21. Reese
Reese
“I’m going to cut these ties off of you, but if you react, your girl is dead,” Max snarls.
There’s a gun trained against my back, right in the center of my spine.
It’s all I can do not to let the panic fully root, but as I stand here, facing what could very possibly be my final moments, I cling to one truth: No matter what they do to me, God is here.
And if they kill me, I know exactly where I’m going.
He has never let me face a single thing alone, and I know He won’t start now.
So, I hold onto that truth even though I can’t see a single thing with this black hood on my face.
“Don’t touch the hood,” the man orders.
Weston hasn’t said a word since we were in that room. Not even when we were loaded into a vehicle and driven what felt like forever out of the way. Now, the heavy scent of saltwater clings to the air, mixing with the tang of something else I can’t quite make out.
“Good dog. Now you, pretty,” a man whispers against my hood. His hot breath hits the side of my face, and my stomach rolls. The zip ties on my wrists are sliced, and I’m shoved forward into a hard body. Strong, calloused hands grip my arms, holding me on my feet.
Weston.
“Enjoy the trip.” A metal door slams shut, and the scraping of metal against metal seals us inside.
The hood is lifted from my face, and I blink rapidly, trying to focus my eyes in the darkness of our new cage.
“Are you okay?” Weston asks. With a tiny beam of light, I can barely make out his features. But he’s there—alive and in front of me.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” I rub my wrist where the plastic of the zip tie bit into my skin.
Weston doesn’t reply as he tosses the hoods and moves to the side to peer out a tiny hole. He’s moving a whole lot easier than a man in his condition should be, and I take that as a good thing.
Maybe things aren’t as bleak as they seem.
As he blocks the hole to peer outside, darkness surrounds us, but a moment later, he’s pulling away, and that tiny bit of light is back.
“Where are we?” I turn in a slow circle, noting metal all around us. The walls, the ground, the roof—it’s all the same corrugated metal. It almost looks like the inside of the storage unit I had for that month my apartment was being renovated.
“On a container ship,” he replies.
Dread coils in my belly. “A container ship? Seriously?” As he says it, the ship creaks and sways enough to send my stomach churning. Oh no.
I love the ocean, but boats? Being stuck out in the center of the ocean on something you’re trusting to keep floating has always made me nervous. And now I’m trapped in a metal box, on top of a type of ship known to travel treacherous waters?
My breathing turns ragged, and spots fill my vision.
Panic roots.
We’re going to die. How can we survive this? Where are they taking us?
“It’s going to be okay.” Weston pulls me into his arms, and I rest my head on his bare chest. The steady beat of his heart fills my ears, and I focus on it, trying to align my breathing with his to steady me in the moment.
Panicking won’t get us out of here. It’ll only make it harder to think rationally. Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath, then let it out slowly before taking another.
Lord, be with us. Please, God. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be.” He releases me, then crosses over toward the hole again. Then, he steps away and surveys the container. I do the same, following his gaze and noting a blinking red light in the top corner.
We’re being watched. Fantastic.
Weston pulls me back into his arms, then drops his face so his mouth is right beside my ear. “They’re watching and listening, so we need to be careful what we say,” he whispers so low I can barely hear it. “I have a plan. Do you trust me, Reese?”
“Yes,” my answer comes so quickly I’m sure it surprises both of us.
“Then trust me to get you out.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
Weston pulls away and moves toward the side of the container, where he takes a seat, then lies back against the metal floor, using one arm to prop his head up.
I follow, sitting right beside him. His eyes remain closed, so I take a few moments to study him, trying to figure out exactly what he might be thinking, but right now, all I see is a man trying to rest. Is that the whole point? Get sleep so we’re ready to fight when those doors open?
And how am I supposed to help? Won’t I just be in the way?
Tears burn in my eyes. What is my mom thinking right now? Is she safe now that they’ve got what they want?
“I wanted to kill the old lady.” What if Max goes after her anyway?
A hand grips mine, and I look down as Weston threads his fingers through mine. His eye is still swollen, the other black and bloodshot. There are bruises all over his muscled torso, and while I can’t see all of them right now, thanks to the minimal light, I know they’re there.
Evidence of all he’s suffered in the last twenty-four hours.
“Rest, Reese,” he tells me.
I hesitate only a moment, then pull my hand free so I can lie down beside him and rest my head on his chest like I’ve done countless times before. Then, we were barely more than kids with an entire lifetime together ahead of us. And now? Who knows how long we have?
He wraps an arm around my shoulders and holds me close.
And as I lie here, I try to picture us anywhere but a storage container about to head out to sea. Maybe we can be back at his cabin, happily married, while our kids sleep soundly in their beds.
With that picture in my mind, and the truth that even in this dark moment, God is still with us, I let myself drift.
“Reese, wake up, but don’t move.” Weston’s whispered voice pulls me out of sleep, and when I open my eyes, the container is completely dark.
“Weston?”
“Right here.” He briefly tightens his hold to let me know he’s there. His body is warm beneath my ear—too warm. Fear shoves the rest of the sleep aside.
“You’re hot, Weston.”
He laughs softly, his chest vibrating beneath my ear. “It’s been a while since you told me that.”
“No, temperature—you have a fever.” His skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat that I can feel against my own. Still, I don’t move.
“I know. There’s a good amount of pain in my side, too, but we need to focus.”
Pain. For him to be complaining—how bad is it?
“What do we need to focus on?” I whisper back.
“I need your help.” He rolls onto his side to face me, then takes my hand with the one that was propped behind his head. “On the car ride over here, I grabbed something off the belt of the guard next to me.” He presses something hard into my hand.
“What is this?”
“A knife. I need you to use it to re-open the stitches on my lower abdomen.”
“What? No!” I whisper louder than I probably should have. “Weston, you have already taken significant trauma to that side. You can’t take much more.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s already infected, so really, you’ll have to open it again anyway, right?”
“No. That’s not how that works.”
“If you open it and show that I’m bleeding, they’ll come in. It’s dark, which means we have a small window with minimal hostiles. If we’re going to escape, now is the best time. You trust me, right?”
“Of course, but—”
He opens the knife between us and presses the handle into my palm. “Then I’m going to need you to open me back up, Doc.”
“I’m not a doctor. I’m a veterinarian.”
“Remember what Brenda said? I’m an animal.”
“You are absolutely not.”
“Please, Reese,” he urges. “We can’t waste any more time.” He guides my hand gripping the handle of the now-open knife closer to his body. “Right here, pretend you’re giving a shot.”
“I can’t do it.” My hand trembles. Is he serious? He wants me to stab him? What if they don’t come? What if he bleeds out?
“Brenda is going to kill me when this is over, Reese. It’s now, or I don’t walk away.”
That puts it into perspective enough to give me the strength I need to do what he’s asking of me. But it feels an awful lot like driving a blade into my own heart. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, then plunge the knife into him. He groans, and warm blood trickles down onto my hand.
My stomach rolls, and bile burns my throat. “Oh no. Weston. I’m so sorry. Please—” Heart hammering, I pull the knife out and try to apply pressure, but Weston pushes my hand away and takes the knife.
“Alert the guards to the blood.” His voice is strained, every word a fight to come out. “My stitches reopened, but get out of the way so they can see, then when they come in, you stay on the ground next to the side, okay?”
“Weston—” I cry.
“Tell me you understand.”
“I understand,” I whisper.
He takes a deep breath, but it’s strained. “Okay. Let’s do this. Quick.”
“Help!” I scream as I get to my feet. I bang on the walls. “His stitches opened! He’s bleeding!” I turn toward the camera, then step out of the way as bile burns the back of my throat. Even though I can’t see him, I point in his direction. “He’s going to die if you don’t get me a first-aid kit!”
Seconds tick by until, finally, the hammering of bootsteps just outside fills my ears.
I move back behind Weston, kneeling at his side and leaning down. “Please don’t die.”
“Remember what I told you, Reese,” is all he says as he remains right where he is.
The latch on the door scrapes, and I drop down to the ground, covering the back of my neck.
Soft light floods the container, giving me a full view of Weston’s sweat-slicked skin and his labored breathing. Oh no.
“Seems you boys were a little rough,” Weston chokes out.
The men move in closer, the kit in hand. There are three of them. Three against one man who is barely breathing.
What plan could he possibly—Weston explodes upward with speed I wouldn’t have expected, given his injuries. He grips the barrel of the closest rifle and yanks it towards him. The man stumbles forward, and Weston slams his fist into his face.