2. IVY
2
IVY
The van lurched through the night, each bump and jostle a sickening reminder of my fate, as the sharp scent of bleach mingled with my fear. Which, by the way, was creepy as F. There was only one reason I could think one would need bleach in here…
I glared at the two burly men, their black tactical gear casting an air of menace around them. Kevlar vests hugged their broad chests, adorned with pouches and equipment that promised violence. Jackhole One’s rifle was clutched tight to his body, his finger resting just outside the trigger guard. His face, chiseled and hard like granite, betrayed no emotion. My phone, which they’d swiftly confiscated upon grabbing me, now sat mockingly on his vest, a cruel reminder of how thoroughly they’d cut me off from any hope of rescue.
Beside him, Jackhole Two sat equally resolute, a human wall of muscle and firepower who held his own rifle at the ready, its black stock gleaming. A mask obscured his features, leaving only a calculating stare that seemed to dissect me with a glance. Both wore their authority like a second skin, their demeanor a silent declaration of their lethal purpose.
After my repeated pleas to confirm that Grayson’s brothers were still alive went on answered, my mind tortured me with something else—the words they’d said right after taking me echoing in my mind like a sinister taunt.
“Your father isn’t the man you thought he was.”
For over a year, I had been consumed by questions surrounding my father’s suicide—one in particular: had he done it because of me ? I’d finally made peace with the fact I’d probably never know and started to imagine a future beyond the pain.
And now, these Jackholes were trying to rip off the fragile scab, exposing the festering wound beneath.
But I wouldn’t let them. Couldn’t.
“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” I wondered aloud.
If they were going to put Grayson’s brothers through the nightmare of breaking into Hunter’s home, smoke-bombing them, putting rifles to their heads— please, God, let them still be alive —the least they could do was clue me in on why I hadn’t been killed on the spot.
The question lay suspended in the air, though, as if the hum of the engine was the only damn explanation I was going to get. It didn’t make sense. They could’ve taken me out in a matter of seconds at Hunter’s place. So, why take the time to kidnap me? Why was I still breathing?
Maybe they’d been watching me and Grayson for a while. Did they intend to interrogate me and uncover how much information Grayson might have compromised about the CIA?
“Is this because Grayson and I have…gotten close ?” I almost said become romantic , but thankfully, I snapped that dangerous profession back before it slipped out.
The two Jackholes exchanged a look.
“You two are close ?” His tone had a haunting chill that sent shivers over my skin. “You mean romantically.”
Grayson’s boss knew that Grayson refused to kill me without seeing evidence firsthand, but that could be chalked up to nobility. Morality.
This…sleeping with the target he was ordered to kill? What a betrayal to the CIA. Which might put a target on Grayson’s back because of me. Stupid, reckless me.
What the hell had I been thinking, blurting that out?
Tears threatened to spill, and my chest heaved as I tried to figure out how to take it back.
There couldn’t be a world without Grayson in it, not even one where I was dead.
“No, we’re not romantically involved.” I forced the lie out, but they merely smirked.
“Sure you aren’t, darlin’. We’ll be sure to pass that information along.”
No!
Maybe if they understood why Grayson hadn’t killed me, he wouldn’t be in as much trouble.
“I’m not an arms dealer,” I said desperately. The men simply stared at me, their rifles shifting slightly when the van heaved to the right. “I’m innocent. I don’t know what’s going on, but this is all a mistake.”
A mistake that, based on their ambivalent-ass demeanor, they didn’t seem to care one iota about. What’s one more dead girl, I guess?
If these guys did something to me, Grayson would never rest until he found everyone responsible for my death. These guys would spend the rest of their days running. Had they thought about that?
“Grayson will track you down,” I warned.
“If he does, he’ll have a spot next to you, darlin’. At the bottom of the lake.”
Drowning? That was where they were taking me? To what, make it look like an accident or something? Oh God, of all the ways to die, drowning…
The thought alone made me shiver, and my shiver turned into all-out trembling at the prospect that Grayson might die, too. Just for trying to save me.
I had to think of something else.
“Detective Mitchell is waiting for me,” I lied. Well, it wasn’t a full lie.
He had called me and asked for me and my mother to come down and see him as soon as possible. Technically, I’d ended that call abruptly, and he was probably expecting to hear from me before seeing me, but these guys didn’t need to know that. If they thought someone in law enforcement was expecting me, maybe that would put a wrench in whatever they had planned.
I was totally grasping at straws, but desperate times…
“Detective Mitchell, you say?” the Jackhole on my left asked. And then his thin-ass lips arched up on one side. “I’ll be sure to send him one of your fingers, then. You know, so he knows you’re not going to show up.”
My intestines clenched at how relaxed he spoke of my dismembering.
Not just a drowning, then. They had something worse planned. Of course they’d torture me, to find out how much intel Grayson might have leaked, right? But what did that matter if I was dead? Would Grayson’s punishment be scaled according to the level of his betrayal or something?
Or…were they worried I might have passed information to someone else? Could that mean other people in my life would be next? Until they plugged all the leaks?
The vehicle swayed to the left, sending my shoulder into the door.
The door…was it locked? They had two armed guards in here, so maybe it wasn’t. In fact, I couldn’t recall hearing the click of a lock when they threw me in here, but I couldn’t be sure.
Could I jump out? The asphalt would tear me to shreds at this speed, but I’d probably die anyway, so it was my best chance of survival; if I failed, at least I’d die on my own terms.
My hands shook, adrenaline surging through my veins like liquid fire. In a burst of desperate energy, I lunged for the door, my fingers closing around the handle. I yanked with all my strength, and the door flew open, wind howling as it whipped past my face. The road below was a blur of motion, a deadly current eager to claim me.
But as I teetered on the edge of oblivion, iron arms clamped around my waist, yanking me back from the brink, and though I used my training to fight back, they managed to drag me back into my nightmare, the van swallowing me whole.
With a sickening thud, I hit the floor, the impact rattling my bones and stealing the breath from my lungs. Jackhole One loomed over me, his stale breath washing over my face like a noxious wave while a cruel sneer twisted his lips.
“That was a stupid move.”
I didn’t tell him that his teeth smelled of rotting fish, and I resisted the temptation to spit in his eyeball.
Instead, as soon as he was off me, I curled into myself. I didn’t want these men to see me crack, but I couldn’t stop hot tears from leaking into my palms as despair became so thick, I felt like I was suffocating.
What if this was it? After all, reasoning had failed. Trying to scare them had failed. My attempt to flee by jumping from the van had failed, as did my effort to fight them when they dragged me back. At every turn, they had overpowered me, their strength and ruthlessness an insurmountable wall.
I wanted to believe I wasn’t at their mercy, that, realistically, I still had a chance to get away.
When the vehicle jerked to a halt and the door opened, a wild flare of hope ignited that maybe I could run. But it was snuffed out as quickly as it sparked when both men deflected my self-defense moves, put a pistol to my temple, and dragged me through a parking lot that butted up against a small commercial building.
I could only take in its flat roof and run-down shingles before they ushered me through a set of double doors, down a musty concrete staircase, and into some kind of industrial basement reeking of mold, bleach, and the coppery tang of old blood, which invaded my nostrils and clung to the back of my throat like a slimy, unwanted intruder.
It was here that they bound me to a metal pipe by wrapping my arms around it and handcuffing my wrists together with a clank as chilling as the concrete floor against my skin.
Jackhole One and Two took up positions on the opposite wall, their stances casual yet alert, like predators waiting for their prey to make a fatal mistake. A third man, likely the driver, joined them, his face a blank mask that betrayed nothing.
A drain sat in the floor between us all, a black hole waiting to swallow secrets and sins. How many had bled out here, their last breaths soaked into the unforgiving stone? How much of my blood would leak before my heart stopped beating, and how much pain was I about to endure?
My body began to shiver harder with the sound of a fresh set of footsteps. Slow and calm, the steps echoed in the space as a figure descended the staircase.
My breathing became so shallow that the edges of my vision began to blacken as my kidnappers all watched this man’s silhouette come closer.
There was something familiar about him, something I couldn’t place, not while he was still swallowed in the shadows. But eventually, the fluorescent light illuminated his face.
And the world tilted on its axis.
I knew that face, that silver hair, that mole by his right ear. It couldn’t be, though…
“Steve?” I said in a shaky breath.
My mom’s ex. The man at the center of the affair that had left my family in ruins and the man who’d betrayed her—having lied about being married himself. The man who Detective Mitchell suspected had lied about his identity.
But what would he want with me ?
This isn’t about the CIA at all , I realized, sending all the puzzle pieces of what I thought I knew into the air like blood-drenched confetti.
Steve squatted down in front of me, a smirk playing on his lips, relishing my shock and confusion.
“Actually,” he said, “my real name is Daniel Murphy.”