Capture (Siren Book 1) (8 page)

Fifteen

Milla

Since neither of the men have found my camera yet, and I don't even know if Roane's told the other guy to
look
, I have a beautiful bird's eye view.

He's sleeping, his face so peaceful that I can only convince myself that the pixels are blurring out the horror within. When he looks like this, I could almost believe him innocent of his family's sins.

But he's not. I watched him, day after day, tagging along at his mother's side, fiddling with his cufflinks while she announced that they were slitting our pensions' throats. Her voice was drowned out by the cries from many of the older workers, so many voices hoarse and broken from poor lung capacity and exposure to toxic chemicals. It never used to be the case, but increasingly, we hear who the tourists are by how loudly they laugh, or how easily they speak. That my voice is still comparatively smooth is the only bit of vanity I can afford myself, proof that they haven't broken me completely.

Mrs. Roane and Jr. swept away before the union reps they broke could start fielding questions, or even register their own complaints. It
wasn't
a negotiation. It never was with the Roanes, except in name.

And he just
stood
there, twisting the warm metal between his fingers, not caring that the cost of his suit could have paid one of our pensions for a year.

I stretch my shoulders, my ears straining for any noise from my prisoners. Instead, there's only a soft drip, somewhere in the
Siren
's depths, and it brings tears to my eyes.

“I know it's broken, Millie. I just—I can't fix it. It hurts to try. And before you even offer, it's not
your
job either. This home is mine, and I'm the one who takes care of her.”

Harry always had a lot of pride in his work. Retirement has
not
agreed with him, though.

“It's
just
a faucet. I wouldn't be usurping anything. We both know you're still master of this shithole.” I keep my tone light, to hide my worry.

“It won't matter anyways; she's loose, probably a stripped screw. And I'm not gonna be around long enough to care about replacing her. Next owners, they'll probably want something new, maybe something with those hose-thingies.”

My eyes leak worse than the faucet at his apathy. This was the guy who trained me to
never
let a problem slide. He was the one who taught me how to throw a punch, when one of the machinists got a little too frisky. The only plus side of the tears is they save me from having to look at the IV attached to his makeshift hospital bed on the couch.

“C'mon, don't be like that. They didn't catch it
early
, but there's always
hope
—”

“Don't feed me one of your fairy tales, girl. I changed your
diapers
. I know when you're lying.”

He does. We both know that, had he been able to afford treatment when he first suspected the cancer growing inside him, he'd be fine. But he couldn't. He worked, even as he coughed up blood, until one of the inspectors saw, and declared that a blood-borne pathogen risk to the other employees, and ruled that they shouldn't allow him to work. He hit rock bottom about six months after, and was finally eligible for charity care. But the cancer's gotten too solid of a foothold for them to risk throwing tens of thousands of dollars toward it. Better to use that money to treat other folks, who still have some kind of life expectancy. His medical treatment's down to bare bones, even
that
requiring hours on end of arguing with them about what they'll cover, and racking up doctors' bills that'll probably decimate his estate, when he finally goes.

I still miss working with him, still miss his endless optimism and wry wit as we trade horror stories of our respective days. In the time I've been at the 'yard, I've accumulated almost as many near-misses as him. From the time someone dropped a piece of lumber that fell two levels and almost cost me the vision in my left eye, to the time that I got heatstroke in one of the tanks, and fainted while welding. It was basically a 110 degree oven.

“I—I can't—”

He nods. “I know. You don't want me to go.”

“I don't—don't want to—”

“You don't want to be left again. There's not even any consolation that I'm going on to a better place. No consolation that
they
did, in their time.” He doesn't need to specify names for me to understand.

“No. Not when things here just keep getting
worse
. I can't watch one more person die—”

He chuckles, a biting sound. “What're you gonna do, Millie? Keep me alive by force of will alone?”

“I—I could sell some of my stuff, move you to the city, get you better doctors—”

“You'll do no such thing, girl. You know damn well that money'd be pissed away in an instant, just on Kleenex for the bleeds. No. You work on your own life, before you work on mine.”

I sigh, huffily. I know what he's leading into, and it's an old argument. I mouth along with him as he starts. “No boyfriend, no baby, no life outside work... what've you
got
worth living for? No wonder you're terrified of what's coming; you ain't seen the best in everything to be left behind—”

He stops, when he notices me mouthing along. “I know, I know. You can't teach an old dog new tricks.”

“So in this scenario, which of us is the mangy bitch?” I wink at him, trying to lighten the mood, and he accepts the peace offering.

“Both. Life makes us all her bitch, sooner or later.”

He stares out his window, and we lapse into silence.

Roane sleeps soundly, more at peace than he's been in days. And just watching him, I hate him all the more for it. He doesn't deserve to sleep soundly; he deserves to spend his nights terrorized by the things he's done during the day. So much blood on his hands. So many lives ended early, their potential unreached.

As the anger leaches away, I glance at my phone. I haven't heard from Harry's daughter lately. Fresh out of high school she married a servicemen, and was relocated almost immediately. She's been moving around, since. We both know she's well rid of all this. But I still miss her; she never got jealous of how close Harry and I were, merely accepted me as an older sister. Maybe it was that we were so different there could never be competition. We were close, even from elementary school. She was wild, reckless, and I was soft-spoken—when we first became friends, at least. She had health issues that restricted her activity and her career options, and I've made my living off the strength of my body.  She was the one who taught me to do makeup, and flirt; certainly that stuff would've been beyond my own mom's area of interest in me. Me working alongside her dad, tagging along home to help him keep up on his own obligations, more often than not... it was just a natural extension of our closeness.

I've really got to give her a call. But what am I really gonna say? “Oh, hey, I just wanted to ask how you were, and catch up! I'm wandering around drugging and killing people, so, y'know, there's
that
...” It just wouldn't work.

People only slow you down when they leave. And I can hardly remember the person she befriended. Back then, I was still willing to at least pretend things would work out.

Satisfied that the men are sleeping soundly, I'm ready to get to work. I don't need them
too
weak, and I can't resist fucking with them a little. One of them'll get a little something... extra. It's juvenile, but anything that makes them progressively more unhappy and off-kilter's fair game in my book. A few laxatives'll do
just
the trick.

They can humiliate themselves a little, not just suffer.

When I'm satisfied with my prep, I release the mechanism on one of the doors, and creep in. There's a ventilation duct in here just big enough for it, but out of the way enough that they'll have to
really
search. I've got a ladder, but they'll need to figure something else out for themselves.

No point making this too easy.

Sixteen

My rare day off affords me the opportunity to watch more than I otherwise would. I've still got work to do, but it's a relief to check back before then. The laxative's doing its work. The older one seems to be in
righteous
pain, and doing his best to preserve his dignity while the other guy looks away awkwardly. I can't help but laugh, the chuckles working their way through me like carbonated soda. I manage to close my mouth before a note of hysteria bleeds through.

Roane's eyes are on me—well, on the camera. I turn the volume up; I hadn't
wanted
to hear the other noises in the background, but I need to know what he'll do with his newfound knowledge.

“Forgot to tell you—the asshole's got cameras on us. See?”

The other man lets out a yip of surprise, hurriedly yanking his pants back up. “You couldn't have told me sooner?”

“Slipped my mind; I thought maybe it was just the one.”

The camera is too high up for them to reach, but Roane isn't giving up. “Is the cooler empty?”

“Yeah?”

“Then give it here.”

I curse the air blue as he throws it as hard as he can toward the camera. It bounces off something a little below the camera, but lands back on the catwalk. He fetches it, and tries again. This time, the camera tilts sideways from impact, almost jolting Roane out of sight. Unfortunately, the cooler doesn't land on the grating. He disappears from my view, but it's easy to understand that he's climbing down to get it, try again.

This won't do.

I've got work to do; I can't be here messing with this bullshit.

There's a fuel line below them, and I know where it lets out. If I open it, let them suffocate a little, they'll lose some of the fight.

But I'm definitely going to have to think of a more long term fix. There's a mild ringing sound from the cooler being thrown; he
clearly
doesn't give up.

Once the fuel line's redirected, and coughing echoes through the piping near me, I return it to its original route. The smell'll linger a while, and they'll be subdued with headaches and nausea. But it's done its work.

Now, I've gotta get home, and scrub up. I smell like fuel, and rust flakes coat my scalp. That won't do; I've got an appointment to keep.

Maybe it was stupid, poking at them. Maybe if I hadn't put them on edge, he'd have forgotten to ferret the cameras out. But that's doubtful. I'm coming to see that he's smarter than that. I have to step up my game, to be worthy of truly hunting him.

Seventeen

Calder

Someone
brought the extra food. Snuck it in when we were sleeping, even, since it sure as hell wasn't there the first time I walked through the room. Something's changed, and knowing that, I have to know what else's changed.

Alex's feeling a bit better—a
bit
. The whole room reeks. Of all the times to get goddamn food poisoning.

“What do you think we're really gonna
find
,” he asks, as we test one of the doors, yet again.

“I don't know; maybe he was stupid enough to leave something open.”

He throws his weight into one of the opening valves, and to both of our surprise, it
turns
. The mechanisms that hold the door close retract, and together, we pry it open.

“Or maybe he wants us somewhere else.”

I wish I could take the words back; just the feel of them in my mouth evokes a shudder. This
can't
be good.

There's three people on the floor, motionless. Alex's eyes drift between two of them, filled with recognition. Still, he doesn't offer anything.

“You know them?” I have to pry. What if there's some connection here that would tell us why we were targeted, and how to get out?

“No. Never seen 'em in my life.” It's an obvious lie, considering he's dropped to his knees between the older two and is feeling their wrists for pulses without so much as a glance toward the last woman. I kneel by her, and imitate him. Her skin's warm under my fingers, her pulse slow, but regular.

There's something familiar about her, but I can't place it offhand. The overhead light flickers, casting shadows over her tanned skin. After days of isolation and near-isolation, her face is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Scattered freckles visible despite her tan, and medium-brown hair, the kind of shade a bottle of dye can never get right.

She's gonna be scared as hell when she wakes up. Really, they all are. But I don't want Alex to think I'm watching him; I learned early in to play my cards close. So I ease her shoulders up until her head is on my thigh, not on the uncomfortable grating. Her soft hair slides between my fingers as I smooth it back from her face, waiting for her to stir.

The man Alex's checking on moans. I look up, and watch Alex help him into a sitting position. They talk in low voices, but I forget to listen in on it when the woman in my lap's eyes flutter. They open sleepily, then widen in fear. I stroke her cheeks as comfortingly as I can. “Easy, easy. I know this is a weird wakeup.
Easy
—”

She sits up, only to list limply to the other side. “
What the fuck did you do to me?
”

Bitter laughs work their way through my throat. “I didn't do
dick
. What do you remember?”

“I—I was walking to my car after work, and then
nothing
.”

“Same here. I'd imagine same there—” I jerk my chin toward Alex and the other two.

“What? Why would someone—”

I cut her off. “I don't know. Look—we can do introductions in a minute. Are you comfortable like that? You still seem really disoriented.”

“My head's spinning,” she says, but grudgingly lets me hook my arm around her and help her to sit, propping her up against a wall. I keep my arm around her, more for my comfort than for hers, I think. For the first time, it seems like I have a
purpose
, even if that purpose is just getting the lot of us out of here more or less intact. Obviously Alex isn't up to that task.

“Are they up?” I call to Alex, who's helping the other man and woman sit up.

“Yeah.” He points from person to person. “Denise, and Allen.”

I glance at the woman in my arms, who takes the hint. “Camilla... Milla—”

“Not Millie?” I ask.

She glares at me, and I can't tell if she's serious, or if it's mock-anger. “
Never
Millie.”

“Can't blame you there. Millie's kind of an old maid's name.”

She raises an eyebrow, ready to start in on me, and then realizes I'm redirecting her anger and fear away from the rude awakening. Her eyes stay narrowed, but she purses her lips.

“Calder.” I squeeze her hand.

Her eyes narrow. “Oh, I know who
you
are.”

“Yeah?”

“Not a soul around here who doesn't,
Mr. Roane
.” I don't fully understand why she says my name like a curse. The animosity seems strange, out of place, although I'm not sure why; my family's not especially well liked. Well respected, yes, but not well liked.

“Milla,
please
. I've been here a few days now; the quarters are close. I'd say that's cause enough to be on a first-name basis.”

She bites her lip, obviously still uncomfortable with it. I tease her a little. “Eh,
Millie
? No formality?” That spark lights in her eyes again, a wily glint that lets me know I'm in for it.

“Sure thing,
Cal
.”

I shudder. How the fuck did she know I
hate
that shortening? Cal Roane was my
uncle
. I open my mouth to correct her, but that wicked grin stops me. I squeeze her around the shoulders one last time before removing my arm. Obviously she's back to normal, and the intimacy is no longer appropriate.

“And that's Alex. He's been here maybe two days? It's really hard to tell around here.”

She bites her lip, a little anxiety returning to her, along with a mild shake in her hands. “Where's
here
anyways?”

“Here's
here
. I don't know more than that. I woke up in a room just past the room through that door. Alex was there. This area only just opened up.”

“So—what, what've you been doing?”

“Killing time, I guess. The first bit was the worst. A day or so ago, we started finding food.”

She flinches. “How long do you think we'll be here, then?”

“Not a clue, sweetheart. I'm just as lost as you.”

She lapses into quiet, and it hits me that I do have one other tidbit to offer. “Well, maybe a little less lost than you—whoever did this, he's watching us. I've found two cameras. There's probably more.” I grin with more fieriness than I can feel, trying to make it reassuring. “At least we can take
that
bit of satisfaction out of it, right?”

She looks away, her breath coming faster. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why.

“Look—I know it's scary, that someone's watching this, getting some kind of sick thrill out of
whatever
this is. And I know that makes it seem like we'll be here a while. It scares the shit out of me too.”

“Someone's—
watching
?” Her voice cracks, and I hurriedly gather her into my arms. For a moment, it occurs to me she might shove me away, but the moment passes and she buries her face in my chest. I stroke her shoulders, and wait for the trembles and sobs to ease.

Across the room, something similar is happening with Alex, Denise, and Allen. Only without the hugs. Denise stares into the doorway, obviously lost in her own world of panic, and Allen's facing away, trying to keep his sobs quiet. Alex's head is in his hands, but from the glances he shoots at me, he wishes he was in my place. Either that, or something one of the others said has him angry at me.

I don't like the look of that.