Page 21 of Risk It All
Once he was out of sight, she sucked in a breath and swiveled around until she was sitting with her back to the kitchen. She pulled her legs in and scooted backward as quickly as she could. The kidnapper could be leaving, or he could’ve just forgotten something. If that was true, then he’d be coming through the door within seconds. She needed to have her arms and legs free before that happened.
She could hear him speaking, but his words were muffled. Her hands bumped against the refrigerator, and she hurried to turn to face the bottom row of cupboards. She went for a stack of drawers first, biting down on the top drawer pull and yanking it open, revealing a few loose forks and spoons scattered with some drinking straws. The man’s voice was getting louder again, becoming clear enough that she could make out an occasional word.
“We’re…around…want…Kavenski.”
She paused for a half of a second at the name, her brain racing to make sense of it.Henrywas involved? She’d assumed that this was part of Jane’s mess, that she was being held ransom for the priceless necklace her mother had stolen, but that wouldn’t involve Henry Kavenski…unless he was in on it, too.
Her mind revolted at the idea, even as her practical side reminded her that he was supposedly a killer. Why would he hesitate at kidnapping?
Because it’sme!the soft, squishy, naively romantic part of her wailed.He wouldn’t hurt me!
Shaking off the distraction, she refocused on her task. It didn’t matter at the moment who’d engineered her kidnapping. What was important was getting her hands and feet free so she wasn’t completely helpless. Quietly closing the top drawer with her forehead, she used her teeth to open the second one.
There!
With a fierce sense of triumph, she stared down at her find. Tangled in a mess of wooden spoons and a can opener and a pair of tongs was a bread knife. Before she could fish it out, the kidnapper crossed the window again, and Cara went still. The man was a stranger and extraordinarily ordinary looking. His features were average, his appearance so nondescript that Cara knew she’d have trouble describing him accurately if she managed to get away. Still, she fought her panic in order to take in the details, knowing he was an important part of solving her kidnapping.
He’d pushed up his face mask into a rumpled mass on his forehead, and several strands of light-brown hair stuck out from underneath. His nose didn’t look bruised or swollen, so she knew that there were at least two kidnappers. She’d head-butted the man who’d grabbed her from her househard. She was positive she hadn’t seen him before while shadowing Kavenski or during her trip to Dutch’s, and she was fairly sure she’d never seen his picture in the course of her research. His jacket was rugged but expensive and looked new. She took a mental picture, cataloging every detail of his face for when she escaped—because she was going to get out of this cabin. Meanwhile, the kidnapper was scowling, the phone jammed so tightly against his ear that his fingers were white.
Please don’t look in here. Please don’t look in here.
Repeating her mantra over and over, Cara didn’t move as he stomped past the window. Even after he was out of sight, she still couldn’t breathe, her gaze fixed on the front door. The knife was right there, almost within her grasp, but it wouldn’t do her any good if he was about to come charging into the cabin. She wished desperately that she were more like one of her sisters. Molly or Fifi would’ve already freed themselves, and they’d have been planning a way to ambush their kidnapper right now. Charlie wouldn’t have let herself get kidnapped in the first place. Her twin always seemed to be ten steps ahead of her skips.
Not helpful.The practical voice in her head was right. She needed to focus and use that common sense she prided herself on. If he did storm into the cabin, she needed to have the knife out. Even if she couldn’t use it on him, she could hide it somewhere on her. That way, she’d at least have it when she woke up from her next drugged sleep. Tearing her gaze off the door, she studied the knife, wondering if she could pick it up by tucking her chin against her chest. Quickly dismissing that idea, she ducked her head into the drawer. Holding it with her teeth would give her a better grip. Feeling like she was in the scariest version ever of bobbing for apples, she mouthed the handle, nosing the other utensils out of the way until she could get a good grip with her teeth. Clamping down on the unforgivingly hard plastic, she winced at the immediate ache in her jaw. Only when she had hold of it did she think of how she must look with a knife gripped in her bared teeth.
You go, you swashbuckling pirate!Biting down harder to force back a hysterical giggle, she lifted her head, wincing at every clank and rattle of the other implements as she pulled the knife free. She paused, listening, but the man’s voice continued without a suspicious pause.
“Don’t think…won’t…” His words grew almost clear before growing muffled again as he strode past the window, heading away from the door again.
Cara’s shoulders dropped in relief. He was pacing. That was why he kept crossing the window. Depending on how long his phone conversation continued, she might have time to free herself. She paused, knife in her teeth as she leaned against the drawer to close it. Now that she had a sharp surface, she wasn’t exactly sure how to use it to cut through her bonds.
She dropped the knife, wincing as it clattered against the floorboards and spun to rest a few feet away. With a nervous glance toward the currently empty window, she shuffled closer on her knees. The man outside had gone quiet, and Cara was tempted to go still, not wanting to make any sound that might draw him inside. But if his phone conversation was over, she knew it wouldn’t matter how silent she was. He’d still come in and see her, and she needed to be free before that happened.
Still on her knees, she moved so the knife was behind her, right next to her toes. Arching her back, she reached for the handle blindly. Even when she craned her head to look over her shoulder, she couldn’t see what she was doing. Her spine protested, and her shoulders ached with strain as she felt for the knife. When her fingers brushed the cool metal, she nearly started to cry with relief.
Fumbling, she finally managed to close her fingers around the handle, clutching tighter than necessary because she feared dropping it and having to go through another painful struggle to get it into her grip again. The man outside was speaking again, his words becoming more distinct as he drew closer to the window, but Cara couldn’t take in any of what he was saying. Her heart was beating too loudly to make out anything else.
Leaning back again, she used her thumb to lightly feel the edge to make sure the serrated side faced up. The obvious dullness of the blade made her anxious that, after all of this, it wouldn’t cut her bonds, but she pushed away the worry. Tightening her fingers even more, she eased the blade between her ankles and the plastic strap. She jerked the knife up and toward her, feeling the plastic dig into the front of her shins. Trying to keep her breathing even and not dissolve into terrified, fast pants, she jerked the knife up again.
With apop, the plastic gave, opening with a sudden release of tension that made her tip forward. She caught herself before she fell on her face and repositioned the knife under the next zip tie securing her lower legs together. Her heart was pounding from excitement as well as fear, escape so close she could almost taste it.
The second tie snapped after four sawing jerks of the knife, and the third plastic strap only took two. Blood rushed to her toes, making her realize how numb they’d been before, and she squeezed her eyes closed at the swarm of painful pricks invading her feet. After the initial shock of feeling, she forced her eyes to reopen, trying to think of the best way to cut the tie binding her wrists together. She wedged the knife, blade facing up, between her newly freed feet and tried to rub the zip tie against it, but she wasn’t able to hold it still. Her gaze jumped around the small kitchen as she searched for a place to wedge the handle. Her eyes settled on the drawers.
Grabbing the knife from its unsteady spot between her feet, she struggled up, still off-balance with her hands bound behind her back. Turning away from the top drawer, she pulled it open just enough to slide the handle in, the blade sticking up out of the drawer.
With her hip, she closed the drawer and leaned against it, using her body weight to hold the knife steady as she moved her hands up and down the blade, sawing at the zip tie. The knife shifted slightly, making it hard to find purchase, and panic left her clumsy, only capable of broad, rough movements. The ridiculousness of what she was trying to accomplish hit her. She was using a cartoon-like solution to her very real, very deadly problem.This will never work.Gritting her teeth, she forced away her doubts and pressed the zip tie more firmly against the blade.It will work.She had to believe it, or she might as well sit on the floor and cry. The blade slid uselessly along the edge of the tie until the serrated edge finally caught against the plastic.
A sob of desperate relief burned for release, but she managed to hold it back. Tightening her muscles, she prepared to rip the tie over the surface of the knife, but a softclickmade her freeze. Her gaze shot to the front door. Terror gripped her for a fraction of a second, and all she could do was stare at the rotating doorknob. In her fight to get her hands free, she’d momentarily forgotten to track the whereabouts of the man on the porch. Breaking out of her paralysis, she released the pressure on the drawer and yanked the knife out with her still-bound fingers. She held the blade, rather than the handle, but at least she had a possible weapon in her grip.
The door swung open, revealing the man, his ski mask pulled down into place, covering his identity again. He froze for a brief second, his eyes widening with surprise, before he reached into his coat pocket.
He’s going to kill you!Cara’s brain warned, and she strained to pull her hands apart, ignoring the sharp pain as the ties cut into her wrists, needing them free so she could protect herself. If he caught her again, all her efforts would be useless. He’d take away her knife and tie her up again, probably locking her inside the room this time. Or worse. This—with her feet free and a knife in hand—was her chance, as pathetic as it may be.
The man strode toward her, pulling his hand out of his pocket. Instead of a syringe, he was holding a matte black pistol.
Her gaze locked on the gun. All the air left her lungs in awhoosh, and she gave her wrists a final, panicked yank. The partially cut zip tie snapped, and her hands separated with such force that she almost let go of the knife. She managed to hold on, despite the dull blade digging into her fingers, and she fumbled to grasp the handle instead before thrusting it out in front of her.
The man stopped a few feet out of slashing range, his gun pointed at her. She couldn’t look at the deadly weapon, so she focused on his face—at least the small circles around his eyes and mouth that she could see. He’d obviously recovered from his initial surprise, and his startled look had changed to one of amusement. In her peripheral vision, she saw his gun hand drop slightly, enough to give her a spark of hope that death might not be as imminent as she’d feared. Sucking in a breath, she clutched her knife tightly, worried that the painful pins and needles in her hands would make her drop it.
