Fight for Her#3
Authors: Jj Knight
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #New Adult & College, #Romantic Suspense, #Two Hours or More (65-100 Pages), #Mystery & Suspense, #Suspense, #Sports
End of Volume Three -- FIGHT FOR HER on Amazon
Fight for Her
Volume 3
By JJ Knight
author of
Uncaged Love
Revenge
Blue Shoes
Summary:
Parker leads a desperate search for Maddie after she is abducted by his old enemies.
Copyright © 2014 by JJ Knight All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews, fan-made graphics, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons , living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
JJ Knight
Chapter 1: Parker
I could not panic any more than I am right now.
The two fighters who jumped out of the black van won’t let up no matter how many times I bash their faces in. One of the guys I leveled a minute ago is up and carrying Maddie away.
I swing faster, harder, trying to break away. “Put her down!” I roar.
The police sirens get closer, and this makes everyone panic. The man dumps Maddie into the open door of the van, and they pull away before it’s even closed.
That’s IT. I smash my elbow into one guy’s jaw and shove him out of my way. The other one is still hanging on to me, but I knock him off as I take off running after the van. There’s a stop sign ahead and I have every intention of getting inside, smashing a window if I have to, hanging on to the rear door handles if nothing else.
My adrenaline is hotter than it’s ever been during any cage match as I focus on my sprint. The van approaches the intersection, and I’m ready to leap on to it.
But it doesn’t bother to stop.
I suck air in and out and increase my pace. The other two fighters who were left behind haven’t caught up with me. I don’t have time to look back and see where they are.
But the van accelerates, barreling down the side street like it’s a racetrack. Within seconds they have careened around a corner and I know by the time I get there they will be long gone. I squint at the license plate in the darkness, but I can’t make it out.
They’ve got her.
Maddie’s gone.
I stop running. This is madness. Way beyond anything I could imagine Striker would ever do. Are they all planning to be felons now?
Maddie isn’t cut out for this. She’ll freak out completely.
Shit. What do I do?
I turn back to look down the street where we had been. The two fighters are gone.
I begin to jog back. My phone isn’t in my pocket. It must have fallen out in the scuffle.
The cops should have arrived if they traced Maddie’s phone. But they haven’t gotten here yet.
I stop for a second, listening. The sirens that seemed so close are actually receding now. They weren’t coming our way at all. They weren’t for us.
I start to run again. When I get back to our spot, the only evidence we were there is Maddie’s purse, upturned on the ground, and the metal chain Striker brought. I pick them both up.
Something glints in a flowerpot by the walk. My phone. Thank God. I snatch it up. Should I call the cops? Would they help?
Would this make the news? Would Striker find out who Maddie is? I feel sure she won’t tell them. She’ll be worried for Lily.
Lily.
They can’t know about our daughter, Lily. She’s only four years old. If they’ll do this to me and Maddie, well, no telling what they might do to her.
I dial Colt’s number and rush over to the bushes where Maddie threw her phone when one of the fighters tried to take it from her. While I wait for Colt to answer, I plow through the branches, not caring about the cuts of the sharp-edged leaves.
The phone is on the ground in the middle of the bushes. The screen is cracked and it won’t turn on. Her 911 call didn’t stay connected. The cops didn’t know where to come, at least not close enough to make it.
Colt’s voice is jovial. “Party too hard and need someone to scrape you off the floor somewhere?” he asks.
I talk in a great rush. “Striker attacked again. Three guys. More in a black van. They took Maddie. She’s gone. They took her.”
The phone is dead silent for a moment, then Colt says, “Did I hear you correctly? Striker kidnapped Maddie?”
“Yes. I haven’t called the cops yet. If they put her on the news, they’ll know who she is. They can’t know. She’ll never tell them. But they’ll learn about Lily…” I can’t even go on. Anger and fear fight for dominance.
“Where are you?” Colt asks.
“Behind the Strip.” I give him the street.
“We’re coming. I’ll bring a car.”
“Should we call the cops?” I ask.
“Not yet. I know people who are more effective than the cops.”
He hangs up. I pace the corner, squeezing Maddie’s phone so tightly that it cracks again. What is Striker’s game here? What the hell is he hoping to accomplish?
Chapter 2: Maddie
Everybody is yelling inside the van.
I’m trying to breathe. A balled-up T-shirt stuffed in my mouth keeps making me wash over with panic, like I’m going to suffocate. Each time I calm down and am able to take in air, we hit a bump and it starts all over again.
No one’s looking at me, so I manage to rub my shoulder against the duct tape on my cheek until I work it loose.
I spit out the dirty cotton, sucking in oxygen.
“Nobody said NOTHING about kidnapping!” one of the girls yells. “You may have all fucked up your careers but I’m not interested in going to jail!” Faded blue hair sticks out of a stretchy knit hat. She’s got a fake tan, or the strange lights in the back of the van make her look more orange than the others.
“Don’t shit a brick,” one of the guys says. “Striker will handle it.”
“Striker’s unconscious,” she shoots back. “Did anybody even check to see if he was dead?”
“He’s not dead,” says one of the guys who attacked us. He’s kneeling down by Striker, who is streaked with blood. “But that asshole definitely worked him over with that chain.”
I want to scream, “Who brought the damn chain?” but I know better. I can’t draw any attention to myself. I start working my wrists back and forth. They are duct-taped together behind my back, but it’s not impossible to move them.
The guy pours a bottle of water on Striker’s face. At first he doesn’t move, but then his head shifts back and forth.
“See, not dead,” the guy says. He snatches up another bottle and drinks half of it, then douses his own bloody face.
My wrists are screaming where the tape is rubbing and yanking at my skin. But I’m pretty sure I can work free. I look to the back of the van. There’s at least four people between me and the door. Two girls, one guy, and Striker, well, Striker’s legs. There are a couple more people on the other side, between me and the front seat. The entire back of the van is gutted of seats. The floor is littered with fighter gloves, weights, and random trash. Plenty of things to use as a weapon, as long as they aren’t used against me.
I spot a metal dumbbell close enough to grab if I get my hands loose. It would just be a matter of timing. Stop at a light, make sure no one is noticing, grab a dumbbell, and smash the face of anyone who stops me from reaching the door.
The duct tape is a snarled sticky mess now, cutting into my wrists. I’m not sure I’ve made progress after all. I may have just made it tighter and more difficult to move.
The guy bending over Striker glances at me and elbows one of the girls. “Your hostage lost her gag.”
I quit fighting with my wrists and hold still. One piece of duct tape still hangs from my right cheek. The T-shirt sticks to it, unfurled and falling across my shoulder.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I don’t answer, casting my eyes to the floor of the van. I’m regretting the fluttery scarf-like green dress, which is riding up my thighs now that I’m sitting with my arms bound. At least they haven’t taped up my ankles.
“She ain’t gonna talk,” the blue-haired girl says. “That would be incredibly stupid.”
Striker moves a hand up to his head, and that draws everyone’s attention back. “Fuuuuck,” he says. “What the hell happened?”
The guy beside him shoves his shoulder. “You got your ass whupped by Power Play,” he says. “That dude took your chain faster than candy from a baby.”
Striker cuts his eyes at him, but doesn’t move. “Some backup you were, asshole,” he says.
“I was going for the phone before this little bitch could call the cops and end our fun,” he says.
Striker tries to see around the guy. “We’ve got the girl?”
“Yes, we do,” the guy says.
“You people are hard-core,” Striker says. “Where are Fed and Fuzz?”
“We left them behind to finish off the asshole,” he says. “And for the cops to pick up.”
“They were the only ones with clean records,” Blue Hair says. “They were useful for that.”
“A clean record is a liability in our line of work,” Striker says.
I have no idea what he means by that. Are they doing illegal work now? I thought they were all fighters, like Parker.
“Can we dump the whore now?” Blue Hair asks. “I do not dig her being here. We were supposed to drive up, get the guys, and get out.”
“We didn’t expect the fight to go on so long,” the guy by Striker says.
They aren’t looking at me, listening to Striker, so I start working the duct tape again. I’ve almost got it loose enough to turn my palms together. Then I think I can wriggle out.
“Are we done with this little vendetta?” Blue Hair asks. “Because it’s gotten boring.”
Striker glances back at me, and I freeze. “I think it’s just gotten interesting.” With a grunt, he heaves himself up to sitting. He pushes in on his belly. “I think that asshole cracked my ribs.”
Blue Hair laughs. “Serves you right.”
“I’m going to make you come over here and suck my dick in front of everybody if you don’t shut up,” he says.
For some reason, this makes her go quiet. I try not to move a muscle, glad my hands are tied behind me and not in front so they don’t know I’ve made progress.
The driver pulls up to a red light and twists around in his seat. “Does somebody want to check in with Fed and see if they need us to get them?”
“Nah, they’ll call,” Striker says. “If they got arrested, we don’t want anything to do with them right now.” His eyes rove over me, face, cleavage, thighs. I want to pull my skirt down.
Blue Hair sees him looking and her face clouds over. She must have some claim on him. She can definitely have him.
His eyes linger on my legs, like he can see up my dress. I want to cross them, but I refuse to acknowledge his attention. I keep my eyes on the floor and hope they’ll all find something else to look at.
The van moves forward. “Should I go on to HQ?” the driver asks.
Striker tears his gaze away from me and looks out the front windshield. “That’s probably as good a place as any.”
“There’ll be fights in the basement,” the driver says. “Somebody might notice her in that fancy dress.”
Striker turns back to me, his eyes on my chest. “Maybe we should take it off her.”
My heart pounds with fear. Good God, I can see where all this is headed. I grew up places where this stuff happened. You get a bunch of guys who all goad each other, and even the girls who might be hanging around won’t get in the way out of fear they will get a punishment of their own.
I try to push aside the vision of all these men crawling between my legs, one after the other. I had my share of bad situations as a teen, before Parker came along. I usually got out of them with smarts and just the right balance of attitude and nonchalance.
But I haven’t been that girl in a long time. I have a daughter. A good job. A middle-class life. The main thing I have going for me right now is that they don’t know who I am.
As if he can read my mind, Striker says, “You figured out who this chick is yet?”
“Who cares?” Blue Hair says. “We have to dump her.”
“Look at her,” Striker says. “She’s all fancy. She’ll call the cops either way.” He nudges the guy next to him. “Check around. Surely one of those MMA rumor sites say who his girl is.”