My body is weakening, and I don’t blame it. I’m sweating and feeling the cold a lot more now. The temperature has really dropped outside, and the trunk isn’t heated. I keep slipping in and out of consciousness, which helps with the pain management, but does me no good if Miss Catherine or Boxer is trying to contact me. I’ve set the phone to vibrate while the car is moving, so I can hopefully feel if anybody tries to contact me.
I need my family.
I am bruised from being inside the hard trunk. Most of it is a fairly straight drive, but I’m getting jerked around every now and then as the car swerves about sharply.
I can hear the men talking; it sounds like they are deliberately driving rough to shake me about in the trunk, as Boxer would say, ‘For shits and giggles.’
I heard Cigar Man laughing loudly and hooting when he heard me sliding around inside the trunk. I think he’s paying me back for puking on him.
I haven’t phoned Miss C back. The phone has slipped out of my shaking hands more than once, and I feared their spontaneous, reckless driving would cause the phone to be smashed against the inside of the trunk. It took time to locate the phone in the dark and get it back into my boot, where I hoped it would be safe. I needed to conserve the battery life, so I held off on calling her back.
I’ve only used it to check the time. It is a small comfort I carry around in my boot, knowing I’m being tracked. I don’t know why a man who wanted to kill me would now want to track me.
Is this a sick mind game of his, like his father enjoyed?
I had sex with the man who wanted to kill me.
He knew who I was and played a game of cat and mouse.
He must have had a hard time not laughing in my face when I told him my name was Sara.
I trusted him with my body.
I feel so dirty.
I dare to check the time on the phone again while the car is being driven law-abidingly, and I can see I’ve made it through the night. The sun would be rising.
I’m so thirsty, but at the same time, my bladder is swollen and painful. I doubt a request for a restroom break would be accepted.
On a positive note, I’m still alive and able to fight for my life. I won’t go down easily. I just wish these shakes would stop and the blistering ache that has taken up residence in my head would go away.
I’m half-dozing when the car eventually comes to an abrupt halt, sending me knocking into the wall of the trunk, making me feel all kinds of sick again. Maybe I can throw up on Cigar Man one more time.
I position my legs to hopefully avoid them noticing the flat bump in my boot, just before the sunlight pours in on me, Cigar Man smiling at me through it. My hands instinctively go to shade my eyes as they adjust to the early morning light.
“Morning, sweetheart. I see you are still kicking. It’s time to rise and shine and get ready to go on a plane—far, far away, never to be seen again.” He’s sing-songing to me like I am a child.
My heart starts racing as he leans toward me, a sharp knife in his hand. I panic and my survival instinct takes over, and I’m wriggling as far back from that knife as I can get, which is pointless, because he lunges forward and grabs hold of my bound hands. “Now don’t do something you’ll regret, because this knife may just accidentally slip and cut you.”
I hold still, and he enjoys my fear before slicing away at the zip ties until they snap apart, and then he gives me a similar speech, grabbing a hold of my legs roughly. My heart’s beating erratically, terrified the phone will be discovered as he slices through those binds.
He yanks me forward painfully without warning, my body stiff and hurting as he gets a hold of me, hauling me out of the trunk. He dumps me on my feet, where I almost topple over because my limbs don’t want to cooperate, and I am feeling so dreadful. If he didn’t have a tight hold of my good arm, I would have face-planted.
He gives me a sharp shake. “Fuck sake. Stand up, bitch,” he hisses in my ear. He’s obviously never been shot, kidnapped, bound, and shoved in a trunk before.
I try. I honestly do. I don’t want him touching me any more than he needs to, but these legs of mine aren’t cooperating. They have decided to turn to jelly. I’ve got nothing in my tank giving me strength to stand up. Can’t he understand that? Couple that with the shakes and sweats, and I am a sorry-ass mess about to topple over if unaided.
Just as I’m released and fear the ground is going to hurt a lot when I hit it, a woman comes into view. I can’t see her clearly until she is right next to me. She has sad eyes, as she mutters to herself, “What have they done to you?” She ducks her shoulder under my good arm, propping me up against her. “Honey, let me help you.” She doesn’t even hesitate to come into contact with my filthy, smelly body. I must look like a grotesque mess, and her clean clothes will be rubbing up against me.
I grasp onto her kindness like a safety line, however frail it is. “Thank… you.” My teeth chatter as I let her take most of my weight. “I’m… sorry… I smell.”
“Honey, that is the least of your worries.” Her voice is gentle, her kindness giving me false hope.
The woman and I are roughly the same height, and I think she is around the same age as me. She is beautiful and dressed in a white blouse and tight skirt. I can’t help but inhale her long, dark brown hair as my head flops against her neck. It smells so fresh and clean.
She starts walking me away from the car. I raise my head a little, trying to absorb my surroundings. Anything I can tell Miss Catherine will be helpful. We are now in a big hangar, where a sleek white private jet waits and a tall, well-built man is walking toward us wearing a gray mask that covers half his face.
Why the hell is he wearing that? A giggle starts to bubble up because this just keeps getting more and more warped, but I stomp all over it, as laughing at him will only bring me more pain.
He stops the woman with a raised hand while assessing me. I do my best to look him in the eyes. I won’t show him I’m afraid.
“Is this her?” He sounds almost disgusted by my condition.
She nods beside me.
He’s looking me up and down while I return the favor, studying his appearance. He wears a suit jacket with a white business shirt underneath and jeans. His hair is brown and short, and he wears a longish beard. He has an accent, but his English is very good.
I kick my chin up at him. I might look like a pathetic mess, but these people have no right to take me.
“She stinks.” His voice is much deeper than I would have thought.
Give the man a prize.
“She’s not getting on the plane, smelling like that for the flight.” He wants me to feel intimidated, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. None of this is my fault.
I try to stand a little taller and sway hard to the left, forcing the girl to pull me closer, making me wince from the pain.
I direct my anger at this man. “You have no fucking right to take me anywhere. My friends will come for me.” My threat is a pathetic croak.
He ignores me.
He radios for clothes to be brought off the plane and speaks to the girl. “Once you have the clothes, take her to the office, change her, and clean her up as much as you can.”
She nods again. He walks past us, heading toward the two who brought me here, probably to give them their cash. She obediently walks me to the bottom of the stairs of the private jet, where an armed man descends, his gun casually slung over his broad shoulder. He is also wearing a mask, but this one is black. He meets us, carrying a small pile of clothes. Even though half his face is covered, I can still see part of a ragged scar extending from the bottom of the mask over his cheek. Our eyes meet, and his radiate evil as they pierce me to my core.
He jars my limp arm forward, shoving the pile of clothes into it. I grit my teeth, hissing through them from the sudden movement, my shoulder unable to move without blinding pain throbbing from my bullet wound.
He puts his finger to the side of my head like it is a gun. “Do as the girl says…” His finger moves. “Or pow! There goes your fucked up head.” My aid’s body stiffens and starts to quiver. She tries to hide her response by pulling me slightly away from this bastard in the pretense of getting a better hold of me. Then he marches back up the stairs.
Scar Face is a bad man, one to stay clear of. He is American. I feel it in my gut he likes to hurt women for the fun of it and without provocation.
She helps me across to a small room inside the hangar, speaking to me in hushed tones. “Honey, just don’t ever give that one a reason… because he will hurt you.”
We enter the office. I know I’m going to need a friend or ally where I’m being taken. I extend an olive branch.
“My name is Whisper.” She looks at me with such pity in her eyes and ignores my words. I noticed she didn’t speak to either of the men when approached. I feel this should be my first lesson.
“Lean up against the desk for support.” I do as she asks, and she starts stripping me of my leather jacket, working efficiently. Her eyes flutter up to me as she works. “Look, names are too personal. I have lost too many friends. Please don’t ask that of me.”
I want to say something, but I don’t know what. She scares me with her words. She starts unzipping my hoodie. I try not to let on how much pain I’m in when she starts to remove the sticky, no-longer-plain-white T-shirt I wore underneath. She ends up tearing the thin fabric to remove it from my body, while I try not to double over from the pain. Every time I move, my shoulder screams in agonized rage at me.
She doesn’t utter a word when she sees the bloody, ragged bullet hole. Whatever she has been put through has desensitized her to my condition. I know she isn’t here by choice. Her body language shows me she’s a prisoner like I am.
She is simply surviving.
I want to ask her so many questions, but I fear what will happen to me. Can I trust her enough to risk the repercussions?
Her mind is elsewhere at the moment. She keeps looking out the window, watching the masked man as he talks to the two who brought me here.
She stops what she’s doing, brushes my messy hair away from my face gently with her fingertips, and looks me square in the eye before she kicks her heels off. “I’m so sorry, honey. Please forgive me.” She hurries to the door, shutting it quietly behind her, and then runs. There is another plane down the other end of the hangar, and she is racing toward it.
What is she doing?
Where is she going?
Is she trying to escape these people?
My eyes dart to the masked man in the suit jacket. He has moved away from my abductors, standing several feet from them, and is busy talking on his phone, while the two abductors wait patiently talking to each other, with their backs to him.
He hasn’t noticed the girl has run off, and now I know why. I gasp out loud when I see the guy pull a concealed weapon with something on the end of it out and calmly turn around, walking up to both of my abductors. And at point blank range, he shoots them in the back of the head, blood spraying as their bodies hit the floor at his feet.
I hear no gunshots. He used a silencer, just like what I assume Edge used on me.
They didn’t even see him coming, just like I didn’t see my shooter coming.
The killer is now talking to somebody on his radio. His head swings around to the office window; he knows I saw what just happened. He knows the girl isn’t here anymore. He points to me and mouths, “Stay,” and then he makes a run for it. He’s been alerted to the girl’s attempt at escape and starts legging it toward the second plane.
I’ve become frozen with fear as I watch this train wreck play out.
I’m William’s submissive lost girl again. I can only watch on in horror.
He’s fast.
Too fast.
I want to pray for her to survive, but I know these people won’t let her escape.
This is a spontaneous, desperate bolt for freedom.
There will be a price to pay for what she has done, and it will be a heavy one, the crime not worth the punishment.
The girl has passed the second jet. The raised hangar door is her target, as far away from the masked man as she can get. Her hope of freedom is pushing her to get outside the hangar. Her mind thinks that once she gets past there, she is safe.
Her mind is playing tricks on her.
Masked Man is too fast. He will be on her before she gets much farther.
My heart is a tribal drumbeat pounding in my ears. I want the man to trip and fall. I want this to be a movie where she gets to run through an invisible portal, where she gets teleported to freedom.
I’ve just about convinced myself she knows of a way out when she hits the ground, lying face down on the hangar floor.
The tribal drumbeat falls silent.
The hushed bullet hits its target true because bullets are faster than any human can ever be.
The masked man has just caught up to her, his firearm in his hand. He lays the weapon down and turns her over, lifting her until her feet are dangling off the ground, her head hanging in defeat.
He looks like he’s shouting at her, but she’s not responding.
She is now free.
There is red staining her crisp white blouse. A bullet has pierced her back on the left side, cutting a path through to her heart.
Everything happened so quickly. Three people dead.
Four deaths I have witnessed in my life.
The girl was desperate to flee her captivity. Whatever evil awaits me, she made a decision to try to escape it. It was worth it to her.
Red washes my vision. A box has broken open, and I see William slicing my mistress’ throat open as clear as if they were standing right before me. So much blood everywhere, a life taken without conscience. Mistress didn’t see William coming. She was unable to defend herself. It was a great fear of mine, living under William’s dominance, that at any moment, my life could be snuffed out and nobody would ever know I existed.
I just watched a man shoot three people dead. I bear witness to three people’s lives taken in quick succession. My memories are now coated with their blood.
My breathing has escalated, my heart pounding, pushing blood through my veins. I’m awake and living this nightmare, and I can’t get myself out of it. My freedom has, yet again, truly been stolen from me by people who have no right to it.
I close my good eye, trying to wipe my mind clean while steadying my breathing. I can’t afford to freak out now.
I want to survive for my family; they are worth fighting for.
I repeat to myself a mantra. I want to survive for my family—for Miss Catherine, Boxer, and Lincoln. They are worth fighting for.
I’m standing here in my bra, pants, and boots, scared out of my mind. I need to focus on me now.
On saving me.
I look toward the office door, but running is not an option for me. I can barely stand. I would be gunned down by this killer too. I look back at the masked man. He’s busy carrying her body somewhere.
Looking away, I concentrate on getting myself dressed. I unzip my boots, tugging them off, and place the phone on the floor beside my socked feet, and then an idea hits me. I unzip my vomit-covered pants and tug them down, making it look like I’m only taking them off, if anybody is watching me from the plane. I bend over, causing myself to feel dizzy as I hit up Miss C’s phone number and watch it connect, a low battery message appearing on the screen reminding me of its own imminent death, and then I touch the speaker button. The office door is shut, so they can’t possibly hear me talk if I’m quiet about it.
“Whisper!” Miss C picks up on the first ring. Her voice is loud, and she sounds so frightened.
“It’s me. Please don’t talk. I’m in a hangar.” I croak each word out as I let my hair fall across my face, busying myself with undressing. “I am going on a plane somewhere.” I talk as loudly as I dare. I glance up, looking through the curtain of my hair, afraid I will be caught. My eyes scan the private jet while I pick up the new pants and make a show of putting them on, ducking my head again. “There is a private jet here. It has no markings on it that I can make out. I…” I don’t want to tell her about the executions; it will only scare her. “Is Boxer coming for me?” I want to ask her how Edge is, but he doesn’t deserve my concern.
I check the window again. The masked man is now prowling toward me. He looks so angry. My skin begins to crawl like ten thousand ants are climbing on me. I feel like I am about to become his prey. I duck my head quickly.
“I’ve got to go. He’s coming for me. I’m so sorry. I love you, Miss Catherine. Please let Boxer and Lincoln know I love them.” My words are rushed and full of emotion, and then I disconnect.
I zip my pants up and hurriedly put each boot back on. I’m about to grab the phone and slip it inside my right boot, but the door to the office flies open with such force it’s hinges creak in anger. I have a split second to react, kicking the phone backward through the small gap under the desk I’m leaning against.
I pray it is hidden.
I straighten slowly as he stalks over, glaring at me. His large hands are fisted at his hips. He looks like he wants to punch something hard. He positions himself in front of me.
I keep eye contact so I don’t give away my guilt. “I’m nearly finished,” I rasp out. My words are pointless, but I needed to say something.
I’m standing here in a stained bra, as blood from my wound is trickling down my chest and my back. The shakes have really taken a hold of me, and I’m finding it hard to pick up the clean shirt to put on. I start to sway with it in my hand, trying to hold my own ground. I don’t know how long I can stay upright. My body needs to shut down, but I won’t let it just yet. Pure adrenalin and fear has kept me going since the girl fled.
“I need water, please. It’s been so long.” I need to distract him.
He’s still watching me, assessing me.
I grip the office desk, trying my damnedest to stay strong in front of this killer. My head is pounding to its own beat as I fight to stay upright.
I don’t want to be here. I want my reality to become a dream.
This is not my life; this is somebody else’s. It has to be, and I’m having a very bad, conscious dream. It’s the only explanation for the twist my life has taken.
He stalks over to the cooler I hadn’t noticed was in the room, and fills a plastic cup with water and hands it to me.
I don’t hesitate to gulp it down.
It wasn’t enough.
“Please.” I hold the cup out to him again. “My head is pounding, and I’m so dehydrated.”
He puts his hand inside his jacket pocket and I shudder in fear. Is he going to shoot me too?
He pulls a bottle of Ibuprofen out and hands me a couple pills. I take them without a thank you, and he refills the cup and returns it to me. I gulp the pills and the water down.
I wanted more water. It still wasn’t enough. “I need the bathroom. It’s been a long time. Please,” I whisper.
He searches the room. There’s a mop and bucket resting in the corner of the office. He grabs the bucket and dumps the mop on the ground.
“Here,” he growls at me, like I’m wasting his time, and shoves the bucket into my hand and ignores me, walking the few steps to the office window, one hand balled on his hip, his back to me while he radios the pilot, requesting the time of departure.
I use the plastic bucket. I think I sigh in relief then pull up my pants as quickly as my waning strength will allow. “Where are you taking me?” He ignores my question. “Please. Where am I being taken? Why me?”
He turns around, eyeing me up. “Finish dressing and take the boots off.”
I hesitate, and that is all it takes. He comes at me, slamming me face first onto the hard desk. I can no longer keep up appearances, and cry out like a crazy person who has had fucking enough.
“Shut the fuck up, because your life is about to get worse unless you listen to me!” His voice is low and menacing in my ear.
I heed his warning.
He stands up and doesn’t move. His body has gone rigid. I try to turn my head to see what has made him respond this way. And that’s when I remember the old, raised, ugly jagged scars. The word ‘PET’ has been carved into my lower back among all the other scars. He can also see the mess the bullet has made of my back, and I know I’m covered in bruises.
Miss Catherine has never asked me about my back. I had placed what William had done to me when I turned sixteen in a box and sealed it down tight. I never looked at myself in a mirror if I could help it.
A reflection never lies.
Words slip from his lips in a language I can’t comprehend as he vents his anger at me, verbally abusing me. Then he’s unzipping each boot, yanking them off one at a time, pulling my socks off so my feet are now bare to the cold cement floor while my chest is being forced into the top of the desk, held down by one strong hand.
He kicks it all to the side as my head is wrenched up by a handful of my hair. My head is turned toward the door and Scar Face, the armed man with the evil eyes, is standing there. He’s watching me with a deeply satisfied smile on his face, casually propped up against the doorjamb and cradling his gun.
How long has he been standing there witnessing my humiliation?
“I can see you don’t need my help.” He looks at Masked Man. “Do what you need to do and then get her on the plane.” He turns his back on us, leaving me alone with this killer.
What is he going to do to me?
And that’s when I really panic, and my mind chooses to crack and I lose what little sanity I had left. My legs turn to dust as I pass out in an undignified position.