Chapter Eleven
Phoenix
I’m not surprised that my kidnappers left my metal prison at the initial location I was held at. Transporting a cage sizable enough to hold a human through a large and populous city would probably be highly suspect and the whole reason they’d decided to relocate was to avoid gaining the notice of the authorities. And I really think that cage was constructed in that spot, so it probably wouldn’t have been very easy to move anyway.
I am, however, surprised that my kidnappers don’t have any sort of structure built to constrain me in their secondary base location.
When it came time to move me, the woman–Rodriguez–tied my hands together behind my back, placed a new blindfold over my eyes, and then I felt a stinging, jabbing sensation on my upper arm. The next thing I know, I’m blinking my eyes to the sight of the metal framework on the underside of a bed.
I’m not thrilled that I’ve now been rendered unconscious for the fourth time in a week. That can’t possibly be good for my brain.
Groggy, I weakly roll onto my side and see that I’m lying on worn and broken tile, the cement underneath showing in several places. The walls of the bedroom–I’ll just assume it’s a bedroom since I am lying next to a bed–are a dingy, mottled beige, at least, the parts of it that are showing through the heavy and overlapping layers of spray paint. There looks to be only one window in the room, but that is covered by a thick sheet of plywood secured to the window frame with large nails every few inches.
Spotting a door, I feebly crawl across the floor several feet. I rest my head against the rough surface of the cracked and peeling wood veneer for a few seconds and sit back on my heels. I reach up to try the doorknob, even though I already know it’ll be locked. Sure enough, the knob jiggles, but it doesn’t turn at all.
More resigned than actually disappointed, I turn so that my back is pressed against the door and wearily plop down onto my butt. My new home-away-from-home doesn’t look like much at first glance, but it would be stupid of me not to give it a more thorough visual once over. The more time passes, the more I feel the effect of whatever drug they gave me wearing off and my brain coming back into sharper focus.
What my new environs doesn’t have is…Jackson.
Where the fuck is he? Pretty sure I’d successfully negotiated a deal with Blond Guy that should’ve ensured that Jackson was relocated at the same time I was. So where the hell is he?
Unless he’s just being kept in a separate room of wherever the fuck I am. As long as he’s safe and here, that’s all that should matter. But it’ll still suck if we’re kept apart. He’s been a constant presence—a welcome one, unlike the loathsome Brazilian Guy—day in and day out for the entirety of my captivity. In these shitty circumstances, we’ve become friends. He’s my solace, my companion, my… I don’t think it’s too much to say that he’s probably the only thing that’s helping me keep my sanity.
Stuck in a cage, fed slop that looks like the shit I get to fill the bucket sitting in the corner of my cage with, unable to lie down or properly move around for days and days and days…mentally, without Jackson, I have no doubt I would’ve broken. Or been susceptible to trying to form some sort of bond with my captors.
Jackson kept me from Stockholm Syndroming my way through this shit.
Circumstances might have brought us together and trauma reaction may be driving my feelings toward him, but screw it. Life, and my kidnappers, gave me Jackson. And I am goddamn keeping him. He’s mine now.
And it’s my understanding that I’ve even bought him. So, where the hell is my Jackson?
The door I’m leaning against pushes against the back of my head, my shoulders, and my ass as someone tries to forcefully shove it open. My own low grunt of surprise and discomfort mingles with the surprised grunt of the person on the other side of the wooden barrier.
“You’d better move whatever the fuck you put in front of the door,” the voice of Tattooed American Guy flatly states. “I’m not above sending a few bullets through this cheap-ass glorified cardboard. And whatever it hits, it hits.”
Not willing to find out how serious he is about that threat, I awkwardly scramble away from the door on my knees and one good hand.
“Door’s clear. You can come in now.”
Just as well I didn’t chance it. When Tattooed American Guy swings open the door, a gun in his hand is the first thing I see. He keeps the gun trained in my direction as he steps into the room and kicks the door shut behind him.
“My, my, my. What a perfectly polite welcome,” he says sarcastically. “Hopefully, those manners of yours will last for just a bit longer. See, here’s what’s going to happen.”
Tattooed American Guy must have decided that I’m not much of a threat, because he tucks his gun into the waistband at the small of his back before he lays out what my next several minutes will entail.
Gee, I wonder where he came up with that impression. So far, in his presence, I’ve only been dumb enough to say something that resulted in the amputation of the tip of my left middle finger, passed out a few times, vomited all over myself, been tied up and blindfolded, and caved to Blond Guy’s demands. Now, to top it off, I’m cowering like a sniveling coward, my arms wrapped around my knees as I sit on a dirty and broken floor, while I docilely await my next set of instructions.
“In just a moment,” Tattooed American Guys says, “I’m going to let you out of this luxurious five-star suite we put you in and take you into the other room. There you are going to record the short video we wanted you to record before, you know...” He raises his hand and mimics a stabbing motion, followed by pantomiming sprays of blood shooting off his left hand. “Don’t worry, you’re not going to have to stretch whatever sort of acting abilities you’ve got; we’ve got a script you can follow. That you will follow,“ he adds.
The complete lack of human empathy in Tattooed American Guy’s brown eyes is creepy. And honestly, it scares me almost more than the gun did.
“Then you’re going to log into your personal email account, or whichever email account or messaging app will get us a direct line to your daddy the fastest, and you’re going to send him that video. The amount he’ll need to get us, along with how that should be done, is laid out in the script. We’ve even altered the amount to account for the extra you’re willing for him to hand over for our boy, Jackson.”
“Jackson.” I gasp out his name, the syllables tumbling from my mouth. “Where is Jackson? We have a deal. I made a deal.” I’d sooner place my trust in a hungry crocodile while wearing an outfit made of raw chicken than these fucking criminals that were holding me and Jackson captive. But I did have a bit of faith in their greed. “Where is he? I want to see him. Now.”
Jesus. His smile is horrible with how sweet and harmless it looks.
“Aww. Poor Phoenix. So, so worried about a man who…he’s never even seen.” Thankfully, that fucking smile vanishes as Tattooed American Guy continues, “But there’s no need to fret your spoiled, rich-boy head about Jackson. He’s just where he’s supposed to be. In his box. Of course…”
I wait, not terribly patiently, for him to finish his statement. Interesting how he confirmed for me that Jackson is being kept confined the way I was, albeit in a box rather than a metal cage. But a box? What…what sort of box? What kind of box is big enough to fit a full-grown man in it?
Of course, the fucktard leaves me hanging, not having the decency to finish whatever it is he was about to reveal about Jackson. Instead, he reaches out and clamps a hand around my arm and yanks on it to propel me forward out of the bedroom. “C’mon. I’ve got my filming equipment all set up in the other room,” he states, pulling me down a dark, dank, and seedy-looking hallway.
The flooring is just as decrepit in the hallway as it is in the bedroom, more rubble and broken shards than tile, and the peeling paper on the walls is liberally decorated in spray paint with words in a variety of languages and crudely rendered graphic drawings. The smell of mold and piss and rotting food, and who knows what else, is nearly overwhelming in the small space and makes my eyes water. But at least I can tamp down my instinctive urge to retch due to the vile stench with the necessary task of focusing on not tripping over the crumbling floor. I have the feeling that Tattooed American Guy would gladly let me fall and would then just drag my ass over the broken tiles and the other dirt and filth down on the ground.
The disgusting décor continues in the room he drags me to. The only hint that this might be a living room is the stained and sagging, ancient, burnt-orange couch sitting smack in the middle of it. I’m far from being clean and pristine, but that doesn’t mean my skin doesn’t crawl when he shoves me down onto that couch.
Dust poofs out of the fabric when my body collapses onto it, along with yet more horrid odors. And the faint skitter of small claws or nails that I hear… Fuck, I can only hope that it signals that whatever vermin usually occupies this couch has now vacated it.
Still, my mind refuses to budge off the topic of Jackson. And the knowledge that Tattooed American Guy didn’t really completely answer my question of where the fuck he is.
“Jackson? Where is he?” I ask again. Sure, pushing the issue might piss him off. But until my kidnappers get the fucking video they want from me, and the access they need to get it to him through the best channel, I figure I have enough capital to get away with being pushy. “You said he’s still in his box. But where exactly is he? Somewhere tucked away in another room of this…this…“ I’m not exactly sure what to call this place. Is it an abandoned apartment? A suite in an old, long shut-down hotel? Somebody’s neglected and condemned hovel of a house? So, I just wave my hand around, indicating my less-than-lovely surroundings, as I ask my questions.
I hadn’t noticed the small, rectangular table shoved up against one of the walls in this barren room. But I do notice when Tattooed American Guy grabs a tablet and a piece of paper off of that table. The tablet, he holds on to, but the paper, he lets flutter down onto the couch, only a few inches away from my leg.
“Read that,” he orders. “You don’t have to memorize it, but I doubt you want to sound like a complete moron in this video we’re going to send off to your dear old dad, so give it a good read through. You never know. If things continue to go tits up with this gig, that video just may end up containing the last words Daddy ever hears out of your rich, elitist mouth.” He must sense that I’m not about to do what he said, not without getting my answer, because he adds, “And if I were you…since you seem all concerned about Jackson’s welfare and all…you might not want to take too long. Sure, Jackson’s all safe and sound in his box. But that box… Well. It’s currently sitting sweet and pretty, locked inside the cargo area of a truck. A truck that’s probably—no, definitely —sitting smack in some sun. And getting hot. The longer it takes to get this video done and sent off… On the plus side, Silva could finally add some meat to the shit he feeds you. You don’t mind going a bit cannibal during your stay with us, do you?”
I want…I want… I want to fucking get off this fucking couch and smack the smug smirk of Tattooed American Guy’s fucking face. And then snatch his gun out from the waistband of his jean shorts and beat his goddamn head in with it.
But the knowledge that he has that gun, and would probably shoot me with it before I even got within a few feet of him, keeps my ass on this repulsive couch. And I can’t afford to allot any time to work out any of the other glorious ways I could make him regret his vile words. I don’t even have the time to fling insults and pointless threats at him. Or rather Jackson doesn’t. Not with the invisible clock he just set ticking away in my brain. Who knows how long he’s already been stuck, trapped, in some crude, improvised pseudo-oven? All I can do is make sure he’s not in it for any longer than he needs to be.
I snatch up the piece of paper and scan the words on it, which I’m relieved to see are typed and in a large, easy to read font. Then I look up at Tattooed American Guy, who is holding the tablet up, ready to record me. “Alright. Let’s get this done.”