Читать книгу Warrior Without Rules - Nancy Gideon - Страница 7

She couldn’t breathe.

The darkness was complete, shutting her away from the world. And from those who’d brought her to the damp, uncomfortable prison. How long? How long had she been in this void of sight, sound and sensation? When had she last heard movement above her?

Had they forgotten her? Had they left her here to die?

Daddy? Daddy, where are you? I want to go home.

Terror clawed up her throat to strangle in a soundless sob. Duct tape sealed out the air just as it sealed in her screams. She tried to grab for precious oxygen only to gag on the cloth they’d shoved into her mouth. Like a swimmer going under, she thrashed against the ropes, against the cloth, frantically, futilely. She was drowning in the darkness. Panic beat inside her as she struggled to escape but the harder she fought, the more desperate her situation became.

There’s plenty of air. Relax. Take it in slowly.

Gradually the fear subsided into a small whimper crouched in the back of her consciousness. She drew in thin streams of dank, life-giving oxygen through her nose.

He wouldn’t let this happen. He wouldn’t leave her here to die. All she had to do was be strong and stay alive.

She took another weak breath and the fright retreated once more. But for how long? How long could she hold on to the fragile hope that rescue would come?

Tears dampened the rough cloth they’d taped across her eyes. She fought them back as fiercely as she fought the hands that snatched her into the panel truck…how many hours, days ago?

Remember. Try to remember. Remember everything so they can catch these criminals and her father could bring them to an ugly justice.

The truck was green. The logo on the sliding doors had been rubbed out, leaving a smear of faded undercoating. She’d paid it no more attention than any of the other vehicles that had passed by until it had slowed and the cargo door had slid open. One minute she’d been standing in line outside the trendy London club, moving with the techno beat, excited to be using her of-age ID for the first time, and the next she’d been jerked off her feet too quickly to cry out in alarm. She’d never seen their faces. Something rough had been pulled over her head. Her flailing hands and feet had quickly been bound. She had lain on the uncarpeted floor of the vehicle, smelling gas and soil and tasting her own fear.

How long had they driven? She couldn’t tell. Terror had robbed her of time and place and nearly of sanity. The roads had gone from smooth and straight to bumpy and full of twists and turns. And finally, they’d stopped. She’d had to pee. The pressure had built into an agony almost greater than her alarm. They’d sat her up, two sets of hard, hurtful hands. The sack had then been yanked off her head. As she’d blinked blindly against the sear of brightness, she’d heard the rasp of duct tape. She’d opened her mouth to scream for help, hoping there would be someone who might hear her?

Help me!

A wadding of cloth had choked back her plea. She’d bitten down, grabbing flesh and bone, grinding until the taste of blood had brought a savage satisfaction. A startled shout and a stunning dazzle of pain had burst inside her head ending that fleeting sense of victory.

The rest had been a blur. Her mouth and eyes had been taped shut, stifling her cries, stealing her sight, sending her into a emptiness so complete, an isolation so deep, it was like death. She’d been carried down, down. The temperature had dropped to a chill against her skin and after an hour or so it had seeped up from the dirt beneath her to permeate her very bones.

They’d left her.

For the longest time, she’d wept in soundless, nearly mindless anguish. Her fear had finally grabbed on to a narrow ledge of clear thought. Then anger.

How could they do this to her? Didn’t they know who her father was?

Of course they did. Why else would she be here?

She dragged herself up off the hard-packed earth to lean back against rough stones, quaking with cold. Even as thirst and hunger and desolation chiseled away at her composure, one truth still held them at bay.

They didn’t really know her father or they wouldn’t have dared take her.

She dozed in brief snatches. In the total blackness, sometimes it was hard to tell if she was awake or asleep. Sleep was better, providing a respite from her misery. The dull ache in her bladder became a merciless roar and finally, awfully, she stopped fighting against it. She wept again, stopping only when her body had no more fluids to spare. She could hear her father’s voice.

Crying about it never solved anything.

Daddy, help me! I won’t cry anymore.

The simple act of drawing a breath scratched along the raw lining of her throat. She could no longer swallow and the very real threat of choking on her gag kept her fighting for that tenuous hold on reality. Take slow, shallow breaths. Just enough to survive until her father came for her.

And when he did, they would be sorry.

She sat up away from the wall. Her cramped muscles shrieked in protest.

What was that?

She strained to catch the sound again.

There. Footsteps overhead. Friend or foe? Rescuer or executioner?

Whimpers pushed against the gag.

A door opened. Footsteps, one set, started down, coming for her. Slow, heavy steps. Not the hurried sound of liberation.

She pressed back against the cut of stone, her body jerking in uncontrolled spasms as she waited helplessly to learn her fate.

She heard breathing, almost as harsh as her own. Then pacing, agitated movements that kindled her own massing fear. A curse. Another. Guttural explosions of fury and frustration.

And then he spoke to her. None of them had spoken to her before.

“That son of a bitch. His own daughter. Can you believe he wouldn’t pay a penny to save his own kid?”

A terror like nothing before it rose in a wave. Powering the surging fright was a tidal force of truth. A truth too terrible to contain.

He wasn’t going to pay her ransom.

His money was worth more than her life.