I get distracted by the sound of shuffling from above.
“Head’s up.”
It’s the one who whipped me.
I sit silently against the wall with my legs folded to one side, staring up at him. I’m careful to keep my expression neutral and not glare. I don’t want a follow-up performance of his whipping technique.
He lifts a small square in the grate and lowers a red plastic bucket attached to a rope.
When it comes in contact with the dirt floor of the cell, he jiggles the rope, releasing the bucket. He retracts the rope, closes the grate, and leaves without another word.
I crawl over to the bucket. In it, I find two bottles of water, aspirin, a protein bar, a banana, and a thin wool blanket folded into a square. There’s also a pack of baby wipes, a tube of antibiotic ointment, and a pair of white athletic socks.
I’m not stupid or stubborn enough to refuse these gifts. I know I need to keep up my energy, so I scarf down the power bar and the banana. I pop four aspirin and guzzle a bottle of water. Wincing and gritting my teeth, I clean the bottoms of my lacerated feet with the baby wipes, then apply the ointment.
Then I put on the socks and sit back against the wall.
If I thought jail was good for serious thinking, a hole in the ground is a thousand times better. And it all keeps coming back to Killian.
The possibility that I might never see him again is far more agonizing than my feet.
I must fall asleep, because I wake up with a jerk in total darkness. For a moment of sheer, blinding panic, I think I’m dead. But then I smell cigarette smoke and look up.
Someone sits smoking in darkness above me.
I stay silent. He told me not to speak unless spoken to: this could be a test.
After what seems an eternity, he says, “You did good. No crying. No begging. They always cry and beg. Even the men.”
It’s pitch black, so I feel safe flipping him the bird with both hands while baring my teeth. But I keep my tone mild when I answer.
“Thank you.”
His voice drops an octave. “I like the way you scream.”
Inhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Exhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Start over again.
After another long pause, he says, “Your father’s a hard man to get a hold of.”
Oh shit. My mind goes a million miles an hour, scrambling for anything to offer him. He’s clearly telling me they haven’t been able to make contact with my father yet. He hasn’t seen the video yet.
They don’t have their money yet, or whatever it is they’re after.
And the longer they can’t contact him, the longer I rot in this hole.
“It’s August. He’s probably on his yacht.”
Silence. He smokes, waiting.
“He takes three weeks every August to sail around the islands of Croatia. The name of the yacht is Penetrator.”
He snorts in derision.
I agree. My father is many things, but he’s not a romantic.
I hear a creak above me, like my captor is leaning forward in his chair. If he’s even in a chair. Maybe those are the bolts in his neck making the noise.
“Okay. We find this yacht of daddy’s, you can come up out of the hole. We find out you told me a lie, we fill up the hole with dirt.”
He leaves me alone with only darkness and my own growing fear for company.
For the longest time, I hear nothing. No one comes to tell me anything. I’m so hungry my stomach starts nibbling at itself around the edges. I’ve finished the other bottle of water, and there’s nothing left to eat.
They still don’t come. For hours and hours. Maybe days. I have no idea how long I’ve been in this dark hole, only that no training I had as a child prepared me for this.
For the possibility that I’d be left so utterly alone.
I’ll die down here. I’ll starve to death. No—first I’ll die of dehydration.
And no one will ever find my body. Nobody knows where I am.
Killian. I would give anything to see your face one last time.
That thought is what finally makes me break down and cry.
I lean against the dirt wall with the thin blanket wrapped around my shoulders, shivering like a dog, tears streaming down my face, and let myself sob. I let it all out. All the pain and confusion, all the regret and despair, all the dashed hopes and lost dreams.
I cry for Max and Fin, who’ll never know what happened to me. I cry for the life I could’ve lived, for all the warm summer nights and glorious winter sunrises and dinners with friends I’ll miss. For all the years I had ahead of me.
Years I might have spent with a man. Raising a family. Being in love.
Being loved.
I cry until I’m empty. Until I’m as hollow as a shell.
Then I wipe my face on the blanket, blow out a hard breath, and stand. On my heels, because that’s the only way I can do it without collapsing from pain. I take one of the empty plastic water bottles and use the uncapped end to start digging footholds into the dirt wall.
Because of all the things I am, a fucking quitter isn’t one of them.
I’ve only been digging for maybe five minutes when an explosion nearby knocks me onto my ass.
There’s an abrupt change in the air pressure, followed by a shower of dirt clods raining down onto my head. That explosion is followed quickly by several smaller ones. Then I hear bursts of automatic gunfire and the sound of men screaming. There’s more gunfire, closer, then an enraged, unearthly roar, like nothing I’ve ever heard. It comes again, raising all the hair on my arms.
It’s a scream of fury. Of vengeance. The scream of a demon thirsty for blood, its frenzied bellows echoing down the tunnels.
But it’s not a demon. It’s a man.
It’s my man, and somehow, he found me. He came for me.
And from the sound of it, he’s kicking some serious ass.
My heart takes off like a rocket. I scramble to my knees, craning my neck up toward the grate, toward the flickering orange light and the billowing smoke.
At the top of my lungs, I scream, “Killian! I’m here!”
Footsteps pound on dirt. Closer and closer they come, until a figure appears to one side of the grate and skids to a stop, looking down at me.
He looks like something out of a doomsday movie. He’s a soldier after the apocalypse, combing the ashes of the world for his lost love.
Clad in a military-style camouflage combat uniform, he’s wearing night vision goggles, heavy boots, kneepads, and a black helmet that Darth Vader would approve of. It covers his entire head and face. On his back is a tactical rucksack. The belt around his waist carries a huge knife in a sheath and several sidearms in holders. His chest is covered by a vest that has Velcro pockets stuffed with ammunition cartridges and grenades. Gripped in his gloved hands is an enormous black rifle with an infrared scope on the end.
I can’t even see his face because of the helmet, but I know it’s him.
I’d know that man anywhere.
I gaze up at him, my heart expanding inside my chest. With a hitch in my voice, I say, “Hi, honey. What took you so long?”
30
Jules
Killian lowers a metal ladder, slides down it like a fireman on a pole, grabs me, throws me over his shoulder, and climbs out of the dungeon with swift, silent efficiency. He doesn’t even jostle me on the way up.