Race with Danger (Run for Your Life Book 1) (16 page)

When I come to, my head feels like my brain has been using a dull pickaxe in an attempt to break out of my skull. My lips and tongue are dry. My throat feels like I just ran through a sandstorm. I sense that I’m more or less vertical, although my head is lolling to the side and my neck is so stiff that I’m not sure I’ll ever sit up straight again. I can’t seem to move my arms or legs. I’m not really sure, because I can’t
feel
my arms or legs.

Keeping my eyes closed and my muscles slack, I listen for a moment. I hear only distant voices and quiet breathing sounds. I hold my own breath for a beat, but still hear the breathing, like someone snuffling through clogged nostrils. Cautiously, I open my left eyelid just enough to register too-bright old-fashioned fluorescent lights and the blurred details of my prison.

It’s Sebastian’s prison, too; he’s slumped over next to me. He’s making the snuffling noises.

No wonder I can’t feel my arms or legs. Like Sebastian’s, my limbs are firmly attached to a metal chair with those ghastly plastic zip-ties. There are three per arm at bicep, elbow, and wrist; three per leg at thigh, knee, and ankle. Our GPS units are gone from our wrists. I wonder if they’ve been destroyed or if our signals are still somehow racing through the jungle.

Our chairs sit against a sweating wall from which strips of paint are peeling away. Paint chips and rust flakes decorate the floors around the edges of the room. The walls, the floor, the metal cabinets across the room—everything is coated with the same rubbery-looking gray paint, although parts of the floor are obscured with black rubber mats. It looks like this place was once used as a laboratory of some kind. There are three doors in the walls. They all have those step-over thresholds like you see on boats, and all are closed tight.

I study my partner. Sebastian’s head sags back against the wall. His hair has come out of his ponytail and long greasy strands hang over his face. He obviously hasn’t shaved for a couple of days; whiskers blur his cheeks. In addition to the bruises and scrapes he’s accumulated in the last few days, there’s a big purplish lump on his neck. That must be where the dart hit him. Right into the carotid; no wonder he’s still out. His lips are slack, and a little drool of saliva drips down one side of his chin.

He’d be mortified if he could see himself now.

I’m relieved to see that my clothing, as minimal and filthy as it is, is intact. My next thought is that it’s beyond outrageous that girls are always forced to consider whether or not our bodies have been violated while we were unconscious. And then I wonder if rape is still to come in my future, and it pisses me off more that the possibility even crosses my mind. I counted four men among our attackers. One woman. Maybe she’ll be the tempering factor, although since she’s clearly in league with the other thugs, the presence of Blondie doesn’t give me a lot of hope.

Slowly I raise my head to its normal position. My neck shrieks with pain all the way up, like a rusty cable sliding through a pulley after years of disuse. My head isn’t doing so well, either. How many times have I hit it today?

Is it even still today?

I think about all the football players and boxers who can no longer string together a complete sentence or walk without help. If I knew that would be my future, I would be ready to die right now.

But I’m not dead yet. And neither is Sebastian. Or Bailey, although all our futures are looking mighty grim.

My stomach roils with nausea. I take a big breath of stale atmosphere. The air feels cool and damp against my skin and it’s absolutely motionless. I hope we’re not hermetically sealed in this room.

Please God no, don’t let us be on a submarine.

Faint voices waft in from the other room, the sound level constant. A broadcast of some kind.

Then I hear someone clearly say in English, “This is it. Turn it up.”

The voice sounds loud enough to be in the same room with us. Panic flares in my throbbing head until I notice that there’s a metal grid set high up in the wall above Bash’s head.

No hermetic seal; there will be air. We’re not on a submarine, then. It’s appalling what a girl can be grateful for in circumstances like these.

The volume increases, and I hear a carefully modulated male voice, educated English with a slight tinge of some sort of Middle East accent.

“…exchange for the return of Sebastian Callendro, we demand immediate intervention to rescue our beleaguered people. We demand air strikes against the invading terrorists, weapons for the rebels, and humanitarian aid to our freedom-loving people . For too long, the United States has stood on the sidelines and watched our people slaughtered. Stop this bloodbath, and President Garrison’s son will be returned unharmed.”

A couple of male voices in the other room follow that announcement and their discussion drowns out the commentator’s voice for a moment. Their tone sounds congratulatory. I wonder if the man who recorded those demands is in the room. Are they all proud of what they’ve done?

To say the least, hearing their demands depresses me. I realize that kidnapping The President’s Son is a powerful act, but if these guys are asking for America’s military involvement in another country as well as humanitarian aid and weapons, Sebastian and I may be captive for weeks. Or months.

The guys in the next room take a break from patting themselves on the back, and the broadcast leaks through again.

“…in fact a terrorist group, too? Our reporter asked that question of the President.”

President T.L. Garrison’s voice comes on. “Any organization that believes kidnapping and extortion are legitimate means of persuasion is a terrorist organization. The policy of the United States stands: we do not do business with terrorists.”

The foreign-language speaker in the next room then shouts something in an angry tone, and the broadcast abruptly ends, probably snapped off by our captors.

An angry discussion erupts. I can’t understand a word.

Correction on my initial time frame estimate: we could be captive for years. Or at least Sebastian could. I can’t help noticing there was absolutely no mention of me. For the last three years of my life, I have strived to be invisible. It seems that I have finally accomplished my goal.

A metal connecting door abruptly squeals open. I make myself go limp, but it’s too late.

“So our little African American Princess is awake.”

I can tell it’s a man from his voice, one I haven’t heard before. His head is completely obscured by a khaki bush helmet. His face is hidden beneath camo-patterned mesh netting that descends from the hat’s brim to his shoulders. That’s probably some sort of standard-issue desert soldier gear to protect against dust and sand flies.

Maybe Emilio is used to seeing his buddies decked out like that. For me, it’s terrifying to be under the power of a stranger whose face has been erased so completely.

I try to memorize the details I can, on the off chance I live through this and can be useful to the police. Khaki-colored long-sleeved shirt, tan pants, leather lace-up boots, skin on his hands the reddish brown of a tanned white guy. A wicked looking knife in a sheath on the right side of his belt. A pistol in a holster on the left.

“How’re you doin,’ sweetheart?” He tickles me under the chin like I’m a cat.

I don’t purr. I do wish I had claws to shred that mesh and scratch his eyes out. I have to settle for giving him my most hostile glare. His touch reminds me of a lecherous orchard owner in Eastern Washington where Marisela and Emilio and I picked peaches and plums one summer. The old geezer would not stop coming onto me, and I needed to keep that job.

Finally, inspired, I told him that I was flattered and could use the extra money (although he hadn’t promised any) because I needed to buy another round of antibiotics to be sure I was over my bout of Chlamydia. I was so glad the disease couldn’t be spread through handling fruit, because I’d had it several times and it was really hard to get rid of, wasn’t it?

He not only stopped harassing me, he gave me a bonus at the end of the season. It’s amazing how liberating having a pretend STD can be. If only dealing with this guy in front of me could be as easy.

He bends close and pushes my hair back from my temples. His fingertips feel calloused. He smells like sweat. He must do some type of manual labor.

When he pulls the knife out of the sheath, my breath gets hung up in my throat. The knife looks even bigger close up. Thick leather-wrapped handle, wide blade—a hunting knife? Oh, sweet God. My pulse pounds as he puts the sharp edge to the side of my throat. One quick swipe, and my life could be over.

“What should we do with you, Zany?” he mutters in a growly voice.

If I put myself in my captors’ terrorist boots, I can only think of one possible use for Tanzania Grey. Nobody’s going to pay a ransom for me. At most, Marisela and Emilio and all my pals at the zoo could scrape together a few hundred dollars. Perhaps a ransom could be crowd-sourced over the Net? The endurance racing world is small, but I do have fans. But crowd-sourcing would require someone to set it up and beg for my return. Perhaps my sponsor—Dark Horse Networks? But as far as I know, my presence in this little side trip has not even been mentioned.

No, the best use for Tanzania Grey would be to make a splendid example of just how far this group is willing to go to get their demands met. A televised beheading. Death by firing squad. Or worse—maybe broadcasts of prolonged torture to suggest that the same is happening to The President’s Son.

I try to quash these horrific thoughts, worried that I may be telepathically communicating them to Camo Mask. Or maybe he’s sending them to me.

He slides the blade against my neck, using what feels like the side of the blade, not the edge. Thank God for small favors.

He leans closer. “Is Tanzania Grey your real name?”

I want to back up, but I’m melded with this stupid chair. “Damn, you found me,” I snarl. “I admit it. I’m Jameena, in disguise. I like to travel incognito.”

He snorts at my mention of the rock star. “Who would want you, Zany? With your parents gone, you really don’t have a family, do you? But could
someone
be left?”

This makes me think about that African pendant in my personal box waiting for me at the finish line. Does this guy know something about who sent that?

Next he suggests, “You must be worth something to
someone
. Maybe another group would be interested in getting their hands on you?”

He slides the flat of the blade upward. I can feel the point digging into the underside of my chin.

I wish I could see his eyes. Does he know something about who killed my parents? Is he proposing selling me to another organization? Is he trying to gauge my reaction?

Then he suggests, “Maybe the government?”

My brain conjures up the black SUVs that haunted my neighborhood after my parents’ murders.

The same door opens again. Another man stands in the doorway. He too wears fatigues and boots, with the same desert camouflage helmet. His face is covered with black netting. He barks what sounds like a command in a guttural language.

The thug at my side answers. Then, reluctantly, he returns his knife to the sheath on his belt.

I swallow hard and work some saliva back into my mouth as I face the man in the doorway. “These binds are too tight. I have no blood flow to my hands and feet,” I tell him. “Gangrene will set in.”

My would-be torturer kneels in front of me and takes hold of the fingers on both of my hands for a minute, a disturbingly intimate gesture. He lets go and moves down to my feet, which are still laced up in my running shoes. He loosens the laces and sticks a finger into each running shoe.

Then he pushes himself to his feet. “Your hands and feet are merely cool. You’re okay for now, Princess.”

He puts his fingers under my chin and tilts my face up. “You can guess how this is going to go, can’t you, mystery girl?”

My breath snags on my tonsils at the back of my throat. Why did he say that? He’s no doubt staring into my eyes, but I can only see colored netting where a human face should be.

“Should I cut off a finger to show we’re serious? Or maybe an ear?” He delicately rubs my right ear lobe between his index finger and thumb.

I shiver.

“Leave her alone.”

Sebastian has finally come to. His voice sounds raspy. His throat is probably as dry as mine.

“Give us water,” I tell the man at the door.

Black Net exchanges a few hostile-sounding words with the thug beside me. Camo Mask straightens and radiates hostility for a minute. But then he decides to fulfill my request and moves toward the sink on the opposite side of the room.

Black Net leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

“What’s going on?” Sebastian croaks. “Where are we?”

I answer his questions in reverse order. “I don’t have a clue where we are. These guys want to trade you for U.S. intervention in their country. They shot us with tranquilizer darts and loaded us onto a helicopter. I’ve been out since then.”

Camo Mask is back with a plastic bottle and a crooked straw poking out of the bottle neck. He holds it in front of my face. I’m worried about what could be in that water, but I’m also dying of thirst, and how much worse could this situation get? My lips fumble for the straw like a baby rooting around for the nipple. I take a long suck of liquid. It seems to be water, although I can discern a few minerals in there, too. It tastes a little like the glacial runoff that took down Team Eight earlier today. Or maybe that was yesterday? I suck down half the bottle before our captor pulls the straw out of my mouth and walks to Sebastian.

Sebastian struggles, thumping the chair on the floor. “I can’t feel my hands or feet.”

He’s shivering, too. It’s not particularly cold in the room, but we are both still wearing our sweat-soaked running clothes. I long for the windbreaker I carried in my pack.

Camo Mask feels Sebastian’s fingers, then holds the straw to his mouth. My partner sucks down the rest of the water. The straw is gurgling in the bottom of the bottle when a voice hails Camo Mask from the other room. Camo jerks the bottle away and walks back through the connecting door, shutting it with a clang behind him. Then we hear what sounds like an argument between two men.

“I don’t suppose you speak whatever language that is,” I say.

Sebastian sighs heavily. “Tana, I’m
so
sorry.”

I echo some of his first words to me. “You didn’t ask for this.”

“Neither did you.” He thinks for a minute, and then suggests, “Maybe the drone captured the kidnapping?”

“I have a nasty feeling that these guys are in bed with our drone drivers.”

He stares at me, waiting. Deep purple circles ring his eyes, which are threaded with spidery red veins. Whatever was in that dart really did a number on him.

I switch from my low murmur to a whisper. “I recognized a voice. It was Hasanov. And I think I heard Blondie, too.”

“Agent Macey?”

I nod.

“How in the hell are we going to get out of this, Tarzan?”

It’s a good question. I move my gaze from wall to wall, surveying our prison. I don’t have any suggestions.

The door opens again and Camo Mask returns. Black Net follows him, carrying a camera. This cannot be good.

Camo stands between Sebastian and me until Black Net has the camera ready. At his colleague’s nod, Camo digs his fingers into Bash’s hair, pulling back his head, then takes out his knife again and puts it to my partner’s throat. Then he yells loudly and terrifyingly in his language as he jerks on Bash’s hair. The knife point digs in, leaving a small cut that dribbles a drop of blood down The President’s Son’s throat.

Bash stares defiantly but doesn’t make a sound until Camo Mask releases him and turns to me.

“Leave her alone!” my partner shouts. “I’m the one you want.”

Camo Mask waves his knife back and forth in front of my face, shouting menacingly. I’m so focused on the horrific possibilities inspired by this gesture that it takes me a moment to register that his colleague has lowered the camera.

Camo Mask sheaths his knife again, and I take a breath of relief until he pulls a syringe out of his pocket and pops the plastic cap off.

“Good night, Princess,” he croons in English as he plunges the needle into my neck.