Page 13 of Holiday Hostage
Right. Running water wasn’t always available at these temperatures.
Five minutes ticked past, my heart racing in double time until the door opened and Payton reappeared.
She looked the same, her shoulders set in a rigid posture that tightened the zip ties around her wrists.
The same two men led her back to the main building, and they all slid into the darkness.
“Check out the top.” Maverick ducked so low his chin brushed the snow. “Might be a way in.”
I leaned in the direction he indicated. High above the door, a rounded tower jutted out of the rock.
A single square opening gaped like a missing tooth. I nodded, relief flooding my veins. “Probably a drop straight down into the building. Don’t see any guards up there.” I rolled onto my back and slid down the hill. “Gear up, Reed. We need the ropes to rappel in.”
4
PAYTON
Other than the trips to the outhouse that came at completely random times–except when I threatened to piss all over the floor like a dog if they didn’t take me outside right fucking now–I hadn’t seen daylight since the men kidnapped me at the river.
I took a deep breath in through my nose and held it, using the steadying technique to keep the panic at bay.
I’d done my best to keep track of the days, but in the depths of the old building, the only thing I had to go by was the tiny sliver of light that occasionally brightened the room.
I’d promised to be home by Christmas.
My heart ached with a savageness I didn’t know I possessed.
I wouldnotdie here.
I twisted and pulled on the ropes holding my hands behind my back.
The wooden chair gave me zero leverage, and the fresh zip ties cut into my skin when I tried to yank my hands apart.
They were meticulous about the zip ties.
Every time I went outside, they cut the old ones off, moved my hands in front of me, and used a fresh zip tie, repeating the process when they brought me back to the chair.
I’d tried to keep track of their faces, but they always wore some kind of cowl over their heads when they were with me.
A shudder danced along my spine as the man’s earlier threat came back to scratch and claw at my receding strength.
No one had touched me except to move me from place to place, but I couldn’t place bets that the threat wasn’t real.
I’d rather die.
The thought solidified into an icy brick in my gut. I’d fight them, make them kill me, if it came down to that.
Maybe I’d get away in the process.
“You have the wrong person.” I tried again to talk to the man on the other side of the room.
There was always one with me, always out of sight, but I felt the presence like a malignant tumor pressing into my stomach.
“Stop talking.” He’d warned me several times already, but I’d noticed a shift in his voice these last few tries.
If I could get through to him, maybe he’d talk to the man in charge. “My father is Frank Rivers. My name is Payton Rivers. I don’t know anything about an arms dealer that you want to flush out of hiding.” I should have left that part out.
I’d overheard them talking about the man they thought was my father.
