Chapter 1
Emelia
The zip ties cut into the soft skin of my wrists as I twist my hands back and forth behind my back. I roll onto my side to prop myself up into a sitting position and huff out a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. My muscles ache and I have to blink away tears as I struggle to focus on what is around me. The room is dimly lit, but I can just make out the double metal doors and the chain that is holding the doorknobs together.
“Shit,” I hiss through clenched teeth and twist my left arm harshly against the plastic binding. There is a sliver of sunlight filtering through the boarded windows letting me know that I am not underground. My stomach flips in relief. It’s the little things at this point. The air is stagnant, and the smell of sulfur burns my nose with each deep inhale.
I’m not in a box. I’m not buried alive. I can breathe. I chant this internal mantra over and over to try and calm the panic rising in my chest and crippling my lungs. Guns, bullets, blood, gore- no problem. Put me in an enclosed space for any period of time and my body thinks it’s dying. “Fucking pussy,” I grumble to myself and tuck my legs underneath me, preparing to get to my feet.
A million thoughts are circulating through my brain as I process my current situation. I’m alive, albeit bruised and battered, but I have no idea where I am or how long I have been unconscious. My left eye is tight and nearly swollen shut and the coppery tang of blood coats my tongue each time I lick my parched lips. My whole face feels like I went eight rounds with the current heavyweight champion. The concrete flooring beneath me is cold against the bare skin on my thighs. Despite the ringing in my ears, I can hear metal pipes hissing and clanking in the distance, but there are no other sounds.
“Okay, Em, deep breath. You know how to do this. It’s going to hurt like hell,” I mumble, trying to give myself a pep talk as I flex the sore muscles of my arms. I push myself to my feet and promptly stumble back against the crumbling brick wall.
I have a concussion. Fucking fantastic. I’m going to kill each and every one of them.
My head is swimming, and the floor seems to be shifting under my boots like I’m standing on a swinging bridge. I take a deep breath, inhaling the putrid air, press my palms together, and bring them down hard against my back.
The zip ties don’t move an inch, but it feels like my skin is about to split apart.
I try again, this time jumping a little as I bring my wrists down against my back. The binding snaps in two and shoots across the floor with a faint click. I pull my hands around and rub my left wrist with my right hand, working my fingers along the stinging flesh. I am going to murder someone for this. Painfully. Intimately.
My face is bleeding, my head is pounding, and my entire body feels like it has been shoved into a suitcase and shipped across the globe in economy. I deserve first class at least. Someone is going to die today, and I am going to make sure that it is a slow, drawn-out process. And I am going to enjoy every bloody second of it.
Echoing footsteps pull me out of my murderous plotting. I look around, taking stock of potential weapons, and remember my secret pocket. A small smirk plays across my lips as I unzip my knee-high combat boot and dip my fingertips into a hidden pouch on the back of the tongue that hides a small switchblade. The custom pouch sits right along the top of my foot. It’s not at all comfortable, but no one ever searches there.
My fingers close around the hilt of a knife, my favorite travel accessory, the hot metal is a heavy comfort in my hand. All my other weapons are gone, and I feel completely naked and exposed without them. The footsteps are getting louder, bringing my captors closer and closer to their demise. My eyes skirt around the room again for any leverage. There are thin pipes stretching along the lower half of the wall and some wider pipes snaking up and winding around metal rafters exposed overhead. Ignoring my protesting body, I make quick work of scaling the pipes and wrapping my thighs tightly around one of the exposed metal rafters, my upper body dangling freely in the shadows.
I feel more like a spider waiting for my prey to walk right into my web than a captive at this point. Clearly they have no idea who or what they are dealing with by leaving me alone and only restrained by zip ties. My heart is racing and I feel giddy; like I’m about to talk to my first crush for the very first time. Butterflies assault my stomach, and my fingers grow clammy against the metal hilt of my switchblade. My fatigued body begins to protest the sudden physical excursion.
I live for this. The thrill of the chase. The adrenaline of the fight. The feeling of the blade crunching against bone. The sight of a soul leaving the body. The warm stickiness of blood on my hands.
Yes. I need to speak with my therapist. I have an appointment on Monday morning. Yes. I know there are better ways to cope, but they just aren’t as fun. My monsters prefer to take action instead of talking about their feelings on a sofa.
The two metal doors let out a god-awful screech as they are thrown open and slam against the wall, sending dust motes flying through the dim slivers of light. Two large figures stalk into the room. From my vantage point, I can tell that their faces are covered with black balaclavas and the black wife beaters they are wearing showcase the rippling muscles of their arms and upper bodies.
“What the –” The man on the right slides his fingers through his hair. His biceps flex, and I notice the tattoos spanning both arms. “Where the fuck did she go?” His southern accent is thick like he came from the bowels of the deep south.
“She was right here, man, I swear. I dropped her off myself.” The man on the left is slightly smaller than the other. He pulls the doors closed and looks under a dilapidated desk near the doors that I hadn’t noticed before.
Tattoos comes further into the room and turns in a slow circle, peering into the shadows like he can see into the darkness if he squints hard enough. His hands come up behind his head and he groans. “Did you actually chain her to the pipe?”
“She took a gnarly blow to the head and was unconscious, Hector! I didn’t expect her to wake up for days!” he retorts and stalks back to the light in the center of the room. Just a few more feet to the left and they will both be directly underneath where I am currently dangling.
“You have no idea what she is capable of,” Hector hisses, as he removes a black pistol from the back of his waistband and twists a silencer into place. My vision is starting to go dark around the edges as the blood continues to rush to my head and their voices take on a muffled tone. My body is quickly approaching its limits, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold this position without losing consciousness.
“She’s so tiny,” the other scoffs and folds his arms across his broad chest. “I’d like to see her do anything with those dainty little hands of hers. They’ve probably never even been around a gun before. She’s probably not even capable of pulling a trigger.” He starts pacing but stops a few inches in front of Hector. Anger flares to life in my chest and adrenaline kicks up my heart rate. I’ll show him what my dainty little hands can fit around. I’ll start with his throat. Murder. That’s what I’m capable of.
They’re both standing in the spotlight provided by the single uncovered light bulb swinging from the ceiling to my right. Perfect placement. My dizziness forgotten, I place the blade handle between my teeth and readjust my position. I grab the sharp edges of the metal rafter with both hands and swing my legs down. In one fluid motion, I have my thighs wrapped around Hector’s neck. I can feel his hot breath on my stomach through the tears in my shirt. The momentum of my body takes him straight to the ground, the gun clattering to the floor a few feet away. I push myself off him and whirl around to face my doubting opponent.
“So predictable,” I taunt with the knife still between my teeth as I watch him fumble for his own gun. My foot kicks up and knocks it out of his palm before he can take the safety off. “So do the two of you only have a few brain cells to share or are you new at this whole kidnapping gig?” I push my hair out of my face and realize that it is matted with blood and dirt.
“You bitch,” Hector growls and grabs me from behind. The sudden jerk causes me to lose my grip on the knife. I didn’t hear him get up. Sneaky bastard. His large arm tightens around my waist and his other hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back to rest on his chest. “You’re going to be a good girl and tell us where the next shipment is coming from.” His friend takes a slow, menacing step forward and rolls his shoulders. “Or Ty here is going to start cutting things. Got it?” Ty flourishes a large hunting knife, the metal blade glinting in the low light.
“Shipment for what?” I grit my teeth as he yanks hard on my roots, exposing my throat and chest to Ty and his wicked blade. “I’m a secretary for a business man that owns a few casinos. We don’t deal drugs.”
“I don’t believe you,” Ty says slowly and presses the sharp tip of the blade against my naked inner thigh. It pinches, but he doesn’t use enough pressure to break the skin.
I roll my eyes and silently curse myself for wearing a skirt and blouse combo out of the house this morning. “Well I’m not sure what to tell you boys.” Hector tightens his arms around me, and Ty drags the blade upward until it is hovering over the bottom hem of my black skirt.
I don’t fight. I don’t thrash. I don’t cry.
I wait. I watch. I play the game.
I don’t have many virtues left, but patience is one that I practice often. I calmly wait for an opening to take advantage of. “I schedule appointments, get coffee, and take calls and messages for Mr. Emerson. I literally sit at a desk for ninety percent of my day.”
Ty shakes his head, his dark eyes flashing. I can tell that he is smiling beneath his mask. The prick likes the challenge almost as much as I do. “Emerson is not the man he pretends to be, is he?” The blade moves up again, hovering just below the waistband of my skirt. “Just tell us what you know, and we might leave you in one piece.”
“Your boss is going to be really disappointed that you kidnapped the wrong person and got no useful information, isn’t he?” I say, my voice teetering on the edge of a taunt.
“What makes you think we are working for someone else? Maybe we just want to take the risk and the reward,” Hector whispers from behind me. His hot breath tickles the side of my face. It reeks of nicotine and whiskey.
“Because…” I can’t help but smile. Ty registers the change a second too late. Making them talk always seems to lull them into a false sense of control, like my confusion is debilitating and I can’t make my brain function on anything other than understanding their motives. My hands come up above my head and grip Hector’s upper arm, and I use that leverage to kick out. The toe of my combat boot connects with Ty’s groin, and he doubles over. The knife hits the concrete floor with a loud clatter. A sharp pain in my thigh lets me know that I have also connected with the business end of his blade.
Without missing a beat, I throw my right elbow back into Hector’s solar plexus. He grunts and loosens his hand in my hair slightly. My left foot comes down and smashes against his foot and that gets him. Lesson number… I don’t even know at this point because I’ve lost count… Wear steel-toe boots. Stomped toes are a bitch.
Hector staggers back as I whirl around to face him. Something flashes in his eyes. It looks almost like panic. Bless his poor dead heart. I take the heel of my right hand and smack it quickly against his nose. Cartilage crunches and blood runs down his chin from under his mask. My next move is a swift kick in the balls. He slumps to the ground with a loud groan, both hands cupping between his legs. Thank you Miss Congeniality for that nifty tutorial.
“You two lack what it takes to actually pull off any form of heist. You couldn’t even steal a dollar from a blind man. You probably didn’t even do your research on your targets.” I state matter of factly and dust off my palms. Both men are still writhing on the floor at my feet.
Hector lifts his head and narrows his eyes, but it's Ty that finds his voice first. “You’re just an assistant,” he spits as he pulls off his mask, his voice no more than a broken whisper. Steel-toe boots to the balls are also a bitch.
I come around and connect the top of my boot to his face, silencing him. “I’m a fucking Queen,” I snap. His voice was starting to grate on my nerves. Hector groans and rolls onto his back, chuckling softly. “Where’d you find this guy?” I ask him, nodding to the unconscious Ty currently bleeding profusely from his nose. I bend down and retrieve Hector’s discarded gun, my fingers loosely curving over the grip and trigger. I point the barrel down at him as he pulls himself into a sitting position.
“Back alley of a bar. Said he was trying to get in with the big dogs and wanted a chance to play. Fuck,” he hisses and pulls his balaclava off, revealing his bald, tattooed head and full beard. He touches his fingers to his still-bleeding nose and groans. “He wouldn’t listen and made too many fucking mistakes.” His blue eyes are pinched and there is a thin sheen of sweat beading on his forehead. “Good thing I never want to have kids. Aim better next time, woman!”
A wide grin spreads across my face, causing the split in my lip to open again. I am covered in blood and sweat, but I can’t help the maniacal laugh that escapes me. “You’re right. He seemed dense enough to not realize that we were playing him.” I hold out my other hand and pull him to his feet. He towers over me as he stretches out his back. I pat his chest twice and toss him the gun, which he catches with ease. “But I just couldn’t resist. Now clean up this mess so we can get back to our actual business.”
He grins back and tips his head in my direction like a proper southern gentleman. “Yes, Ma’am.”