11. Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Remington
I open my eyes with a groan. I’m so stiff and sore. Confused and disoriented.
My first coherent thought is…am I dead?
It takes a few seconds for my mind to clear enough for the memories to come flooding back.
When they do, fear pumps through my veins. My panic is instant. The image of Danny being shot right in front of me loops over and over in my head. For the rest of my life, I will never be able to unsee or unhear the horrors in that apartment.
At least the hood is gone.
I pull myself into a sitting position, my back against the wall. Pain is everywhere, but it’s worse in some places. My body aches. My face and arm throb with every beat of my heart. My throat hurts, and it feels like someone’s hammering against my skull with a pickaxe.
The coppery taste of blood is in my mouth. A steady whoosh, whoosh, whoosh reverberates in my ears, keeping time with every beat of my heart.
They took my watch, so I don’t know what time it is or how long I’ve been out.
Even with blurry eyesight, I take in my surroundings.
I’m in a small, windowless, concrete room with a steel door that’s lit with a bare light bulb hanging from a wire.
There’s a thin, dirty mattress beneath me, and a bucket in the corner for any bodily functions.
The air smells pungent—rank, damp, and musty. There’s a faint scent of excrement drifting from the bucket. I wonder how many people have been kept in this room…and what fate they suffered.
The door opens, making me jump. A man steps into the room. He’s short and pear-shaped with greasy hair. He’s sweating, has pit stains, and his two front teeth are gold-plated. I can smell his body odor, and when he smiles at me, his expression is sinister.
“Good, you are awake,” he tells me in a thick Spanish accent.
Goliath appears behind him, towering over him, his enormous body filling the doorway. I flinch, my fearful reaction instantaneous. The ominous grin he flashes tells me he likes that response. He enjoys knowing I’m afraid of him.
I’m jerked to my feet and dragged, weightless and shoeless, between Goliath and the man with the gold-plated smile. Pain surges through my arm, and I wince, sucking air into my lungs with a gasping moan.
Because of their size difference, I’m lopsided and leaning as they drag me down a long hallway and up a flight of metal stairs.
After twisting through a labyrinth of corridors, I’m brought into a room lit by floodlights. A laptop sits on a table facing a simple but sturdy chair, and I’m unceremoniously dropped into it. I duck my head, squinting and blinking against the harsh light shining in my eyes.
Golden Smile gives me a stern warning to cooperate or face the consequences. Painful consequences. I don’t know how I’m supposed to cooperate, but I have no doubt he’s being truthful.
My vision is still fuzzy, but I can make out the murdering bastard in the suit on the laptop screen in front of me. The man responsible for so much pain and misery, decent people would struggle to comprehend it.
I break out in a cold sweat.
If I’ve accurately assessed the situation, I’m on a killer’s Zoom meeting. If I wasn’t so terrified, I might laugh at the absurdity.
Once again, he’s dressed in an impeccable bespoke suit. Not a single strand of his black hair is out of place. His eyes are inscrutable, disturbingly dark, and dead. The slight smirk he wears is nothing short of menacing.
Seeing him makes me grateful we’re not in the same room. Even through the screen, something about his presence makes me want to recoil from him.
“Ms. James. Do you know who I am?”
Fuck. He knows my name. I’ve never been in a situation like this, but I can’t imagine it’s a good thing when you’re on a first name basis with a human-trafficking scumbag murderer.
“No. Should I?” My throat is raw, my voice hoarse and raspy.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he gets right to the point. “I need those memory cards.”
I’m surprised by his accent, or more specifically, his lack of one. If I’m not mistaken, the man sounds American.
My mind is spinning. Do I try to convince him he has the wrong person? Should I keep my mouth shut? The man in the suit and his band of gangsters are only assuming Danny and I were at the mansion and saw what happened. They can’t possibly know for sure...can they?
But if I convince him he has the wrong person, he’ll probably kill me because I’m useless to him. As long as I have those pictures, I still have leverage. A reason for him to keep me alive.
“Ms. James,” he prompts when I don’t respond.
I blink out of my thoughts, my eyes shifting back to the screen. Instead of answering, I ask a question of my own. “How did you find us?”
“I have eyes everywhere. It wasn’t hard to find an American reporter and his photographer in Venezuela. Especially when they’re asking questions about me.”
Wait. Questions about him? Did he just admit he’s a figurehead in the Consortium?
He stares at me for several long seconds, then the barest hint of a smile tilts one corner of his lips. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice Mr. Hennessy at my own party?”
Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Now, please, Ms. James, where are the memory cards?”
As if the horror of this situation isn’t enough, it’s unsettling that he’s polite. Almost…pleasant.
I clear my extraordinarily dry throat. “As I explained to your friends, there are no memory cards.”
“While understandable, it’s useless to lie to me. You’re a photographer. There are memory cards.”
“Not if the photographer doesn’t use a digital camera.”
He considers that, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. “I see. Where is the film, Ms. James?”
“It’s in the apartment.”
He gives his head a slow shake. “Nothing was found there.”
“Then your friends must’ve taken it.” I know the lie is a gamble. “Maybe they intend to blackmail you. Or keep it as insurance.”
Seems like a reasonable idea to me.
Golden Smile and Goliath shift anxiously behind me. The three men begin bickering in angry, rapid Spanish.
“Tell him where it is,” Goliath barks at me.
I flinch but remain silent.
Golden Smile uses a different tactic. He steps in front of me and slams his fist into my face, snapping my head to the side.
Stars explode across my vision. Pain ricochets through my already battered eye and cheek. A second punch knocks me sideways. The chair teeters, then rights itself again. This time, I’m disoriented, struggling to stay conscious, and my ears are ringing.
He pulls back to strike again, but before he can swing, the man in the suit stops him with a raise of his pristine, manicured hand and a single word. “Enough.”
Golden Smile glares at me, then, like an obedient dog, he withdraws, retaking his place behind me.
As if it weren’t already clear, the man in the suit just confirmed he’s the only one in charge. If I can make myself useful to him—drive a wedge between him and his men—I might stay alive long enough to find a way to escape.
The odds are against me, but a person can go a long way on hope and determination. The problem is, hope can be the most dangerous thing on the planet. This time, it might not be enough. This time, I might need a miracle to survive.
“Who else knows about me?” the man in the suit asks, bringing me back to the conversation.
In a very unladylike move, I turn my head and spit blood, running my tongue along the fresh cut on my lower lip.
He didn’t question my first lie, so I tell him another.
“Danny checked in with his editor every day. He was on the phone before your…men arrived. I’m sure his people know all the details of his story.
Including everything from the past couple of days. ”
Danny always kept his stories close to his chest. He guarded them like nuclear launch codes until they were complete and ready to be published. He wanted to avoid being scooped, hacked, or subpoenaed. But the man in the suit doesn’t know that. At least I hope not.
My lie gets a reaction. He leans back in his chair and, for the briefest fraction of a second, I see a flicker of fear. “Who? Who did he speak to?”
“I don’t know. He never told me. If your friends hadn’t blown off half his head, you could’ve asked him,” I say sardonically, the words coming out so much braver than I feel.
It’s subtle, but anger flashes in his dark eyes as they flick toward his men.
This is a man who either doesn’t feel emotions or is a master at hiding them. The fact that I caught a glimpse makes me think he’s much angrier than he’s letting on.
Once again, the man in the suit and his men have another heated ‘discussion’ in Spanish. Abruptly, the screen goes black, and I’m unceremoniously dragged back to my cell and shoved inside.
The tears come unbidden and cascade down my cheeks.
I can’t help it. I’m in excruciating pain, and I can’t stop thinking about the very real likelihood that I’m going to die here.
I can’t handle the overwhelming pain and spiral of emotions seizing me.
I force myself to breathe, making a concerted effort to try and get a grip on them.
I reflect on the close calls I’ve had in Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, Syria, and Africa.
I remind myself that against the odds, I survived.
But I’ve never been kidnapped and held hostage. And this time no one knows where I am. How long will it take for Danny’s editor to realize he’s missing? That we’re both missing? Once they figure it out, is there anything they can do about it? And if they can, how long will that take?
Danny and those men were executed in cold blood. There’s a very real possibility that’ll be my fate too.
I inhale a deep breath. I’m hurtling my way to a panic attack and need to calm down so I can think.
To distract myself from fixating on my predicament and the excruciating pain, I breathe deeply and try to recall happy memories.
I close my eyes and remember my first time in Paris.
The time I spent in Bali and Australia taking pictures of the sea life.
Capturing the aurora borealis in Greenland.
Elephants in Africa, penguins in Antarctica, and polar bears in Canada.
Eventually my thoughts drift to Colton. It was only one night, but the memories are enough to anchor me. I don’t care why my thoughts stray to him, I’m only thankful they help pull me out of my current reality.
I let myself get lost in the memories.
It isn’t long until my thoughts turn bittersweet. I’ll never know what could have been between us. Worse, I’ll never get the chance to find out.
Weariness consumes me, and I drift off wishing I’d taken his picture. That my phone hadn’t been destroyed, and I could have heard his voice one last time.