Exquisite Redemption (Iron Horse MC Book 3) (9 page)

Chapter 4

T
he painful throbbing of my head tore me awake and I tried to bring my hand to my face to brush away my annoying hair from my eyes, but for some reason my hands seemed to be stuck together. A humming rumble came from the floor beneath my ear and a metallic taste filled my mouth, my whole body aching like I’d just done a twenty-mile hike with my dad. It took me a few more moments to realize my hands were bound together and there was a strip of tape over my mouth. Unfortunately, I also wasn’t being held safely in Beach’s arms, and I instantly worried about him as a strong, breath-stealing pain filled my chest.

My immediate impulse was to open my eyes and search for him, but this wasn’t the first time I’d been kidnapped so I managed to keep still. True, it was the first time I’d been for-reals taken, but my father had staged enough mock kidnappings that his insane training kicked in. The distracting heat of my anger threatened to overwhelm me and cause me to act rashly, but my mind had been trained by a master manipulator to deal with a crisis. The only thing that could derail me was my phobia, but the danger was so great that my well-honed survival instincts took over and I gathered myself.

A calm washed over me, clarity returning as I dove into the deep parts of my mind where fear couldn’t touch me. I needed to evaluate the situation and know what I was dealing with. The feel of rough carpet beneath my face combined with the sensation of moving indicated I was probably in a car of some sort, maybe something bigger because I wasn’t feeling anything like a seat. The scent of cleaning chemicals and cigarettes was strong, but that didn’t help me out in any way. It was still dark, or I was in a space with no light because I couldn’t detect any illumination coming through my eyelids. This indicated I’d probably only been out for a little bit, or I was being held in a box of some kind.

Panic tried to claw at me at the thought of being trapped in a small space, but since it was a vehicle and not a room, I was able to push it back without too much effort.

Focus, Sarah
,
those who lose focus lose their lives
, my father’s voice whispered through my mind.

I opened my eye closest to the floor a little bit but couldn’t really make out anything in the dim light through the curtain of my hair. I debated blowing it out of my way, but that would for sure alert whoever had taken me that I was awake. The vehicle rocked slightly and I used the opportunity to roll with it, allowing my head to flop like I was still unconscious and the bulk of my hair to fall to the side of my head. This gave me a little bit of a better view, but all I could really make out was the metal ceiling of what had to be a van. Whatever road we were driving on didn’t have streetlights and a faint glow came from the front seat, probably from the dashboard.

A zing of adrenaline rushed through me as I realized my hands were duct taped in front of me but my legs were still free.

Inside of my boots was one of my throwing knives, a gift from my stepmother Mimi that went with me pretty much everywhere. And to think I’d initially been disappointed I hadn’t gotten a car for my birthday instead of knife-fighting lessons from Mimi. I also had my phone but I’d send an SOS out to my dad after I took care of the immediate threat. If I did otherwise, he’d make me go rock climbing up the brutal wall he’d built as punishment when I was younger. It was three stories tall and hard enough to challenge even a seasoned climber. Even worse, I wore a safety harness so if I fell, I’d just swing safely out over the huge, Hollywood movie stunt-scene worthy crash pad. If I didn’t grab the wall when I swung back, he’d lower me to the ground and I’d either have to admit defeat or start over again.

I never admitted defeat, and a couple times Swan had to climb up there with me to help me finish, but I always beat my Dad in a battle of wills. And for once I was happy my dad was this crazy, scary arms dealer who was good friends with some of the greatest mercenaries in the world. It meant when I called him, he’d come get me with everything he had, so I just had to stay alive long enough for him to get here.

I wanted to reach down and yank one of my knives out and take care of business, but I had to know what I was up against. Letting my head rock to the side slightly, I listened for the sound of breathing. Someone was nearby but their breaths were low and shallow. Trying to hear over the pounding of my heart, I could only make out the occasional murmur of a male voice from the front area of the van.

Moving as slowly as possible, I looked as much as I could without lifting my head and saw the unconscious figure of Beach trussed up like a Christmas goose not too far away from me. While they’d only taped my hands and gagged me, they’d bound his hands, arms, and legs with enough duct tape to subdue a lion. In a way, I was kind of insulted they didn’t view me as a threat.

He had a small trickle of dried blood coming from his nose, and the duct tape covering his mouth made me internally wince. It was stuck to his beard and I knew it was going to take some of his facial hair with it when it was removed. I didn’t dare try to wake him, not that he could do much of anything right now, so instead focused on gathering my courage enough to steal a look at the front seat.

Shit, this was not good. If only I wasn’t a fuckup like my mother; I’d never be in this situation. I’d allowed my weakness to distract us from escaping earlier when we had a potentially better chance at survival. It was all my fault we were here.

Guilt tried to keep me immobile, tried to force tears into my eyes, potentially blurring my vision, but my dad’s training helped me to center myself and I clung desperately to the memory of him, refusing to relive my past with my mother.

I need strength, not weakness.

When I was fourteen and my mother allowed my father to see me again—unbeknownst to me at the time, only after a huge payment and promise of no retribution from my father—I finally got to meet him and he was not what I had prayed for. I was disappointed to quickly learn my dad was as irrational as my mom. He loved me, I could tell that from the start, but he got so pissed off so easily I hesitated to talk to him about anything. In many ways he reminded me of some of the men my mother had hooked up with over the years, scary men who I kept as far away from as possible. Trust me when I say it took me a while to warm up to my farther.

Initially I’d hoped I would be reunited with my twin sister and she would be my soulmate, my other half in all things. Instead of being my instant best friend, my sister Swan was as different from me as possible, a high-functioning autistic introvert who hated attention and had no interest in anything I was into, namely sex and drugs at the time. In my self-involved state, I didn’t even realize at first she had social issues. I was too busy wallowing in my own pity party to realize she had been trying to reach out to me in her own way, I was just too dense to see it.

I was such a shit to her at first, jealous she’d been able to live in the same house all her life, envious she was so sweet and smart, that she had my father’s love. In short, I was a total bitch to my twin and I deeply regret it to this day. That first summer I spent with my father, he sent Swan and me to a really nice camp in Montana together. It was out in the middle of nowhere and they kept the boys and girls camps strictly separate. I didn’t belong there, and I certainly didn’t fit in or understand all the fourteen- and fifteen-year-old girls I shared a cabin with. Their innocent conversations about letting boys kiss them were completely silly to me because by that point, I’d already had sex and regularly partied it up with my mother in Reno, thanks to a fake ID.

At first I’d broken all the camp rules in an act of stupid rebellion, negative attention and all that, but when I realized how much Swan absolutely hated camping, how hard it was for her to survive with all these people around her constantly, I had to get her out. Even then I knew she was too proud to ask for help or admit how uncomfortable she was, so in order to help her escape, I made sure we were booted. That led to us returning to my dad’s place, where for the next two months I learned the fine art of kicking ass from a psycho.

When I returned home to my drug-addict mother after visiting my dad, I fell right back into partying with her. She and my dad had an agreement that there would be absolutely no one spying on us, something my dad had surprisingly agreed to. I think he did it because the only person he knew who was crazier than himself was my mom, and that’s saying something.

My father isn’t normal, in any sense of the word. He’s a survivalist who was determined to turn both me and Swan into mini-commandos. For real. Instead of sitting on the couch on Sunday afternoons when I was visiting, and watching football with my pops, we went through hostage-situation scenarios followed by running through obstacle courses while shooting at targets.

The only instant love I felt was from my stepmother Mimi, and it was overwhelming.

I sucked in a deep breath through my nose, willing myself not to give up and cry.

I, unfortunately, had been a complete brat to her at first, poisoned against her by my mom. If I’d been dealing with a lesser woman, I’d have driven Mimi away within a day. Instead she’d taken me for a horseback ride with her at sunset, and had talked to me as if I was an adult instead of the child my father wanted to treat me like. To this day I fondly remember that life-changing ride, during which I realized I finally had someone in my life who wanted to be everything a mother was supposed to be. Mimi’s love for my father and sister was unconditional, and she swore one day we’d grow as a family to the point where I loved them as well.

She’d been correct, as usual, and right now I took every drop of their love I could and used it as fuel to force myself into action.

Lifting my head the slightest bit, I glanced towards the front of the van and saw two men sitting casually, nothing visible in the dim lighting except the backs of their heads and the black of the sky through the windshield with just a hint of dawn on the horizon.

Okay, there were two of them and they weren’t paying attention to me at the moment; this was good, I could work with this.

Unfortunately they weren’t playing any music so I had to draw my legs up as slowly as possible, rolling again as we took a turn. With my hands bound, reaching down into my boot was harder than I thought it would be, and my sweaty, slippery fingers weren’t helping me get a grip on the thin hilt of the knife. I inwardly cursed as the vehicle began to slow and we hit a rough bump in the road.

From the front seat came a man’s lightly accented voice. “Call the buyer, let him know we’re about an hour out.”

The other man grunted and I froze, turning my head enough so I could keep an eye on the men while I desperately dug for my knife. I managed to shove my hands as far as I could into my boot and caught the tip of the hilt between two of my fingers, stifling a sigh of relief as I pulled it free. With half an ear, I strained to hear what the guy in the front was saying on the phone, but he was speaking in a language I was unfamiliar with. I had my knife, but I quickly realized it was going to be a complete bitch to try to use it to cut through the heavy tape around my wrists without slicing myself to ribbons.

He continued to speak into the phone as he left his seat then crouched down next to Beach, pushing his unresisting body over so he was lying on his back.

Something flashed beyond the curtain of my hair and I realized it was the flash of a camera, taking pictures of Beach. Another flash came, bright enough that I could still see spots behind my closed eyelids. The man began to speak again and the driver replied with a grunt.

The guy moved back to the front and he put the phone on speaker. “Kyle is listening, Chief.”

A man’s voice, sounding slightly metallic and distorted, came out in a furious growl. “Why the fuck did you take that gash?”

Gash, a charming slang term for women that was as disgusting as it was derogatory. Despite how much the word irritates me, it looks like I wasn’t the target of this kidnapping so that’s something positive. That meant they didn’t know who I was and what I was capable of if backed into a corner. Perfect.

“We’re takin’ her with us,” the guy driving replied. “Don’t worry ’bout her. You get your man and we’ll deal with our new friend.”

“You idiot,” the strange man seethed through the speakers. “You’re risking everything for a piece of ass?”

“Nope, risking everything for a million-dollar payday. There are buyers who would pay that without blinking to own such a beautiful woman.”