Backwoods (17 page)

“What’s wrong with you?” Leo asked.

He swallowed hard, shaking his head.

“Are you hit?”

“No, I’m not hit.”

“Your arm is bleeding.”

He glanced at the minor laceration. “It’s fine. I was just...worried.”

“You should be worried. I’m all shot up!”

Wiping his eyes, he bent down beside Leo to inspect his leg. The wounds were seeping and probably hurt like hell. He needed emergency medical treatment, but it would have to wait. “It’s just birdshot.”

“What’s that?”

“Tiny bullets.” They were lucky. Buckshot might have broken bones or severed arteries. “You’ll be okay.”

Leo flexed his knee experimentally, wincing.

“We have to keep moving.”

“We have to go back.”

Nathan couldn’t believe how quickly Leo had overcome the trauma of getting shot. He was already willing to risk his life again.

“Abby got captured,” Leo said.

Nathan’s heart sank. “How do you know?”

“She’s not here.”

He raked a hand through his hair, stricken by Leo’s logic. The hunters could have caught up with them, but they hadn’t. They’d gone after Abby instead. Or they’d gone after her
first.
That didn’t mean they wouldn’t come for Leo and Nathan.

Within minutes, perhaps.

Those men knew every inch of these woods, and they weren’t wounded. Nathan was quite certain they would kill to protect their lair. If Nathan and Leo continued to flee at a sluggish pace, they’d probably be shot before the sun went down. Returning to the fortress didn’t seem wise, either. Leo was in no shape to attempt another rescue, and they might meet up with the hunters on the way there.

“We’re vulnerable out in the open,” Nathan said, glancing around. “We have to hide and hope they pass by.”

Leo studied their surroundings. The rock he was sitting on had blood smears on it. Anyone with half a brain would know they’d been here. “They’ll expect us to go downriver. It’s the path of least resistance, and it heads to the road. Let’s leave some footprints along the shore and double back. Maybe we can climb that tree.”

Nathan followed his gaze to a sturdy live oak, nodding in approval. Finally they were seeing eye-to-eye. “Good plan.”

“While they’re on a wild-goose chase, we can save Brooke and Abby.”

Nathan didn’t agree or disagree. They’d cross that bridge when it came. His first priority was keeping Leo alive.

And if this ploy didn’t work, the point would be moot.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
HE
HUNTER
SHOVED
A
BBY
into the dark, keeping one hand on her bound wrists.

“Wyatt?” the man called out.

Nathan and Leo weren’t inside the tunnel, so maybe they’d escaped. Another figure met them in the narrow confines. He held an old-fashioned kerosene lantern, which illuminated his face from below, transforming it into a ghoulish parody. She was afraid to stare at either man closely or study her surroundings, even though she knew those details were important. She’d also studied and practiced dozens of self-defense maneuvers, but she hadn’t used them. She’d cooperated out of desperation.

Her brain rejected any attempt to focus. She wanted to see nothing, hear nothing, experience nothing. Her natural instinct was to withdraw from this horror, not to fight back or plan her escape.

“What happened?” the man behind her asked Wyatt.

“I think I hit one of them.”

Abby’s emotions shut down. She couldn’t process any more bad news. She pictured herself curled up on the ground with her hands clapped over her ears. Oblivion was another method of survival.

Remember Brooke,
she said to herself.
Stay alert for Brooke.

“You
think
you hit one?”

“I’m not sure,” Wyatt said. His voice wavered, as if he
was scared.

“They got away,” the other man said, urging her forward. “This mama bear attacked me with a rock before I could shoot at them.”

Wyatt’s tense brow relaxed at this statement, but he didn’t offer any comment. Turning around, he led the way to a trapdoor in the ceiling of the tunnel. He climbed up a ladder and set the lamp inside to help Abby. She ascended on cue, her knees quaking and her mind numb. The room they entered looked like an underground bunker. Her daughter was lying on a rough-hewn cot with her wrists and ankles tied. She was fully clothed and appeared unharmed. Her large pupils indicated she was still under the influence.

“Mom,” she cried, struggling to sit up.

A resurgence of hope flowed into Abby, bringing back her strength and willpower. Brooke was alive.

Brooke was
alive
.

Nothing could keep them apart.

Abby stumbled forward, intent on reaching her daughter. But the hunter shoved her sideways before she could get there. She would have gone sprawling if Wyatt hadn’t been there to catch her fall. Brooke made a whimpering noise, but Abby didn’t look at her again. Intuition told her that her captor would enjoy female distress. Every scream would be music to him, every tear a triumph. So she found her balance and stayed still.

Wyatt didn’t smell as bad as his friend. The odor of smoke and fish clung to his clothes, unpleasant but bearable. When he released her, she realized he was just a teenager. Judging by his strong physical resemblance to the older man, they were father and son.

“Maybe you were right about taking them both,” the father said, coming up beside her. He touched her cheek, making her flinch. “This one suits me. She’s all woman.”

Brooke let out a strangled sob. Wyatt stared at the ground and said nothing.

Abby didn’t know if the father liked her maturity or her softer curves, but she’d take it. Anything that kept him away from her daughter. She’d sacrifice herself for Brooke without a second’s hesitation.

“If you want the other one, you have to earn her,” the father said.

“How?” Wyatt asked.

“Come on. It’s time to make your first kill.”

Abby didn’t hear the boy’s response to this chilling statement. His father gripped her arm and guided her through the open door while Brooke continued to weep. They traveled down a short tunnel to another small dugout. There was a sleeping pallet at one end and a trapdoor in the ceiling with a wooden ladder beneath it. A strange-looking box, about the size of a large dog crate, sat in the corner. Her stomach lurched with terror as he dragged her toward it. He was going to cage her like an animal.

She dug her heels in the dirt floor. “No, please.”

The man smiled in response, his teeth tobacco-stained but straight. The more she fought, the more excited he’d get. Although Abby sensed that, she couldn’t control her panic or summon any degree of calm. Her detached docility had snapped. She started thrashing back and forth, kicking to get free.

He grabbed her by the hair again and swept his foot in front of hers. She went down hard on her knees, gasping in pain as he opened the cage door and shoved her in. Her cheek slammed into the perforated metal floor. She collapsed on her belly, too stunned to move.

Her legs were sticking out of the cage door. He made a chopping motion at the back of her heel that caused excruciating pain. Biting back a scream, she rolled onto her side and drew her knees to her chest to avoid another blow. He slammed the door shut and locked it, tucking a key into his pocket.

The crate was made of stainless steel with quarter-sized ventilation holes along the sides and a barred door at the front. She couldn’t stand up or stretch out. She could probably sit up and turn around, but it was a very tight fit.

The hunter crouched beside the door, squinting at her. “Give me trouble and I’ll make your daughter pay.”

Abby was ready to tear him apart with her teeth and fingernails. He wanted an animal? She’d be one.

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She watched, her scraped face burning and her ankle on fire, while the hunter drank water from a gallon container. Thirst overwhelmed her, but she knew better than to ask for a drink. He might give it to her in a dog bowl.

“Bring the shotgun and the crossbow,” the man said to his son.

An icy hand trailed down Abby’s spine. They were going to hunt for Nathan and Leo, who were both unarmed, maybe injured, stumbling around in unfamiliar territory. The odds were stacked against them, and there was nothing she could do about it.

This was all her fault. She’d been wrong to insist on a half-cocked rescue attempt. They’d taken a gamble and lost. She should have listened to Nathan and gone to the authorities. Now they’d die here, just as he’d predicted.

The trauma she’d experienced during the San Diego earthquake had caused this predicament. She couldn’t have endured another agonizing separation from Brooke, uncertain if she was alive or dead. Those days had been the worst of her life.

Until this.

How sickeningly clear hindsight was. How cruel and precise. And how unfair to survive one horrific tragedy, only to be struck down by another.

The hunters left the dwelling through the trapdoor, wearing camouflage from head to toe and armed to the nines. She was trapped and helpless, unable to move. Her arms ached from the uncomfortable position, and the sharp zip-tie cut into her skin. To her utter frustration, tears wouldn’t come. The emotional breakdown she’d been expecting remained elusive.

She yelled for Brooke until her voice grew hoarse. There was no response. Her daughter was tied up and drugged, probably locked behind a door. Even if Brooke could get up, which seemed doubtful, she wouldn’t be about to get out.

Abby was in a similar, impossible position. She couldn’t escape the cage with her hands bound behind her back. She couldn’t escape the cage, period. It was a heavy-duty piece of torture equipment. When she tried kicking the door, her left ankle screamed in protest. Grimacing, she braced her left foot against the corner and kicked with her right. The cramped space didn’t allow much range of movement, which made her blows ineffective.

You’ll die here.

Brooke
will die here.

A choked sob escaped her lips, as weak and unsatisfying as the escape attempt. Her ankle throbbed and her wrists hurt.

The miserable confinement reminded her of the third day after the earthquake. There was still no word from Brooke. The entire city had been evacuated, and civilians were barred from reentering their own neighborhoods. In addition to massive structure damage, there had been secondary disasters in the form of fires, floods and landslides.

She’d felt so helpless.

Abby hadn’t broken down until later, however. She’d been reunited with Brooke, finally. The joy of seeing her daughter alive had lifted Abby’s spirits into the stratosphere. While the downtown area was being rebuilt, they’d stayed in a hotel. Brooke had to attend a satellite school. On her first day back, Abby had dropped Brooke off at the site, which was a big parking lot with trailer classrooms.

After she drove away, Abby had experienced a debilitating panic attack. She’d pulled over to the side of the road and called Ella. She couldn’t remember much after that. Apparently Ella had picked her up and taken care of her for the next several hours. Abby didn’t know what she would have done without her sister.

Unfortunately, Ella wasn’t here with her now. No man with a crowbar would free her. She couldn’t count on Nathan and Leo to return. Abby had only herself to rely on. And she couldn’t quit. Not after everything they’d been through.

Brooke’s life was in her hands.

It occurred to Abby that she knew how to break a plastic zip-tie. She’d seen a video demonstration on the internet. A friend of hers had shared a link to the clip on Twitter. Abby couldn’t resist clicking information about survival techniques.

The self-defense expert had used leverage and body positioning to snap the plastic. He’d bent forward, pushing his arms down his lower back as far as they could go and pulling apart at the same time.

Abby couldn’t stand up, like the man in the video. Her muscle mass was decidedly lower. But her motivation to succeed was unparalleled. She had to free herself and save Brooke. Failure was not an option.

She didn’t get it on the first try. Or the second. After about ten minutes, she lost count of the attempts made. She flopped on her back, on her belly and on her side. Sweat dripped from her hairline and the plastic sliced into her wrists, which became slippery. Panting from exertion, she switched tactics, squirming to slide her wrist out. That didn’t work, either. In a desperate burst of energy, she strained against the zip-tie until black spots danced before her eyes.

It snapped.

She lay against the grated floor of the cage, breathing hard. When she’d recovered enough to glance at her wrists, she groaned. They were red and swollen, cuffed in blood. She stretched her arms over her head and rolled her shoulders, grateful for the range of movement. Her hands were free. Now she needed to get out of the cage.

The inside of the door offered no solution, and the bars were too narrow for anything but her fingertips to fit through. She couldn’t reach the lock or feel the keyhole. Without a tool of some kind, she’d be out of luck.

She grabbed the broken zip-tie, struck by another wave of inspiration. It was skinny, sturdy and stiff enough to use to pick the lock.

Score.

Although Abby tried multiple angles and hand formations, the zip-tie didn’t work. It was too straight, and not quite long enough. She needed another tool. Or a miracle.

“Brooke,” she shouted. “Brooke!”

No answer.

Abby didn’t think her daughter could hear her, let alone come to her rescue. She sat on the floor of the cage with her legs crossed, taking inventory of the situation. There was nothing near the cage she could try to lasso with a shoelace. There was nothing inside but her. She had hiking shoes. Jogging pants with no zippers, buttons or pockets. A tank top, because she’d taken off her jacket earlier today. Underwear.

Under
wire
.

Her bra had a thin, semiflexible piece of wire sewn into the cup. It was curved to follow the shape of a breast. She could use the underwire to pick the lock! A flexible piece of metal would be perfect for reaching the keyhole.

Moving quickly, she removed her bra and tore into the fabric with her teeth. She preferred well-made lingerie, so biting through the material wasn’t easy. Thirst and fatigue assailed her. She tasted blood and gagged.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “You’ve got this.”

She’d given Brooke that pep talk a hundred times. The difference was that Brooke had magic legs and a winning spirit. The girl never quit, never slowed, never let up. Abby smothered another sob at the thought of her, drugged and disoriented in this hovel. Growling like an animal, Abby ripped through threads and reinforced lace.

When the underwire popped out, she removed one shoelace and tied the metal to her wrist. She was worried about dropping the tool and being unable to retrieve it. One false move with shaking fingers might put the object on the other side of the bars.

Taking a deep breath, she extended the wire through the bars and found the keyhole. It was a contortionist exercise, destined to induce madness. She couldn’t see what she was doing. Her arms and shoulders were already tired, her muscles aching.

Within minutes, her wrist cramped.

She alternated between using her left hand and right hand. Neither felt strong. Sweat dotted her hairline and beaded on her upper lip. The tool kept slipping from her fingers. She stifled the urge to bang her fists against the cage.

Instead of losing her cool, she experimented with different techniques. She chewed off the tiny plastic nub from the tip of the underwire and tried again. She used the strap of her bra to hold the wire in place with her left hand while she cranked it with her right. When she heard the tiny click of gears—finally—she almost wept with joy. After a bit more finessing, a spring released inside the lock and the door opened.

Victory.

She had no idea how long she’d been in the cage. It felt like hours, but her accelerated heart rate and spiked anxiety might have warped her sense of time. She stared at the square-shaped doorway, her pulse pounding with fear. Although freedom beckoned, she didn’t move. She was shocked and ashamed by her urge to stay put. This awful crate was a known entity, both a trap and a protective shield. Outside, she’d have to evade the hunters, maybe attack them again. She wasn’t sure she could do it.

The same insecurities that had plagued her for years welled up, holding her captive. She had anxiety issues. She’d been abandoned by her father and her husband. She was broken, unworthy of love, incapable of keeping a man.