Blind Rage: Team Red, Book 4 (12 page)

I could hear the approaching snowmobiles, and scrambled with renewed focus, on hands and knees, to pull myself out of the gully. Oddly rational, even with drugs twisting an icy path through my veins, my goal was to get high enough our security cameras would immediately detect my presence and I could signal for help. The rumble of motors let me know time was running out. Groggily, I spun to a sitting position and yanked off my boots. With the last of my strength, I threw them over my head, high enough to land on the flat area above the gully. My thoughts briefly flitted to my injured boy, and his complaints about my girly throws. Determined to get both of us help, I put my faith in the skilled, highly-trained experts monitoring the system. Last count, we had twelve Mustangs alternating on the security consoles, each of them alert and swift to make decisions. I was the one who messed-up by leaving the monitored area.

As the first machine drew alongside me, I cursed fate; we had ordered six snowmobiles of our own but they weren’t due to be delivered until next week. Boy, was Russ gonna have a hissy fit about that oversight.

The drug in my system made my limbs heavy and uncooperative, but that didn’t prevent me from throwing a curled fist at the person who grabbed my arm, roughly, pulling me along, regardless of whether my feet were under me or not. It was a glancing blow, with no power behind it, only managing to irritate the man, who mumbled, “Fucking bitch,” before yanking my arm harder, dragging me across the snow by my forearm.

“Where are her goddamned shoes?” a second, muffled voice asked. They must be wearing helmets or balaclavas.

“How the fuck should I know?” a third voice grumbled, sullenly. “There are boot prints up ‘til the point you started dragging her through the snow, asshole.”

“Forget the shoes. We need her alive, but no one cares if her feet get frozen off,” Bad Guy Two growled. Well, I guess I know how I rate.

I knew I was in trouble, but I couldn’t gather any enthusiasm to care or protest. Damn drugs. My thoughts were becoming more sluggish, and I had no reflexes. My declining state was further illustrated by the way my body fell bonelessly when Bad Guy One released my arm to mount his idling snowmobile. My face hit the ice and I think my cheek was sliced, but the numbness made it hard to be sure.

“What about the dog?” the third man asked. “Shoot it?”

“What? Are you stupid? It was chancy enough shooting twice from a quarter mile away. You want to announce our presence by firing this close to their house?” The second man appeared to be the leader of the trio. In an irritated tone, he directed, “Leave it. Let’s go.”

“Hey, man, I got my knife. I don’t have to make any noise.”

“You’re a fucked up individual, Banner,” Bad Guy Two sneered, inadvertently identifying the third man. “No reason to kill the dog, except to satisfy your warped, serial-killer tendencies. Leave it alone, and let’s get out of here.”

My last thought, as I was lifted and thrown heavily across Bad Guy One’s fuel tank, was how angry Bastian was going to be with me.

Chapter Eleven

My first awareness was of cold. Deep in the bones, I’ll-never-feel-warm-again, cold. My boots were gone and my wet socks had frozen against my feet. I could hear ice crystals in the fabric crackle and reform as I tried flexing my ankles. My toes were the worst, as I could barely feel them, but my arms were also chilled to the point of being numb and stiff. Attempting to clear the drug from my mind, I took a few shallow, rapid breaths, drawing oxygen into my lungs.

My second observation was my location, on my stomach on a cement floor. That explains the cold seeping through me. The room was not well insulated against the freezing temperatures outside. I was shivering weakly, my damp clothing ineffectual against the ice-cold of the ground beneath me. I made an attempt to lift my cheek up, realizing for the first time my arms were bound behind my back. My coat was missing, so all I wore was a thin sweater over a long-sleeve thermal shirt. My jeans were damp, a result of Bad Guy One, the Asshole, dragging me across the snow. I was still wearing my thermal gloves, and whatever bound my wrists was tied over the thick material, preventing chafing. I wriggled my wrists. No clicking noise to indicate metal handcuffs. The binding had a snug but slightly spongy feel. My guess was duct tape or something similar. Immediately I sent a silent thanks to Bad Guy Three, the Psychopathic Idiot; Banner was his name. Only someone extremely lame would duct tape a victim over their gloves. The tape didn’t feel like it extended up around the bared flesh of my wrists, so potentially, I could work my hands out of the gloves. But not yet.

As my mind cleared further with each lungful of air, my third thought was: I’m alone in the room. My ability to reason returned in direct proportion to my numbing awareness of my dilemma. My body had grown tense as I started to panic, so I forced myself to relax each muscle starting with my head, still held up above the floor. My cheek back on the chilled cement, I willed my shoulders to slacken, then my arms, then hands. I exhaled and felt calmness take the stiffness from my back, then my legs. My feet were on their own, as I still had no feeling in them. Not good, they were going to hurt like a bitch when circulation returned.

I forced my eyes closed, an attempt to focus on smell and sound. I’m not sure why, probably psychological, but my other senses always seemed a tad sharper when I wasn’t straining to see out of useless eyes.

Dirt. Oil. Gasoline. A hint of exhaust, although not recent. I was on a cement slab-on-grade floor. In a garage? I wondered why they hadn’t thrown me into a basement instead, as most homes in the Spokane area had them. I listened for, and didn’t hear, tell-tale sounds indicating vehicle traffic. I could isolate the whir of a furnace, the flush of a toilet. All righty then. I was alone in the garage, but not alone in what seemed to be a house, rather than a business.

I could hear the tread of footsteps, heavy and lethargic, as if the walker didn’t lift his feet properly, shuffling more than stepping. That ruled out Bad Guy Two, whom I estimated to be the ring leader. He spoke with deliberate precision, suggesting a military background. I couldn’t imagine him dragging his feet. Banner, the sociopath with the love of bladed instruments seemed nervous, rabbity; he seemed more likely to walk too quickly, or maybe in jerks and starts. I was betting the lumbering gait belonged to the Asshole, Bad Guy One. Footsteps approached closer, and I heard a deadbolt turn with a loud snap, which echoed in the room.

The door swung open slowly, and he stepped into the garage. I didn’t hear the snick of a light switch. It was either daytime, and sunlight illuminated the room, or the garage light had been left on. No creaking of boards to indicate wooden steps, so I guessed cement stairs, maybe two. The man must have been raised in a barn, as he made no attempt to pull the door closed behind him.

“Hey, bitch. You awake yet?” the man sniggered, approaching with the same dragging shuffle. Yes, it was the Asshole, all right. My head was turned away from him, but he made no attempt to walk around me to look at my face. “I’m talkin’ to you!”

I was totally unprepared for the boot connecting in a hard kick to my ribs, lifting my torso up off the floor from the impact. I cried out involuntarily, rolling away from the man, hoping to avoid a second blow. My momentum was stopped when he stomped down on the trailing end of my braid, effectively trapping my hair under his shoe. I could smell the dirty rubber of the sole against my cheek. I had halted on my back, arms trapped beneath me. I was shocked immobile when he dropped to his knees, one on either side of my head, siting on my chest.

“A woman should answer when a man talks to her,” he sneered.

Really? Not only was he an asshole, he had to be a misogynist asshole?

“Unless she’s got her mouth full.” He fumbled with his belt and I heard him lower a zipper.

Not just no, but Hell No! My foggy brain cleared with a rush of adrenaline. I slammed my knees as hard as I could into his back, pitching him over my head. He let out a loud grunt, not unlike a clumsy bear, and crashed into a bunch of loose items which sounded like metal pails.

“Son of a bitch!” he swore, throwing items at the walls, as he noisily untangled himself from whatever had been stacked. I followed the sounds of his grumbling and realized he’d made it to his feet again. Awkwardly, while he struggled out of the pails, I’d managed to roll, and scoot myself to a far wall, backing against what felt like a tool bench. I was torn between trying to fumble around for something to use as a weapon, versus positioning myself to use my legs to kick out and hold my attacker at bay. It took only a second to realize, even if I found a sharp object to poke him with, my bound hands made power or accuracy impossible.

“What the hell is going on out here?” a menacing voice growled from the doorway. Our altercation attracted the interest of Bad Guy Two, the man in charge.

“Nothin’ goin’ on,” Asshole mumbled. Simultaneously, I snitched, “Attempted sexual assault.”

“Was only checkin’ on ‘er, Grainger. She was being pissy, then she kicked me,” Asshole complained, adding bold-faced liar to his growing list of short-comings. To his credit, I now had a second name, Grainger.

“Which translated means, he kicked me first, and then planned to force oral sex. I kneed him off me,” I snarled, preparing to fight as I heard him take a step in my direction. Yeah, I know. I should have been more cowed by the whole thing. After Devon assaulted me, David suggested my blindness was a negative and a positive when it came to violence. I couldn’t see a knife blade pointed at me, or a gun pulled and held to my head, or a fist drawn back—so it was easier for me to focus on fighting. I was afraid, but not distracted by the object of my fear. The downside, is I couldn’t anticipate or deflect said gun, or knife, or fist.

“I’d believe you, Adamson, if your fly wasn’t lowered and your pants about to slide down your flat ass.” And the third, hopefully final name, Adamson. The boss, Grainger, was crouched down, right beside me. I hadn’t heard his approach and my surprise tipped me sideways, away from him, when I started at his voice next to my ear. His hand came out and broke my fall by grabbing my arm, balancing me into a sitting position again. “Holy shit. You’re blind,” he drawled, leaning away as I found my balance.

I looked toward him, incredulous. “What? You didn’t know?” I couldn’t help the tinge of sarcasm. Who kidnaps a person without discovering the most basic, important facts about them?

A hand struck me, literally coming out of nowhere. “Fucking cunt,” Adamson snarled. “You need to learn a little respect.” His open-handed slap thrust my head sideways, and a sharp corner of the bench against my spine. The solidness of the structure was the only thing keeping me upright. Retaliation was swift and reflexive, the scuffing of Adamson’s boots told me where he stood, and my leg shot out as I attempted to strike at his knee. I hit his shin instead, but it was a solid blow, knocking him back a couple steps. I cocked the leg back again, as he came forward.

“Enough!” Grainger shouted, shocking both of us to stillness.

My leg was still drawn back, ready. But I held myself still, concentrating on any sound which indicated the other man would not heed his leader’s instruction. I jolted with surprise when the boss, Grainger, softly gripped my shoulder. “Calm down,” he said, quietly yet firmly. The direction of his voice shifted as he addressed his partner, menacing, “She’s off limits, Adamson. Keep your dick in your pants, and your fists to yourself. If you touch her again, I’ll give you to Banner as a belated Christmas present. He’s still bitching I wouldn’t let him skin her dog, I’ll let him take that frustration out on you instead.”

Skin my dog? Red? I could feel the color drain out of my face at the idea. Guy Three, Banner, had some serious mental issues if he was into torturing pets. Red hadn’t been killed by the tranquilizer dart. What kind of sick mind would skin an animal alive? It was bad enough when I thought he was going to slice Red’s throat…god, I was feeling nauseous. I forced the bile down, refusing to throw up and admit how much his offhand comment upset me.

“That skinny, sick little fuck better not come close to me,” Adamson threatened. It would have held more weight, if his voice hadn’t quivered at the end, giving me a peek at the fear the rabbity Banner instilled in this violent man.

“You’re awake sooner than we expected,” Grainer addressed me, no longer interested in continuing a conversation with his subordinate. “You pulled the dart out before you got the full dosage, but it’s only been six or seven hours since we picked you up.”

Ha! Picked me up, he says, like I’m a package or something.

“This is good, we can escalate our time frame by a few hours. Go wake up Banner, Adamson. And do up your pants,” he called after the other man. “Miss March, I’d advise you to stay put. I have a few things to do, then I’ll come back and we can have a little chat.”

I turned my head away. He was the only thing standing between me and a possible assailant. I didn’t want to antagonize him, but I wanted to let him know I wasn’t cowed, either.

He chuckled at my bravado, but said nothing as he left me on the floor.