Consciousness seeped in, crowding out oblivion like the dawning sun nudging aside the night. As the darkness of her mind receded, Chrissie’s last memories replayed with the flurry of an out-of-control slide show: the bedroom door crashing open, knocking her backward; the masked face; the monster-like goggles; and the sharp sting in her neck.
Pressure surged from the center of her skull expanding outward with each passing second, creating the sensation that her head would blow apart. Chrissie tried to open her eyes, but couldn’t. Her eyelashes rubbed against something rough. The blindfold felt as if it would push her eyes backward into her brain.
She tried to suck in lungsful of air. Each inhalation was met with stiff resistance. A vile odor permeated her nose and mouth. Chrissie moved her tongue back and forth. A disgusting cloth had been rammed into her mouth, filling it, restricting the movement of her tongue and choking her.
She gagged and pushed forward with her tongue. The pressure against her throat eased. She managed to suck in some cool, moldy air through her nostrils. At the moment, her nose was her only connection to the world.
A searing pain scorched her arms and legs. The muscles burned. Her arms felt like they were being pulled apart from her shoulders. Behind her, outstretched, taut, her wrists were held aloft and she could not lower them. Every time she tried, the pain intensified, becoming molten. Something held them aloft. If she tried to force them lower, her arms screamed in protest.
The large muscles in her legs had begun to cramp and spasm. Tears tried to drip from her eyes only to be swallowed up by the repugnant cloth around her eyes. Chrissie’s stomach wanted to expel its contents. If she did, she might choke to death because of the gag. She willed herself to focus on other things, blocking out the pain and the nausea.
Where the hell was she?
Who had taken her? And why?
Where was Jason? Had he been taken too?
Chrissie tried to cry. But her whimpers were absorbed by the filthy cloth in her mouth, her tears sopped up by the irritating fabric over her eyes.
She couldn’t even weep.
Amid the rustle of her clothing and the brush of the blindfold and gag depriving her senses, another sound intervened, inconsistent with and independent of her movements. It emanated from somewhere close by. The soft, gentle whoosh, a scraping noise caused by two rough surfaces rubbing against each other. Faint but unmistakable, it was there.
The cold floor felt like concrete coated with dirt or sawdust. The sound coming to her was the same sound she made when she moved her legs along the floor. Chrissie froze and listened.
There it was again!
A panicked anxiety shook her. Another living creature was alive and moving in the space near her.
Was it a mouse … or a rat … or something worse?
Whatever it was, she realized she was not alone.
The flash drive held a single video file. Delilah Hussein’s, formerly Lily Zanns’s, puckered puss dominated the computer screen. The recording had been paused. A large right-pointing triangle poised mid-screen waiting for a command.
They sat in Peter’s idling Hummer in the parking lot of the Grafton Post Office. Before clicking the play icon, Jason studied the frozen image.
Despite the fact that he’d last seen her less than three years ago, Delilah Hussein looked fifteen years older. Her black eyes exuded a hard sadness. The skin around them was markedly wrinkled. Her lips were pursed in a condescending pout.
Acid in his gut roiled. The pulse in his temple and wounds raced. Jason sucked in a tremulous breath, pushing back hatred, frustration, and a horror-filled dread.
The scene behind Hussein, frozen on the screen, appeared tropical. Slanting palm trees jutted from thick ground cover. A serene azure body of water stretched calmly to the horizon, the antithesis of Jason’s life at this moment.
Jason hovered the mouse over the triangle then clicked.
“So, Monsieur Jason, you have found the flash drive inside the second coffin. Michael and Miss Christine are only a few meters from me at this very moment. They are alive. Confused and afraid, naturally. But still among the living. Let me show you …”
The image on the screen shifted from the placid outdoor backdrop to a dark, murky room. Jason squinted, moving his face closer to the screen. Seconds elapsed, the videographer adjusted the aperture of the lens and the picture exploded in light. Another adjustment and the level of light corrected itself once more.
The same two silhouettes knelt before opposite walls, in a basement of some kind lined with racks holding wine bottles laid horizontally. Farm implements leaned in clusters against the four walls. The prisoners were blindfolded, perched forward uncomfortably before opposite walls. Their arms secured behind them as taut chains angled from their arms to the brick.
If any doubt existed, Jason had none now. He recognized the familiar outlines of Michael and Chrissie. The image zoomed in to Michael, filling the screen on the left, and then panned right.
Jason did not need to see their faces—Michael’s mop of hair and his strong angled chin, and the curve of Chrissie’s delicate, tear-stained cheeks. Their faces were swathed by gags and blindfolds. Miniscule patches of skin along the jawline and around the nose were visible.
Next, the image moved to the dirt-covered floor between them. A pristine newspaper lay there. The camera zoomed in on the masthead, focusing on the date. Yesterday’s edition of the Washington Post.
His eyes welled with moisture. Jason blinked them away, finishing with a wipe of his sleeve. Delilah Hussein reappeared and spoke:
“Here are your three objectives. You must secure a vehicle. Go to the address inscribed on the underside of the lid of the second coffin, Michael’s coffin, and retrieve a set of keys to a vehicle from the man there. You will be given the location of the vehicle later, if you survive. With these keys and the vehicle, you will make a very important delivery for me. It is out of state and will take no more than ten hours.
“Remember, the lives of Michael and Miss Christine depend on your success. It will be a difficult task, but one that you are capable of completing. I have complete confidence in you.
“Once you have obtained the keys from the male resident of the home … you are to use the cell phone from Chrissie’s miniature grave … the one marked number two … and call the only number in the address book. You must report back to me by one am your time tomorrow. Monsieur Jason, after you retrieve the keys and before you make the delivery, you will need to do one more thing … You must kill the man who gives you the keys … Bonne chance!”
“We have to take this to Palmer,” Peter demanded. “He’s the only man who knows what happened. He can help us!”
Jason shook his head. His first inclination was to get the police involved. But he’d reconsidered. “I don’t know. You heard her. ‘No police or Feds.’”
“She has Michael and Chrissie. We don’t know where they are. We can’t do this alone. Let the police crash the house and shake this guy down!”
The video had finished a minute ago. The brothers sat in silence contemplating Delilah Hussein’s instructions, absorbing the shock of the ultimatum, the enormity of their dilemma swelling.
“Stop and think a minute, Peter, will you?” Jason shot back. “We don’t even know if this guy knows where they are. If we get the cops involved, Hussein will know. I can’t risk it. If we take this to Palmer, the whole Newport News Police Department is going to descend on that house. Then they’ll bring in the Feds. And she will kill Chrissie and Michael. I know it. We can’t. We have to find another way.”
“Jason,” Peter replied. “This thing is way too big for you and me. Hussein could be holding them anywhere. If she’s telling the truth and they are no longer on American soil, we have no way of finding out where they are, let alone mounting a rescue. Look, I love them, too. But we need help.”
“I agree we are going to need help. But not yet.”
“So what are you … we going to do?”
“We’re going to follow her instructions to the letter … until I can think of a way of getting help without Hussein knowing it. Think about this: Hussein is trying to manipulate me. She took Michael and Chrissie because she wants me to deliver—whatever it is. She’s taken them to control me, to make sure I do what she wants. I’m going to do just that.”
“She wants you to kill someone! Are you planning on doing that too?”
“I’m going to try everything I can to avoid it. Let’s go back to my place. I’m going to need some things … and I’m going to need a better weapon than the Colt. And I need to make a stop.”
“I’m not letting you go alone. You need someone watching your six,” Peter declared.
They had driven back to Jason’s place in York County and were standing at the kitchen counter. Peter had cracked a Miller Lite. Jason sipped from a bottle of water. Peter had placed the first cell phone on the counter between them along with the password scribbled on a piece of paper.
The determination in Peter’s words possessed an iron finality. When this marine got something in his head, he would not let it go. Nonetheless, Jason put up a token effort to resist.
“Pete, you can’t be involved. If I have to kill again, you can’t be involved. What about Lisa and the girls?”
Peter held Jason’s gaze. “Michael’s family. So is Chrissie. I’m going. That’s final.”
Jason nodded. “Okay. Let’s get out on the deck. You can have a cigarette. We’ll need a plan.”
On the deck, Peter shook a Marlboro from its box, lipped it out, and touched the lighter’s flame to its tip. He sucked in two long draws and exhaled them into the cool, spring air. Jason sipped from the water bottle. The brothers stared into the wooded lot. They had done this countless times in the past under less trying circumstances.
“I have a question,” Peter began, “with you here and Chrissie…unavailable, who’s minding The Colonial?”
“I’ve got two great pharmacists. Billy Parks is in charge. I checked with him about fifteen minutes ago. Told him Chrissie and I were going on a long weekend. That we’d be back next week.” Jason hesitated, his voice wavering. “If we get them back.”
“Don’t worry, we’re gonna do everything. And I mean, everything.” Peter placed a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder as he pulled two quick drags from the cigarette into his lungs and flicked the butt away.
“Alright bro,” Peter began, “where do you have to go to find this man you’re supposed to kill. The video said it was on the lid of the second coffin. What’s the address?”
Jason hefted a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s in the house. We’ll look at it in a minute. Where’s your gun?”
“Under the seat of the Hummer.”
“Ammo?”
“Three fifty round boxes, also under the seat. That should be plenty.”
“That depends on where this takes us next.”
“How about your weapon?”
“The Smith and Wesson nine mil is upstairs. I’ll get it in a minute. I have two boxes of rounds. I’ve got about five hundred in cash in my dresser. I’ll bring it … in case. Is your phone fully charged?”
Peter checked his bars. “I’m about half.”
“You?”
“I’m good. I have a charger inside. You can fill ‘er up on the way.”
“So how should we play this?” Peter asked, withdrawing a second cigarette, lighting it, and sucking it down to half.
“Hopefully, he’ll be alone. I’ll approach the door by myself. You’ll hang back in the car, waiting and watching. You’ll be there in case anything goes wrong. And that’s final. I go in alone.”
“What about killing him?”
“I’m working on that.”
“What about making him disappear?”
“What do you mean?”
“We could kidnap him and keep him incommunicado until we have Michael and Chrissie back, then release him.”
“Who’s going to babysit him? We don’t have time to get more people involved. Plus we have a deadline … one in the morning.”
“Good point.”
“We’re going to have to play it by ear,” Jason declared.
“When do you want to leave?”
Jason rubbed his chin. “In a few minutes,” he replied. “Is Lisa pissed?”
Peter smiled and nodded. “I think she worries more about me being with you than she did about my being in Iraq.”
Jason nodded. “Can’t say I blame her.”
“You okay?” Peter asked. “You’ve been wearing out those jeans for the last hour.”
Jason lowered his eyes and saw his hands running up and down his thigh. He stopped and looked at his brother.
“I should have left all this stuff alone, Pete. If I hadn’t been chasing Clyde Hutton, I would have been there when they took her. I could have stopped it.”
“Maybe, but you wouldn’t have been able to keep them from taking Michael. We’d still be here trying to get him back. This was a well thought out op. She’s planned this a long time. Don’t worry, we’ll get them back. No matter what it takes.”
“Thanks. Give me a minute. I’ll get the gun and the money. I’ll come and get you. Have another smoke.”
“Copy that,” Peter said as he fished out his third butt.
Jason descended the stairs after leaving his bedroom. He had retrieved his Smith and Wesson and two boxes of rounds, the cash, and two empty clips from the small safe in his closet
The two-story Running Man residence still held a household’s worth of furnishings. The utilities were still on. He hadn’t spent much time here since he’d moved in with Chrissie six months ago. He drove the twenty minutes from Newport News and checked on things twice a week. Once in a while, he’d spend the night.
A melancholy gratitude filled him. Good thing I haven’t sold it, he thought. I might be moving back here.
Jason hesitated in the kitchen, peering through the window at his brother leaning on the deck the railing with his back to Jason. Intermittent puffs of smoke wafted skyward. He’d always chided Peter about his two-pack-a-day habit. And Peter always waved it away.
Tomorrow, he’d say. I’ll quit tomorrow.
His brother always smoked outside, even at home. Lisa would have it no other way. Today, he was glad for his brother’s addiction.
The keys to the Hummer lay on the counter beside the cell phone. Jason scooped them up.
He pivoted, exiting the kitchen through the foyer and opened the front door a fraction. The hinges squealed. He pulled it open wide enough to slip out and closed it silently behind him.
You’d run through hell in a gasoline suit for me, brother, Jason told himself. I can’t let you do it this time.
Jason knew the moment Hussein’s video instructed him to kill a man that he had to keep Peter out of it. He’d sacrificed too much. Lisa, Peter’s wife, already hated that Jason had exposed her husband to so many dangers. She’d never say it out loud. But he saw it in her eyes. Jason was sure she lobbied Peter about staying away from Jason. Jason also knew Peter defended him … every time.
On the way back to the house, Jason had devised a getaway plan. The idea to have a smoke on the deck and invite Peter to stay there for a minute had worked.
Jason pressed the button on the key fob, unlocking the doors. He hopped in and slipped the key in the ignition. The engine hummed to life. He jerked the gearshift into reverse and backed out.
As he curled into the street, the front door opened. Peter appeared in the doorway, confusion etched on his face. He bolted toward his Hummer.
Jason rammed it into drive, slamming the accelerator to the floorboard. The rear wheels spun on the pavement, causing it to fishtail. Smoke enveloped the Hummer. Peter intercepted Jason as he gained speed. The former marine slammed the passenger-door window.
“Jason, what the fuck!”
Jason stayed hard on the gas, swung the wheel right, and hurtled onto Running Man Trail. He watched an irate, arm-waving Peter grow smaller in the rearview mirror.