Far Beyond Duty

Chapter 19

Dakota

This isn't my first time waking up in a dim room with my hands tied behind my back, but it's definitely the most concerning. My head spins and there's a metallic taste in my mouth. Drugs. Shit, they drugged me. The last thing I remember is heading down to the corner café for food.

I try to move my hands, but the binding is professional; each movement makes it tighter. If I had to bet, by how it adjusts, it must be a fixed rope loop with an internal sliding system. If I'm right, the more I fight it, the worse it'll get.

Sweat trickles down my forehead, plastering my hair to my face, but I can't brush it away. My wrists burn. They've pulled it too tight, and the rough rope bites like a rabid dog with every movement. It's the typical knot for stubborn people, designed to punish those who won't give up.

I make one last attempt, try to rotate my wrists carefully, but the binding responds as if it's alive. I feel it adjust with each movement, tightening a bit more. It's like the rope knows me, like it anticipates each attempt, closing the loop tighter every time I try something new. Fuck, the friction burns. Each pull tears a frustrated groan from my throat while I feel my skin heat up, probably already torn in places.

I close my eyes for a moment. Try to focus. Special Forces taught me to keep calm in situations like this. Breathe. Analyze. Find a way out.

Sweat starts sliding down my skin, wets the rope, but that doesn't help. Makes it cling tighter. The sliding knot squeezes with each involuntary spasm, as if reminding me I'm completely screwed.

The room's dark, barely lit by a small window up high. By the light, I figure it must be mid-morning. The prototype presentation is in two hours.

Anna.

The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. They'll use me as bait. The idea that she might put herself in danger because of me terrifies me more than anything I've experienced in the army.

I hear footsteps approaching. I close my eyes and let my head drop, pretending I'm still unconscious.

The door opens.

“Shit, she's still not awake?” asks a voice I recognize instantly. Thorne Bishop. I don't understand how they let him out on bail. I guess that's the upside of having contacts in the right places.

“Dose was pretty strong, boss. Didn't want to risk it. That chick knows how to fight,” another man responds. “But she should be conscious real soon.”

“She better be. We need her to make that call before the prototype presentation.”

Their footsteps fade and the door closes. I open my eyes again, assess my situation. Looks like an industrial basement. The window's pretty small, but could work for escape if I get loose. The air smells like salt and I hear seagulls in the distance. Must be near the port.

I take a deep breath and try my last option. I contort, ignoring the pain in my shoulders or how the rope burns my wrists raw. In my right heel, I keep a small blade. A trick I learned in the army. They almost never take your shoes.

I slowly cut the ropes, ignoring the pain while I hear more movement upstairs. Voices, footsteps. At least three people, besides Thorne.

“Presentation's in two hours,” I hear someone say. “Throw cold water on her or whatever. If she doesn't wake up soon, we move to Plan B.”

Finally, the ropes give. I rub my wrists as circulation slowly returns. The door has a simple lock. Under normal circumstances, I could pick it in seconds, but I prefer letting them fall into the trap. I don't know what's on the other side.

I scan the room. A rusty pipe crosses the ceiling and runs down one side. Could work.

Bracing against the wall by the door, I hit it hard, it comes loose and water starts pouring.

“Shit! Help! It's flooding! Get me out of here!” I yell, faking panic.

I hear hurried footsteps coming down the stairs. The sound of the key turning in the lock. The moment the door opens, my fist connects with the guard's throat, and he drops silently.

I take his phone and gun. A Glock 26 subcompact 9mm. Check the magazine: ten shots. Perfect.

I dial Anna's number while moving silently toward the stairs. It rings once. Twice.

“Yes?” Hearing her voice makes my heart race.

“Listen carefully,” I whisper. “It's a trap. The presentation is a trap. Can't talk now.”

“Dakota! Where are you?”

“No time. They're planning something during the presentation. Thorne's behind everything. Alert Crow. Don't go to the auditorium. I repeat: don't go to-”

Shit. Footsteps on the stairs. I duck behind a box just as another of Thorne's thugs appears.

“Thompson? Everything okay down there? Fuck, you better not be trying to screw the prisoner. Sick pervert, boss'll kill you.”

I don't answer. He comes closer and sees his buddy on the floor. When he turns, it's too late for him. One precise hit to the neck, and he falls next to the first one, but I don't have time to catch him and the fall sounds too loud.

I hear footsteps upstairs. Weigh my options. The window. Small, but not impossible. I launch myself toward it, ignoring the broken glass cutting into my hands.

The cold, salty port air hits me as I emerge outside. The old port warehouses, about twenty minutes from the auditorium. If I run, I can make it.

Thorne screams like a madman. Shots ring out. I duck behind containers while bullets whistle over my head. I shoot back, and Thorne's thug seems to decide his pay isn't worth risking his life.

The phone I called from rings in my pocket.

It's Marcus.

“I can't stop her!” he shouts without greeting. “She left for the auditorium. Says she won't let them ruin everything she's worked for.”

“Shit!” I gasp while running. “Do something! Now!”

“I've tried. She insists the only way to stop this madness is to present the prototype. Hundreds of people are waiting.”

My mind races while I run. Anna's stubborn as a mule.

“Listen carefully,” I order between pants. “The ventilation system, above the stage. Perfect spot for a sniper. Check it.”

“We already checked. It's clean.”

“Check it again, damn it! Every corner. Thorne's not stupid, he mentioned something about a Plan B.”

I cross an avenue, making cars brake suddenly, leaving bloody handprints on their hoods. Police sirens wail in the distance. Someone must have reported the gunshots.

The auditorium appears before me.