darkness. I wince, opening my eyes up a fraction to see who’s coming through that door.
I see nothing but a large outline of a man with wide shoulders and powerful legs. I’m assuming it’s Paul, although it could be anyone. Whoever has kidnapped me has the money and means to hire a small mercenary army to do his bidding as evidenced by how quickly and effectively they struck. It could be any one of those murderers, which is what they all are. Maybe only one pulled the trigger and shot Cruce, but they’re all responsible for his death.
A light comes on overhead. As I start to become accustomed to it, my vision focuses. It’s Paul, and I don’t like the look in his eyes.
Way too much determination.
He’s here for the information I hold in my head.
Cruce had warned me about this if I were to be captured. Our second night on the island, over dinner, he had a terrifying conversation with me about what would happen if I were caught.
Paramount, he’d said, would be to get the information from me at all costs. He’d informed me in a cold, flat tone that they would hurt me to get it.
He also told me to resist the impulse to give in because once they had the information, chances were they would kill me. They were never going to let a witness who could identify them live to do so.
I try to straighten my spine to show my defiance, but Paul just smirks. Apparently, I amuse him.
“They say you are a brilliant scientist,” he murmurs as he approaches. My eyes stay locked on his. When he reaches my chair, he squats so we are eye to eye. “So you are surely smart enough to know what I want.”
“I won’t give you anything,” I say. It takes everything within me to keep my voice calm and confident.
Paul’s glare bores deep into mine, perhaps trying to glean just how much I mean that.
He merely inclines his head. “We shall see.”
And so, it begins.
Paul stands, then moves over to a metal table against one wall. He pulls it toward me, the legs scraping along the concrete floor. The sound is excruciating to my ears after having been left in silence so long.
When he drops it beside me, I twist to see, fearing the horrible instruments of torture that might rest there. Instead, I’m surprised to find the top bare.
Paul pulls his phone out of his pocket, taps the screen a few times, then sets it beside me on the table. He explains, “I’m recording our little session. Can’t cause you pain and take notes on what you’re going to tell me at the same time, you know.”
I flash a faux smile. “Let the record reflect I think you’re an asshole, and you probably have a little dick, too.”
Paul may be big and appear to be an oaf, but he’s surprisingly quick. I don’t even see his hand coming at me, but I sure feel the crack of his palm against my cheek. My head snaps to the right, and my face explodes with pain. It’s the second time in mere hours I’ve been hit. The other strike was a backhand from a righty, so it was to my right cheek. This one was also from a righty, but he wound up like he was taking a swing for the fences and hit me with an open palm on my left cheek. I had thought nothing could hurt worse than knuckles, but I was wrong. Paul’s youth and size over the older man makes a world of difference in the pain scale.
My eyes immediately water, and I’m sufficiently cowed for a moment. In fact, I keep my face averted and stare at the floor, too afraid to look at him.
I’ve never been struck in my life. My parents were averse to any physical forms of punishment. I’ve never had a man lay a hand on me or been in a fight with another woman. In fact, I’ve led a relatively uninjured and healthy life unless you count the time in fourth grade when I broke my ring finger on my right hand after falling off the monkey bars. I think it was then I realized I was better suited to academia rather than outdoor activities.
“Let’s try this again,” Paul says pleasantly, his hand comes to the top of my head. His fingers flex, dig in, and grab a hunk of my hair. He forces my head around to make me look at him. Bending at the waist, he puts his face near mine and murmurs, “Tell me about the formula you finished. I’ll need all the details, of course.”
“I’m not going to tell you anything,” I tell him and then cringe in anticipation of another blow, squeezing my eyes shut tightly.
But it doesn’t come.
Hesitantly, I open my eyes to find that Paul had straightened his body. He shakes his head, smiling almost devilishly. “Not going to hit you again, Dr. Alexander. It hurts me as much as it hurts you, and I mean that literally. Oh, no… I’ve got something a little easier on me and a lot harder on you if you don’t start talking.”
Oh, God. Him hitting me was bad enough, but knowing he has something worse planned he’s apparently going to relish ratchets up my terror level. Still, I keep my mouth clamped shut.
“Suit yourself,” Paul says, then squats once again. He starts untying my legs from the chair and for a moment, I consider kicking him in the face and running. I even go as far as rolling my ankles once they’re loose, but the immediate onset of pins and needles has me changing course. Gritting my teeth, I wait through the pain as Paul moves to the back of the chair to remove the bindings from my wrists.
I’m not given a chance to work out any kinks or stiff muscles. Immediately, Paul’s hand is back in my hair and he’s physically pulling me out of the chair by it. In his other hand, he holds the rope that was around my wrists. I can’t help but cry out in pain, and it’s all too clear Paul has no qualms about hurting a woman.
In fact, I’d say he’s very much enjoying this.
My legs are numb and weak, but Paul refuses to let me sag. If I want to prevent my hair from being torn out of my head, I have to stay upright and follow along behind him.
In the middle of the room, I notice a thick chain with a rusted hook on the end as big as a salad plate hanging from the ceiling. I have no clue what he has planned for me, but I know whatever it is, I need to be moving away from that chain and hook. Pulling away, I ignore the pain in my scalp. Digging my bare feet down into the concrete, I try to jerk myself loose.
“Oh no you don’t,” Paul says nonchalantly, merely tightening his grip and exerting a bit more force. I’m not strong enough to break free. In no time, I’m standing right under the chain.
He lets go of my hair while ordering, “Hands together.”
I glare, unwilling to help him torture me.
“Look down at my hip,” Paul says conversationally, a light smile on his face.
I lower my eyes and see what he wants me to see. A knife in a hip holster.
“Now, put your hands together or I’m going to put a few carvings into your face.”