Russ Decker finishes tying my hands behind my back and to a kitchen chair he’s put in the center of the small hunting cabin deep in the woods where he’s brought me.
I put my fear and pain aside to assess my situation.
Charlie is coming. I know it.
I can feel it like the steady beat of a drum in my chest.
All I need to do is stay alive until he finds me.
Russ rips off his sports jacket and tosses it on the couch before turning on the lamp and sitting down. “I need to think,” he barks out.
I don’t respond. I don’t even think he’s talking to me.
And I need to think too.
I need to use my skills and training to determine my options.
I have no idea where I am, but we are far from civilization.
My ribs are bruised at best, broken at worst. Even if I could find a way to free myself, I can’t run fast enough to lose him. Which is too bad, because healthy, I could take him. The guy is still huffing and puffing from the effort it took to get me inside the cabin.
But in my current state, escape on foot isn’t an option.
I’m not going to be able to overpower him.
I’m not going to be able to MacGyver my way out of this since he’s put me in the center of the room, far away from any object that could help me.
That leaves only one option.
My brains.
But he’s not calm enough yet. He’s still jumpy and agitated.
So instead, I survey my surroundings, wanting to capture every detail in case an unexpected opportunity comes my way.
Unfortunately, there’s not much to see.
The wooden cabin is small, utilitarian, and doesn’t belong to Russ Decker, considering he broke in using a fist and a rolled-up jacket to break the glass to gain entry. It has a large window under the rickety, scuffed leather couch where Russ is sitting and another smaller window over the sink in the kitchenette. There’s a twin bed, a small bathroom, and a fireplace with antlers over the mantel. There’s also a trap door under the chair I’m sitting in that I assume leads to a root cellar or crawl space.
Charlie’s voice whispers to me in the back of my mind, his smooth, slightly Southern tones telling me to be smart. To stay calm. Promising me that he’s coming.
Maybe it’s a delusion, but it steadies me and helps me focus.
Decker scrubs his hand over his partially bald head, leaving his thinning hair askew and giving him a maniacal look.
I clear my dry throat and try for something innocuous. “Can I use the bathroom?”
His beady brown eyes skitter to me. “I’m not fucking stupid, bitch.”
“Why so aggressive?” I shift in the uncomfortable chair. “Where can I run to? I’m tied up, my ribs are broken, and I’ve probably got a concussion.”
I make my injuries as dramatic as possible.
He scowls. “Piss on the floor. I don’t care.”
All right, then. That’s not going to work.
But something will; I can feel it. I’m good at this. I’m trained to get people to answer questions. I can get him to talk if I find the right key.
