Taken
1083 Words
**That Night - 11:47 PM**
Joy left the diner fifteen minutes late.
She'd stayed, cleaning tables that were already clean. Delaying. Dreading.
*The walk home feels wrong.*
October air bit through her jacket. The streets were too empty—even for this late, Brooklyn should have more life.
But it was like the city had cleared out just for her.
Shadows stretched too deep. Streetlights seemed dimmer. Even the usual noise—sirens, horns, music—felt muted.
Joy pulled her jacket tight, keys between her fingers like tiny weapons.
*Six blocks. Just six.*
Behind her, footsteps matched her pace.
She sped up. They sped up.
She slowed. They slowed.
She crossed the street. They crossed with her.
*Not paranoia. REAL.*
Her phone was already out, 911 dialed, thumb hovering over call.
*Four more blocks.*
The footsteps got closer.
Joy ran—
A van screeched up beside her, door sliding open—
*NO—*
A man stepped out—
Joy didn't think. Just reacted.
Keys slashed toward his eyes. He jerked back—caught his cheek. Blood.
"Damn—"
Her knee drove toward his groin. He caught her leg—she pivoted, elbow toward his face—
A second man appeared—
"HELP!" Joy screamed. "SOMEONE HELP!"
But the street stayed empty. No lights. No doors opening.
*The city's abandoned me.*
Hand over her mouth. Arm around her waist.
She bit down. Hard. Tasted blood.
"Christ!" Grip loosened—
Joy twisted free, stumbled back—
Into someone else.
Arms caught her shoulders. A voice near her ear—calm, cultured:
"Joy. Please. We're not going to hurt you."
She spun, keys ready—
And stopped.
Tall. Well-dressed. Handsome in a dangerous way.
Sharp eyes. Unafraid.
"Let me go."
"In a moment. But first, you need to understand something."
The man smiled—soft, apologetic.
"My name is Fred Halvorsen."
His grip tightened. Not painful. *Possessive.*
"And you, Joy Vespa, are coming with me."
Fury burned through fear.
"Like hell."
She drove her palm toward his throat—
---
Fred caught her wrist. *Fast.*
His other hand redirected her knee.
"Impressive."
Joy twisted, using every technique she knew—
But Fred was ready.
He spun her, pinned her arms, held her against his chest. Not crushing. *Containing.*
"Davies, the sedative."
"NO!"
Joy bucked backward, trying to slam her head into his face—
This time she connected.
*CRACK.*
Fred's nose exploded with pain. Blood poured hot down his lip, metallic taste filling his mouth.
His grip loosened—reflex—
Joy twisted free, stumbled forward—
"She's strong," Davies grunted, approaching with a syringe.
Fred wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving Joy.
"She's magnificent," he corrected, voice thick but steady.
Joy saw the needle and panic took over. She threw her weight sideways—
Fred moved through the pain, grabbed her again—
Joy's boot connected with Davies's shin.
The syringe clattered to the pavement.
"Chen!"
Joy was already running.
*GO GO GO—*
Five steps.
Chen blocked her path—
Joy feinted left—
Went right—
His hand caught her jacket. Fabric ripped.
She kept running—
Then Fred was in front of her. Blood streaking down his face, staining his perfect white collar.
"Enough."
Her fist flew—
He caught it.
Her other fist—
He caught that too.
They stood there, hands trapped together, both breathing hard, eyes locked under streetlights.
Blood dripped from Fred's nose onto the pavement between them.
"You almost made it," Fred said softly, voice nasal from the broken nose. Real admiration despite the pain. "You almost escaped."
"Let. Me. Go."
"I can't."
"Then I'll keep fighting."
His smile was gentle. Almost sad. Teeth stained red.
"I know."
He nodded once.
Chen moved behind her.
She felt the needle pierce her neck—sharp, then cold spreading.
"No," Joy whispered. "I—"
Her knees buckled.
Fred caught her, lowered her into his arms like she was precious.
"Shh. You're safe. I promise."
Joy tried to speak. To curse him.
But her tongue was thick. Vision blurred.
The last thing she saw was Fred's face, watching her with an expression she couldn't name.
Blood still flowing from his nose.
Then darkness.
---
**Inside the Van**
"She broke your nose." Chen's voice was incredulous as he pressed cloth to the bite mark on his hand.
Benson handed Fred a towel from the driver's seat. "That's going to swell."
Fred pressed it to his face, wincing. "Worth it."
"Worth it?" Davies examined the gash on his cheek. "She almost got away."
"She *did* almost get away. Did you see that feint? That wasn't panic—that was *training*."
"I saw." Benson's tone was grim. "I also saw her headbutt you hard enough to break bone."
Fred sat in back, Joy cradled in his lap despite the throbbing pain radiating through his face. He studied her through watering eyes.
Even unconscious, she looked fierce. Jaw set. Brows furrowed.
Like even in sleep, part of her was still fighting.
"Self-defense classes," Cole's voice came through the speaker. "Six weeks, three years ago. Krav Maga from an ex-Mossad instructor."
"*Basics*," Chen said, examining his hand. "She fights like it's instinct."
Fred's fingers brushed Joy's cheek, feeling her pulse. Blood from his nose dripped onto the towel.
"Survival does that. It turns basics into instinct. Desperation is the best teacher."
Benson glanced in the mirror. "She injured three operatives and nearly escaped. And she broke *your* nose. That's not instinct. That's *will*."
"Exactly." Fred adjusted Joy's position carefully, ignoring the pain. "Which is why she's perfect."
"She's going to wake up terrified," Davies warned.
"I'm counting on it," Fred said through the towel.
"That's what concerns me," Benson muttered.
Fred ignored him.
"When she saw the van, she didn't freeze. Didn't beg. She *fought*. Even when she realized who I was, even when she knew she was outmatched—she fought anyway."
"Most people would have begged," Davies said.
"She's not most people." Fred's voice was soft, reverent, muffled by the towel. "She's someone who refuses to be a victim."
He looked down at her unconscious face.
"Even if it means breaking my nose to prove it."
The van continued through dark streets.
Carrying Joy toward a future she hadn't chosen.
Toward a life she didn't want.
Toward a man who believed he was saving her.
A man now bleeding because of her.
And oddly, not angry about it at all.
- Writer
