One-3
1935 Words
Drew is groaning, but when I hear those pained sounds floating farther and farther away, I know we’re going to wherever my captors intend on taking me.
“Ten steps,” the American whispers from behind me. I flinch at his muffled voice through the pillowcase. He stands at my back, ensuring I don’t fall. I could mistake his actions for him giving half a s**t, but it’s clear that wherever I’m going, they need me alive. If not, they would have killed me already.
This isn’t a robbery. It’s a kidnapping.
Once I shakily descend the ten steps, my feet hit the sand, and in any other circumstance, I could appreciate the softness between my toes. But when I’m pushed and shoved as the American no longer seems to be near, all I can appreciate is that I’m not dead—well, not yet anyway.
Through the pillowcase, I can hear the gentle lapping of the ocean against the shore, but it’s none the wiser that three criminals are about to use it to aid in changing my world forever. When my feet tread water, I jolt with the sudden fear that they’re going to drown me. But that doesn’t make any sense.
If I’m going to survive this, I have to keep my head clear.
“Boat. In,” says someone, maybe Russian two or one. They all sound the same.
I’m yanked up—someone pulling on my floppy arms while the other lifts my legs—and I feel like a chew toy being ripped into two. Once I’m dragged onto the boat, I’m directed on where to go as someone shoves me in the back, screaming at me in a language I don’t understand.
I’m then forced down some stairs where I lose my footing and fall flat onto my stomach. Grunting on impact, I instantly search around, hoping to distinguish where I am—I’m in the bottom of the boat. The galley.
“Stay,” someone commands, ensuring I be the good dog they clearly see me as being.
Fuck them.
I rise slowly, using my hands as eyes as I feel my way around blindly. I need to find a weapon. One small enough to hide. Blood is seeping into my eyes from the wound on my temple, so I close them because I can’t see through this thick pillowcase anyway.
My fingers come into contact with what feels like a small torch. Not the weapon I had in mind, but it’ll have to do.
I’m interrupted when I hear someone tsk me before I’m being dragged by my long hair which falls down my back and hurled against what feels like a cushioned bench seat. The pain in my head just amplifies. “Arms behind. Hands together.”
I shakily comply, sobbing around the gag.
He reaches around me, and when the unmistakable feel of metal snaps around my wrists, I know my freedom is dwindling by the second. He yanks at the handcuffs to ensure they are tight. They are.
My breathless panting reveals my fear, but when I feel the predatory touch at the back of my calves, I freeze. Two hands glide up and down my flesh, humming in satisfaction. He’s on his knees before me.
Oh, god.
“You pretty.” His English is broken, but I’m not lost in translation. I know what he wants.
Your looks are used for evil…my mom’s words echo loudly within. Maybe she was right after all.
“We going to have fun, and it’ll be our secret.” Next, I feel a wet tongue lap its way up the side of my calf. The smell of cigarettes and sweat has my stomach roiling.
Adrenaline takes over, and I attempt to kick him, but he’s too fast, chuckling as he pushes down on my ankles. He then begins to bind them with coarse rope. “You bad girl. Boss going to like you.”
Who is this boss, and why does he want me?
Once he tugs at my restraints, it sounds like he stands. I try to kick my feet out, but they’re tied to something hard beneath me. I’m bound. Hands and feet. And gagged. I’m not going anywhere.
“She tied up?” I almost sigh in relief when I hear the American. He was the only one who showed me an iota of mercy. The other two scare me. The American doesn’t.
“Yes, like a present. You want to unwrap her?”
I suddenly feel so objectified and dirty and attempt to recoil, but I can’t move. My heart is racing, and my breathing is uneven. The tears have long dried as I’m awaiting their next move.
“Shut the f**k up and let’s go.”
That was not the response I was expecting. The Russian laughs.
“Calm down, неудачник.”
“f**k you. Up on deck now.” The American talks big and seems to be calling the shots. I wonder who he is?
My only clue to what’s going on is what I hear, and before the hatch closes, I’m presented with clue number one. “Be in Turkey soon. I hope you don’t get seasick, Saint.” Then the hatch closes, leaving me with the sound of the muted voices above me.
Turkey? Why are we going there? But more importantly, I just uncovered the name of my American captor…Saint.
Ironic, isn’t it, that someone who bears a name denoting nothing but holiness can deliver nothing but hell.
Bon voyage.
I awake from a nightmare so heinous, I can’t believe my brain could conjure up such images.
Blood, violence, abduction. I really need to lay off the caffeine.
As I attempt to roll over and snuggle into the warmth of my new husband, terror overcomes me because I can’t move.
No.
My eyes snap open, only to be confronted by pure blackness. I try to scream, but it dies a muffled death when I realize I’m gagged. Panic overcomes me as I attempt to move, but I can’t because I’m bound.
No.
Realization hits, and I shake my head helplessly. Passing out from shock and fatigue was a small mercy, but now that I’m awake, I have no other choice but to face this reality.
Three men kidnapped me while on my honeymoon. Two Russian. One American named Saint. I scoff at the notion. We’re on a boat headed to Turkey to see someone they call Boss? Ugh, this is adding to the throbbing in my head.
I think back to what I remember, hoping it’ll give me more clues. Flinching when I recall Saint beating Drew to a pulp has something materializing. In the pocket of his white bathrobe, I could have sworn…but I shrug it off. It’s impossible that what I thought I saw buried deep in his pocket was a cell phone because if it was, why didn’t he call the police?
Yes, he was struck down, but when I left, he was moving and moaning. He had every opportunity to dial for help, so why didn’t he?
I scold the troublesome voice for even thinking such blasphemy and instead focus on getting the hell out of here. There is no way I’m doing that tied up, so I need to think outside the box. Saint was the only one who showed a lick of humanity, so he’s the key to getting me off this boat.
Your looks are used for evil…
It’s time I listened to Momma.
Even though it’s a long shot, I can’t sit here and wait for them to strike. So I take a deep breath and scream. It comes out as a wail, a muted whimpering, but I can only hope it’ll draw the attention of the person I want. I continue yelling, tears leaking from my eyes as I thrash about, hoping to evoke some sort of a response.
Finally, it works.
The latch opens, and I’m hit with the crisp ocean breeze as well as a punch of spice. That masculine and refined smell seem to be his trademark fragrance. I listen as he descends the stairs slowly. My chest rises and falls swiftly, and my heart is in my throat.
“What’s wrong?” he has the gall to ask.
I’m bound and gagged, you asshole. That’s what’s wrong, I silently reply, but I merely just whimper, hoping he understands what I want.
His footsteps advance toward me before they come to a stop. I have no idea what I look like, but I try my best to feign submission. “Please,” I muffle from around the gag, shaking my head, implying I want him to take off the pillowcase.
Silence surrounds me, but his pensive thinking can be felt.
“I’ll take out your gag, but you have to promise me you won’t scream.” His voice is deep, rough even.
I nod quickly, holding my breath.
A heavy sigh leaves him as he’s clearly hoping I’m not lying. When his heavy footsteps hint that he’s proceeding forward, I’m glad I’m a convincing liar even when gagged and bound. I hear a rustle, like he’s putting something on.
I wait with bated breath, mentally crossing my fingers that he doesn’t back out. He doesn’t.
His scent is unique, and when he steps closer, I’m once again cloaked with a spicy, sweet cloud of promise. He’s careful not to frighten me as he gently removes the pillowcase from my head. The cool air on my flushed cheeks feels like heaven, and I sigh. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, needing a moment to center myself.
With two deep breaths, I open them gradually, blinking rapidly to focus on where I am. My eyes are caked in dried tears and blood, causing everything to appear blurry. Peering around as best I can, I see that I’m in a small room below deck. There is hardly any lighting, but I can make out a small table and chair set, a kitchen sink with shelves stacked with canned goods above it, and a white leather bench seat in front of me. It matches the one I’m tied to. The décor is wooden and almost modern. I take a guess that we’re on a yacht.
In the far corner, there is a door. I can only hope my plan works.
My panting is heavy, and the gag in my mouth isn’t helping. I need it out. Now. Gradually peering upward under my lashes, I see him—Saint. He stands unbending a few feet away, the pillowcase hanging from his fingers.
His eyes are on fire, watching me closely. He’s donned the ski mask, which is no surprise as it’s clear he doesn’t want me to see his face. I didn’t realize how tall he was. But now that he’s in front of me, I crane my neck up to take in his whole stature.
His shoulders are broad, and his muscles are bulging through his tight, long-sleeved top. He is in black cargo pants and black boots, but I still have no clue who he is. And the air of mystery around him has nothing to do with his mask. His eyes are the only thing I can really see, but they are the window to one’s soul, so they say.
When he focuses on the cross around my neck, he seems remorseful, which has me wondering why he’s doing this.
“Please,” I mumble from around the gag, pleading he take it out.
He rocks back on his heels, wrestling with my demands. The only thing I have at my disposal are my eyes, which is ironic because so does he. I beg him for help, putting everything I can into my expression. He is my only hope at getting out of here.
A single tear trickles down my cheek and into my gag. This is useless. I’m bargaining with the devil. But when he exhales loudly and slowly bends forward, a new sense of hope overcomes me.
“I’m going to take this out, all right? Don’t make me regret it.” He pins me with a promise—if I disobey him, I will pay.
- Writer
