Chapter 13

Andrea dreamed she was swimming in a vat of pure pain. It swirled around her entire body, submerging her in agony, touching every nerve, every single cell. She was suffocating in complete torment as the world dimmed to an infinitesimal black hole somewhere beyond her reach.

“Conrad…” She whimpered, opening her only functioning eye.

She couldn’t even gasp at what she saw.

It hurt like hell just to see, let alone try to breathe.

The world came back into view with the stench of her own vomit.

She was lying crumpled, on a filthy mat, her face stuck to the fabric encrusted barf.

In a cell.

In the dark.

Alone.

Afghanistan? Had she been captured?

Sierra Leone? No, that was jungle. And a long time ago.

Her mind turned in sluggish circles.

Conrad?

Her anniversary?

“Ahhhhh.” Andrea tried a shallow breath. Her side burned as if someone applied a branding iron to every rib on her right side. Another shallow breath. More burning.

“At least I’m not dead.” she commented to herself, since there was no one else around. “Dead people don’t hurt this much, right?” She licked a swollen lip.

“Of course you’re not dead, or you would be here with us.” A sweet little voice out of nowhere, came to her.

Startled, Andrea jerked then groaned in pain. “Insane, though, right? Cause I’m hearing someone who’s not there.” Andrea glanced around to reassure herself of her insanity. The room was empty except for her.

“Not at all, Andrea. A friend sent me to help.”

“Right.” Andrea snorted. How could insanity help her? And why did it talk back? She was imprisoned in a tiny room with a door that had no knob. Her body was beaten and broken to the point she could barely move, and now she was hearing voices. Maybe it was some strange after effect of the drug she’d been given. “Great.”

“Thank you. I plan to be.”

Well, if she was going to lose her mind, then what the heck. “Okay, I’ll bite. Thanks for what? And what do you plan to be?”

“Great, of course. Now listen, you’ve got to get up.”

“Why?” Andrea was sure she couldn’t crawl, let alone stand up.

“Because that ugly, mean, fat man out there is drunk and asleep. You need to get out of this room.”

“Right.” Andrea moved a foot and murmured a foul word.

“Yes. Before he wakes. I do not believe he will let you live, and then Evie will be mad at me.”

“Right.” She moved the other foot and felt a burn sizzle through her ankle. “Not good.”

“But workable. Now get up. You must do this on your own. I cannot physically help.”

“Of course not. How would a voice help me stand?” Andrea was acting along in a bizarre play of her own deranged imagination. How would she escape this room, even if she could stand? There was no handle or lock from the inside. It was a steel door. There was no way to climb to the ceiling and leave through the skylight. Andrea rolled over and gasped in horrendous pain.

“But I can help that.”

Andrea felt a cool, peaceful calm wash over her body and the intense pain began to fade. “What the hell…”

“No, not Hell. Heaven. No matter. Can you stand now?”

Andrea pushed herself up to a sitting position expecting the worst. It never came. A slight burning sensation emanated from her ribs and her foot tingled like it was waking up from a sleep. She tested her left eye. It opened, but still felt heavy and thick. “Oh, my God. What did you do? I can move. I can see out of my eye.”

“Just what I promised.” A melodious giggle tickled Andrea’s heart, prompting energy and hope. “Now you must go. Quickly. The other man will return soon. He is even more evil.”

“But, how?” As she asked the question, Andrea could hear the lock on the door click. The heavy steel drifted open a crack. “Never mind.”

Andrea rose to her feet. Her pain was there, in the back of her mind, but not immediately in her body. In one swift movement, she was at the door, pulling gently at its substantial weight.

A not-so-subtle scraping sounded like rending metal. Andrea froze, peeking through the widened crack.

A few feet away, her assailant slumped in an old office chair. His ample belly rose and fell with each loud snore, and his arms hung off his sides. His chin sat solidly on his chest, eyes closed, his open mouth and drool attesting to the number of empty beer bottles on the table.

That’s what you get for mixing your alcohol, you bastard, Andrea thought.

“Move the door slowly, Andrea. Then run. I can open a lock, but I cannot stop a bullet.”

Andrea jumped, looking behind her. There was no one there. “What the…”

“Shhhhhh. Out through that open garage door. Look, over there.”

Suddenly infused with energy, Andrea eased the door open a tiny bit. To her, the screeching sounded like a full orchestra belting out a warmup exercise, but it didn’t seem to stir the fat man. Keeping an eye on the sleeping goon, she moved the door a fraction of an inch at a time. It seemed like hours, but finally there was enough room to slip through.

The fat man was still snoring away in his chair as Andrea shimmied through the crack and headed for the garage door.

“The shirt, Andrea!”

An old work shirt hung on a peg near a line of lockers next to the far wall. Andrea tiptoed to the locker and slid into the shirt. It was long sleeved denim and almost hung to her knees.

Good. After all, she was naked. Running around South Padre Island naked was sure to stir up some interest, and interest was not what she needed. Until she was safely away from her captors.

Turning back toward her exit, she stumbled over an empty gas can. The metal can clambered across the cement floor with a racket that would wake the Devil.

And it did.

The fat man came out of his chair as if he’d been shot, gun in hand. He first turned toward the steel door, but seeing it half open, he spun to draw down on whatever had caused the noise.

But Andrea was gone. Flying out the big door, she ran for all she was worth.

Right into the arms of Master Moto.

Her masseur?

What was he doing here?

Contained by the strong grip of a professional masseur, Andrea could not move. However, her mind was not a prisoner, and she immediately recalled her hand-to-hand combat training. A fast knee to the groin had Moto releasing his iron grip enough for Andrea to twist away and run.

And run she did.

As fast and as far as she could.

Away…

She cut across the grass and marsh near the Queen Isabella Memorial Bridge, gaining the highway in a short scramble. It must have been the middle of the night since the moon was high and there was no traffic to be seen. No help to solicit, and she was a perfect silhouetted target.

Crouching as she ran on bleeding feet, Andrea stayed low, trying to cross the Laguna Madre as fast as she could. If Master Moto was part of her kidnapping and this nefarious plot, whatever it was, she now understood how they’d taken her out of the club.

A lethargic garbage barge drifted below the bridge on its way to be dumped out at sea with the dawn. A half rotted carcass of a small fishing boat crowned the foul load as it passed beneath her.

“Duck!”

The warning voice came too late.

Andrea felt the bullet crease her forehead, knocking her off her feet and completely off the bridge. The last thing she remembered was falling, then the smell of decaying fish and rotting wood.