Chapter 12

Andrea’s lids felt like lead as she tried to pull herself from the groggy, all-consuming sleep. Man, Moto must have done a great job. She didn’t even remember falling asleep on his table. She rolled her eyeballs around beneath her lids and tried once again. One opened a bit, but the other one seemed to be glued shut.

Shit!

She was going to be late for lunch with Wilmer and Calli.

Andrea moved her arms to hoist herself off the massage table. Or tried to.

Why wouldn’t her arms move?

She lay on her stomach, drifting for a few moments before her mind cleared enough to remember she needed to move.

“Come on, girl. Lunch is waiting.” Her own muffled encouragement set the wheels spinning in her brain. “Up you go.”

Andrea tried to move her arms again and found it was useless. Not because she was so relaxed. She was confined!

What?

Her eyes flew open this time, despite their dry, gritty feeling. Her nose kicked into play as well.

She craned her neck, looking around the small room. She was lying on a filthy mat on the floor. Her hands were obviously tied behind her back because they were numb and confined.

She tried to move her legs. They worked, but her feet were somehow restrained too.

Andrea peeked around the room, enough to know she was alone, then carefully rolled on her side.

How?

Why?

The two questions surfaced through the mental fog.

Drugged.

Her mind was wading through the last vestiges of some kind of chemical agent.

Drugged.

Tied up.

In a very small room.

On the floor.

A grease-stained cargo blanket covered her naked body.

Naked?

Yep. Buck naked.

She lay still and listened for any sound that would identify where she was, or provide a clue as to what was going on.

Muffled words could be heard but nothing made sense. Maybe she was still suffering from the effects of whatever drug they’d given her.

Andrea curled into a ball and eased her hands beneath her, bringing them to the front of her body. Thank God for exercise and flexibility!

Two neat tie-wraps encircle her wrists and a third connected them within an inch of each other.

No help there. Can’t undo tie-wraps.

The pins and needles of neurological wake-up tortured her hands for a few moments before easing to a dull ache. She rubbed her hands against the cargo blanket until feeling returned, then wiggled into a sitting position.

Her ankles were in the same condition. The tie-wraps were not tight enough to cut off circulation, but closed to the point she could not slip out of them either.

Efficient.

A bottle of water sat on the floor next to the mat. Her mouth felt like the entire Fifth Regiment had marched over her tongue in mud-caked boots.

Water would help.

She reached for the bottle at the same time her brain screamed drugged! She froze.

It was now clear to her, she’d been kidnapped. Would they want her unconscious?

She grabbed the bottle and felt the cap.

Tight. Still sealed.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Her brain screamed, no!

Her body argued, need!

Her body won.

It would do no good to become dehydrated and senseless.

Andrea removed the cap. At least her kidnappers had allowed her wiggle room with her hands. And given her water. Clothes would have been nice.

She downed the bottle in greedy delight. With the first gulp, the tepid liquid brought life back to her body. How long had she been out?

There was no window in her room. No furniture. Only wooden walls and a rusty steel door. No door handle. So where was the light coming from?

She looked up. A light, or skylight. Which one? Her vision blurred…

There was no switch on the wall, so she figured it must be a skylight.

It would be day then. That was about all she could determine from the bright square in the ceiling that hurt her still-sensitive eyes.

Her cell was about eight feet wide and about ten feet long.

Andrea wiggled her feet. Stretched her legs. Moved her bound hands and arms.

Everything seemed to be in order.

Except the smell, and the heat.

The placed stunk of old oil and grease. The cargo blanket she’d tossed off was a hundred years old with rips and tears on both sides. The batting inside hung in glops from the original blue fabric quilting. Dark stain splotches were everywhere and the binding on one side had separated long ago.

Andrea set the bottle down next to her mat and stood, stretching her arms and legs as best she could, considering her confinement.

She needed to figure out what was going on and formulate a plan to get out of the mess she was in. Her anniversary was tonight. Or was it?

What day was it?

Was she still on South Padre Island?

Questions banged around in her head as the light in the room began to fade. Definitely a skylight up there. It was getting dark.

She moved to the door and pressed an ear to the crack.

She couldn’t understand a thing she heard. Not because the voices were so muffled, but because they were not speaking English!

She listened carefully and picked out a loud “nein.”

German. They were speaking German.

German?

She identified another common word. It sounded like “dun-kah.” German for thank you. Definitely German.

Immediately her thoughts jumped to Wilmer. He was German.

She heard a chair scrape and hurried back to the mat, sat, and covered herself with the cargo blanket despite the hot mugginess of the room.

Something rattled outside her door, then it opened slowly with a rusty screech and some difficulty in moving. She wouldn’t be sneaking out that door without the entire county knowing it.

There stood a rather portly man with longish blond hair and sea-blue eyes. Even in the soft light of the setting sun, they almost glowed. He was clean-shaven, except for the square patch of dark hair above his lip. The man sported a Hitler mustache! And wore a khaki uniform of some sort. The wide black belt dipped below his pendulous belly.

“So you are a-vake, Mrs. McIntyre. Goo-t.” He threw two more bottles of water at her and turned to leave.

“Wait! Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Who I am vill remain a healthy mystery. Better for you to not know. Vut I vant you for is bait. Be goot. Stay alive.” He pulled the door closed behind him with a grunt. Andrea could hear the rattle and click of a lock outside her door.

Bait?

She took one of the bottles and unscrewed the top. It was cold. She held the bottle to her forehead for a moment, thinking. What was the last thing she remembered?

She’d been at the club. Working out, then a sauna and massage…then, nothing.

A muffled whistle interrupted her thoughts.

A Train? A boat?

Shadows crept across the room of her dimming cell as she finished off the bottle of water. Her stomach growled, protesting only liquid.

Tears welled up and threatened to spill down her hot cheeks. She should be enjoying a delicious prime rib dinner and a glass of wine with her husband right now, celebrating their anniversary. Not naked, locked up who-knows-where, with a bottle of water and a filthy mat. The fat man said she was bait.

Bait for what?

For whom?

She wiped away the tears. Tears weren’t her style. Well, didn’t used to be her style…before. That was a while back, before Conrad’s metamorphosis from kick-ass soldier to Mr. Vice President. She used to be his world. Now the company was his main focus and she was a sideline interest.

Conrad? Was she the bait for Conrad?

Holy shit!

The new targeting program he was working on?

The wheels in her mind spun at warp speed.

She literally had nothing anyone would want. Lots of material stuff, but nothing truly important. Not like when she actually had a career. It had to be something about Conrad. Something about his projects, probably for the government.

Global Systems Technology had several government contracts. Everything from some little gadget that enhanced the speed and accuracy of bullets, to their most lucrative program called Iron Shield. The multi-million dollar targeting system was supposed to be un-hackable, globally synchronized, and able to control a mass missile strike from a single point of contact. It had to be Iron Shield.

But if the project was compromised, the company would just alter the coding and anything gained, would be useless. How could she be bait for something potentially useless? It didn’t make sense.

She allowed one more pity-me tear to slide down her cheek before the old Andrea kicked, in and her survival instincts rose to meet the stubborn and single-minded determination that had kept her alive as a combat journalist.

With the last few rays of light, she studied her cell.

Nothing on the walls. Check.

No door handle. Already checked.

No furniture. Just a few half-pulled nails where something had been attached to the walls. Che…

Nails?

Andrea scrambled over to the wall and felt the nails, looking for a sharp edge. The tie-wraps were plastic and strong, but…

She found one nail with a half-smashed head. Working the nail back and forth, it loosened but would not come out of the wood. Damn. Andrea hooked the right tie-wrap over the nail head and pulled. The plastic cut into her wrist, but did not break. Double damn! That wasn’t going to work.

The heat was stifling, and Andrea could feel sweat slick her body. At this rate she’d lose the liquid she’d just drunk in no time at all. She took a deep, breath and tasted a hint of grease. Where the hell was she, anyway?

Crawling back to the mat, she continued to study her cell. Environmental weapons bounced around her brain. Environmental tools…the concept had been drilled into her head during a pre-embedding survival class she attended with other journalists headed for the sand box. There were five journalists in the class. She was the only woman. It was a tough class with personal self-defense training, and mental preparation for a world she’d never even imagined. And well worth the five days of sweat, bruises and brainteasers. They studied the culture, posed problems, practiced basic self-defense and familiarized themselves with typical weapons used in the war, both enemy and friendly. Always look for tools in your environment to survive in case of being separated or captured while on assignment. Environmental tools and situational opportunity. It was the mantra that put her to sleep at night in the one-hundred-and-thirty-degree desert. It was the song she woke up to in the twenty-degree mornings. It was the theme she’d lived by and survived a handful of skirmishes with, back when she had a career and a mission.

Naked.

In an empty cell with no windows and no door handle.

One incredibly stinky and dirty mat.

A torn and well-used cargo blanket.

Three plastic bottles.

A handful of bent and stuck nails.

The twilight crept from her cell through the skylight above, and her tiny world went dark.

So did her mind.

Just as the second tear made its way down her nose, Andrea heard commotion outside her cell. Chairs were scraping on a floor. Loud low voices were raised in, argument? More movement was heard then a loud thump against her door. Andrea hastily wiped the tears away and pulled the cargo blanket up to cover herself. Another loud thump and more yelling. This time right next to her door.

Andrea flinched when a gunshot rang out, obviously impacting her door. She hit the floor and lay flat, listening.

More yelling.

Another shot.

This time it must have been in another direction because there was no metallic sound and no new dent.

Then silence.

Was someone outside to liberate her? Police? Conrad? Andrea lay flat and listened for several seconds.

Nothing.

“Hello?” She yelled from her position on the floor. “Anyone out there?”

She stayed low and crawled to the door. Andrea banged on the metal door close to the floor. “Help! Anyone out there?” She screamed, “Help me!”

The lock rattled and Andrea had just enough time to slide out of the way before the door scraped open with a loud screech. “I tell you, behave.” The fat man crossed the floor and kicked Andrea with a heavy boot. His face was screwed up in anger and his eyes burned with hatred.

Pain exploded in her shoulder. Andrea slammed into the wall. She was able to block the next kick a little, but the fat man was spitting and screaming at her in German, as he kicked, again and again. Andrea could smell alcohol on his breath as he screamed and kicked. He held a half empty bottle in one hand and an ancient revolver in the other.

Andrea blocked the kicks as best she could, but they still continued. The fat man was out of control and was taking out his frustration on his victim. Her survival class instructor had taught her, sometimes the only way to survive was to feign unconsciousness. Captors often found it useless and not very satisfying to beat an unconscious person who didn’t respond. She flopped over on her stomach and lay there, steeling herself to be unresponsive. One more vicious kick to her side and he was done.

The fat man was obviously furious at her lack of response, and threw the now-empty booze bottle against the wall. It shattered, and the smell of whiskey mixed with grease and ancient oil was about all Andrea could take, but she remained still and unresponsive. The door screeched once again, and she was alone.

Still she remained on the floor, eyes closed, not moving an inch.

Every bit of her body hurt like the devil and she was sure one eye was swelling shut. Her right side was on fire and the fat man’s boot had opened a gash on her arm. She could feel blood trickling down to her elbow.

Slowly, with great pain and careful movements, Andrea rolled over. She pulled some of the less filthy stuffing from the cargo blanket and daubed at her arm. Moving her fingers and arm, she was sure the kick had not broken any bones. The gash was about three inches long and superficial. She tenderly pulled the torn flap of flesh back into place and patted it down. Moving various parts of her body, she assessed what damage he’d done. She probably had a couple broken ribs. Definitely a black and swollen eye, possibly a broken nose. Her lip was split, but had already stopped bleeding. Legs were fine. One hip was sore and swelling but it functioned the way it should, and the pain was receding with movement. Her left ankle was swelling, but it seemed to move correctly. The inside of her foot burned, but in the dark, it was hard to tell what was going on. Andrea lightly touched the area. Her fingers came away dry, but even the slightest touch sent licks of fire up her leg. That was not good.

Andrea pushed herself to a sitting position and winced. Her hand came off the floor with more blood, a piece of broken glass embedded in her palm.

Glass?

Broken glass?

Sharp broken glass!

She pulled the piece from her hand, ignoring the sting and small puncture wound. The piece was too small to be of any use. But where there was one, there would be more!

Andrea eased herself onto her knees and cautiously felt for more. She quickly found more broken glass, but nothing of the size she could use to cut her ties. It was a slow, arduous task, since her body screamed with every move, and she had to be careful not to miss a chunk that would add more insult to injury. Just as her hand contacted the broken neck of the bottle, the moon added its full light to her cell, illuminating the floor with a silvery glow.

“Hah!” Andrea took the broken neck with its sharp edge. “Now we’re cooking with gas.” She carefully retraced her crawl and sat with her back to the wall. The mat she’d found herself on when she woke, provided little padding, but it didn’t matter. Her body ached so much from the beating she’d suffered, a Lazy Boy recliner wouldn’t have mattered.

Andrea studied the glass bottleneck to find the best and sharpest side, then began to cut at the tie-wraps. All she really needed to be free was to cut the connecting tie-wrap between the ones on her hands and feet. She’d worry about the ones around her ankles and wrists when she was free of this tiny room from Hell, and the fat man with his temper and gun. The tie-wrap between her ankles popped free and she stretched her arms and legs. Pain exploded in her side and she tried not to scream. Screaming required a deep breath and more pain.

She stood up, testing her legs. So far, so good. Her side was pure agony on top of torturous pain, and the left instep reminded her to check it, now that light was available. Andrea sat back down and pulled her foot up to see the instep. In the moonlight she could see angry red skin and the beginning of some serious bruising, but it didn’t look or feel like anything was broken, except blood vessels. She pressed her hand to the area and applied pressure. The human body was an amazing thing. It could take a great deal of insult before it actually broke down and needed the kind of medical help one only found in a hospital.

The one last bottle of water sat next to her on the floor. It was still cool to the touch. It wasn’t ice, but it would help. She held the bottle to her foot, closed her eyes and tried to figure out what just happened.

Obviously, the fat man won whatever battle had gone on, but by his temper and anger, everything wasn’t going his way. Did that mean her life was in more danger now? Was there more than one guy involved and it wasn’t working out? Did someone disagree with the fat man? Was he even the boss? She’d seen his face. Did that mean he would kill her, no matter what?

Probably…

Her pain was taking over and it was too much. Andrea drifted on flaming red clouds, until Mother Nature took her away and she succumbed to fitful sleep.