Chapter 2
Lacey
“Right this way, Ms. Vigil,” one of the goons grunts as he handles me, dropping me onto something lumpy and barely soft enough to land on. I push my bound wrists against it, squirming around to sit up.
“Dude, you can’t drop her on her face,” another one of them protests, and I recognize the voice as the one who was chatting with me on the radio before. I’m internally kicking myself for not realizing it wasn’t anyone I knew earlier.
I stiffen when one of them hooks his hands under my arms and shifts my position. He then moves me by my ankles to a sitting pose. I rock back and forth a little to get a sense of my surroundings and realize it’s a couch or something.
Ok . . . that’s not terrible. Doesn’t change that I’m still one hundred percent kidnapped, and not getting out of it any time soon.
If I didn’t have tape over my mouth, I would snarl and snap at him. I’m not sure what good that would do me at this point, so I just kind of grumble in my throat.
“Turn on the TV, I want to see the fight,” one of them says on the other side of the room.
There’s been sounds of distant smashing for the last hour or so, the telltale sound of Steel fighting the latest mutant that crawled out of the swamp to flex their powers on the city.
It reminds me of walking on frozen grass, but if someone had turned the muted, fuzzy crunching noise all the way up.
There’s something unnerving and comforting about it, knowing that disasters are taking place just a few blocks away, the city being once again defended from whoever wants to cause mayhem this week.
I’m all too familiar with it, but at the same time, well aware that it means it’s going to be a bit before I’m rescued.
It wouldn’t be the first time a crazed ex-employee of Steel Industries turned themself into a horror of a mad science experiment and then kidnapped me, demanding revenge and retribution from Clayton. Honestly, it’s been kind of a strain on our relationship.
But it is kind of nice to just be able to lay down and do absolutely nothing.
I’ve been running around all day; I’ve been on my feet in heeled boots for much longer than I meant to because I forgot my comfy sneakers at the studio.
And if my captors are just going to watch the fight on the other side of the room, I’ll just take some peace where I can find it.
“You’re gonna get out of this just fine,” the one near me reassures, his tone soft. He peels the tape from my mouth, and I gasp for a full, deep breath when it’s finally off.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re . . . not going to get hurt?”
“No, I mean, what does it mean that you know I’m going to get out of this? You’re not torturing me for access codes to the Steel Spire, or information on Clayton.”
They knew how and when to quietly scoop me up, so clearly they’ve been watching my movements. If they don’t intend to scare me for information or ransom me, they must have picked me up for some other reason. Is the timing on this purposeful, or coincidental?
The guy flounders under my questions though, where a lot of other henchpeople have just given me a rough shove and told me to shut up and sit tight.
“Uh . . . look, I don’t know a whole lot about all that. I just wanted to let you know we’re getting takeout, and back in the van we got stuck between pizza and Chinese . . . you wanna be the tie breaker?”
Well, that’s not what I expected. But I had a light lunch because I thought I’d be getting food on the way home, so I’m ready to take him up on that.
“Sure. I’m down for pizza.” I shrug the best I can in this position. “You know Ray’s Real Italian? They’re pretty good.”
“Who said we’re buying her dinner?” the agitated one snaps in response, and my stomach growls weakly. Man, why get my hopes up like that? It would be hellish to be able to smell pizza in the room right now and have to sit there while my stomach growls.
Maybe they’re just changing their torture methods.
“Are we not supposed to feed her? Geneva Conventions, dude,” the quieter voice chides.
I roll around on the couch in an effort to make my wallet a little more accessible. “I have a ten in my back pocket. I’d do two slices of the chicken vodka parm.”
They don’t respond to my request at first. There’s a few moments of silence, followed by the quiet taps of someone typing. I wonder if they’re pulling up the online menu.
“They do vodka parm slices? That sounds good, let’s get a whole pie of that,” the agitated one mutters, sounding a little more relaxed. Maybe he’s just the hangry sort.
The couch cushions shift as the one near me gets up, asking me, “Do they do good garlic bread? I can’t stand it when they don’t put enough garlic on it.”
“We’re not getting garlic bread again,” the hangry one of them hisses as the footsteps move away from me in the room.
I get the impression it’s a pretty large space, at least. Every little noise echoes off the big metal walls and floor.
“Stop talking to the hostage. Your little news anchor crush is going to get us in trouble.”
“Uh, no, you’re thinking of the girl from Channel 10. Sits behind a desk and reads the traffic report, makes all the street names sound British,” the one that was sitting with me before deflects. “Laura Beckingworth or something.”
I have to withhold a little snort. I’m not competitive with Laura Beckingham, but I’m a little glad I’m not the only one who’s had that thought. Even if the only other person who shares it is some supervillain’s lackey.
“Why’d the boss want her anyway? He said she was key for something.”
“Do you not know about Lacey Vigil?”
“The weather correspondent?”
“Her boyfriend’s Steel Heel. She gets kidnapped like once a week.”
“More like every month, but basically, yeah,” I call over, because if I have to listen to this conversation I might as well be a part of it. I can’t stand to listen to people talk about me. “And he’s not my boyfriend anymore.”
Their conversation falls quiet for a moment and then continues on in hushed whispers after. I roll my eyes under the blindfold and blow out a breath.
Whatever, I wasn’t trying to make friends or anything, I guess.
The henchmen mumble back and forth for a while, I can tell they’re back to discussing their job and whatever their boss’s plan is when they turn the TV up to cover their voices.
It works at first, and between the delay between the sounds from the TV and the sounds of the showdown outside, it’s all starting to give me a little headache trying to pay attention to what’s happening.
Tuning out from the fight, I wriggle around on the couch, maneuvering into a lying down position that’s a little easier on my back. An hour or so passes trying to get comfortable, the couch feeling cheaper by the minute.
I don’t always catch my ex’s fights anymore. I know a lot of people find them interesting, but he always wins. And I don’t really want to bear witness to it if—for once—he doesn’t.
There’s something sharp sticking out of the back of one of the cushions, like a broken spring. When I drag my arm against it, the broken edge feels sharp, but not enough to cut through the tape on my wrists. I sigh and try to roll my wrists as far apart as they will go, stretching the tape thinner.
Carefully, I brush the binding against the broken spring beneath me, again and again. I think I’m getting somewhere; with every pass I feel a little more room between my wrists.
I still when I realize the henchmen’s whispering about the plan has become a little bit heated, their voices louder than the TV.
I think I can tell them apart, but I find myself second guessing if I actually can.
It’s a lot like the first time you listen to a podcast, and you have no idea what the hosts look like yet.
“What do you mean you don’t remember phase two?” one hisses, and I hear a smack.
“Dude, if I don’t have to take point, I’m not paying that kind of in-depth attention.” The one that took the gag off me scoffs. “Just fill me in.”
“This is why he doesn’t let you out more. You’re so—”
“No one gets to lecture me but Maes—” He cuts off with a grunt, and the sound of someone shoving him. But half a syllable is enough.
They’re Maestro’s guys. Good to know, even if I’m not surprised it’s none other than Steel Heel’s nemesis.
“You guys should unionize,” I call out, because I can’t help myself.
“Shut up,” the one with an attitude barks across the room at me, then mutters, “Ugh, the pizza guy’s here. You deal with him.”
Everyone who lives in Goethal knows the name Dr. Maestro for his villainy, the ooze he unleashed upon the city sewers and surrounding ecosystems after he was fired from Steel Industries.
Tabloids have printed a few blurry photographs of his minions flying through the night, scaling down building sides, or lurking in dark alleyways.
There’s a CCTV clip of one with a long tail doing warm-up stretches on a rooftop near the Steel Spire.
No one’s sure what they’re doing, but once every few news cycles, someone mutated by the ooze goes on a rampage and starts destroying city property, endangering and injuring people.
Clayton has told me the things most people don’t know—from when Dr. Maestro was an employee at Steel Industries more than a decade ago.
He’d used company equipment and proprietary research to fuel his illegal and unethical experiments.
When Clayton tried to stop him, Maestro took his wrath out not just against him, but every innocent in Goethal.