Page 56 of Embracing the Consequences

Kara froze. She wasn’t alone.

Was Mr. Dead Eyesstillsitting in that chair?

Fucking hell. She didn’t know what to do. Her bladder wasscreamingat her. She needed to go. She did NOT want to go in front of him…but in the dark? Could she manage that? She didn’t have a choice; the pain was unbearable.

She vaguely remembered the location of the bucket in the corner. She slowly unfurled her body and inched off the bed. When there was no movement from the staring man in the corner, she made her way to the bucket and quickly unzipped her pencil skirt.

She put her back to her captor and the camera and was quick about emptying her bladder, hoping she didn’t give them too much of a show. She wouldn’t put it past them to have a night vision camera mounted in there.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally finished, her body no longer in pain. She mentally wished for toilet paper, but drip-dried the best she could. When she was done and her clothes were back in place, she went back to her mattress and lay down, stretching out and giving her aching body a reprieve.

She was still cold, shivering slightly. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing again.

She needed to survive this. Her baby needed her, and she would not let anything happen to her unborn child. She needed him or her as much as they would need her.

It was still dark when she woke again, and she felt the eyes on her immediately.

Staring. Unblinking.

The steady breathing of her captor was the only sound in the room. She saw only the blinking red light from the camera.

And always she had the burning feeling of being watched.

Fear welled inside her again. This was their plan, to slowly drive her crazy. Psychological warfare of the most basic kind. Her chest shuddered with a muffled sob. She squeezed her eyes shut and started breathing.

Four seconds in. Seven seconds hold. Eight seconds release.

Repeat.

Kara was roused roughly from sleep as hands grabbed her ankles and yanked her down the mattress. She screamed and kicked reflexively, managing to kick the man in the face. When she realized what was happening, she kicked out more frantically.

There was a black-clad guard looming over her. The ski mask covered his face, leaving nothing but a sliver for his dark eyes to peer out. “Come here, you little bitch,” the man growled, his voice deep.

“Fuck off,” she shouted and aimed another kick at his head.

His hand snapped out and grabbed her ankle roughly. He twisted it and she was wrenched over, onto her belly. She scrambled on the mattress, trying to get away, when suddenly a fist swung out and caught her in the rib cage.

She cried out and went limp as something crunched and pain radiated out from her previously broken ribs. Overwhelming fear overtook her as she instinctively curled into a ball to protect her belly and unborn child. “Please, don’t.” She gasped. “I’m pregnant,” she admitted, feeling like she was giving up a pieceof her soul. She only hoped she could reach some human side of him and gain some mercy from the guard.

The man paused and glared down at her.

She gasped, trying to catch her breath. Her chest ached. She was sure he rebroke the same ribs and could only hope one wouldn’t puncture her lung again.

Surprise washed over her as the guard stood up and backed away.

She closed her eyes and waited, resigned to her fate.

The door slammed shut a moment later, and Kara finally opened her eyes. The guard was gone, and she was once again alone with Mr. Dead Eyes.

His eyes were on her, as they always were, his expression unchanged. She wasn’t sure why she thought her admission would affect him. He was a stone wall and Dead Eyes.

Kara closed her eyes and went back to her breathing. It was harder now that her ribs were on fire. She focused anyway. She needed to stay calm and make a plan. She needed to get out of this place.

The basement in MacTaylor’s house was nothing to write home about—simple and unfinished. Bare light bulbs hung from the rafters; a couple LED strip lights gave more light when needed. It was mostly storage.

Johnny didn’t even want to think about the memories hidden in those boxes. One day he’d have the energy to sort through them, but until then, he had business to attend to.

Vince Carmichael and Ken Laraway were strung up by their wrists from the ceiling in the center of the room. Johnny and the boys had to move stacks of boxes out of the way to make room and to protect the memorabilia from any potential blood splatter.

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