Page 78 of Spock’s Snare

While we wait for Hunter and Smooth to arrive, Rush and I search the office while Dice guards Monroe. We’re looking for anything related to Red Rock Construction or Blackwell. I don’t expect to find Blackwell’s employment information here; he probably has it elsewhere. The same goes for Red Rock Construction. I’m about to give up when Rush opens a drawer and pulls out a beat-up laptop.

“Spark may be able to get something useful off here,” he says, tucking it under his arm.

“Let’s hope so, because I’ve got nothing. We could break into his home or his corporate office,” I suggest.

“Let’s see what Chill, Viper, and I can get out of Monroe,” Dice says. “I hear a truck. Might be Hunter.”

I open the door as Hunter backs the SUV up to the office door. With minimal effort, Hunter fastens zip ties around Monroe’s wrists and ankles before hauling him up and carrying him outside. He unceremoniously dumps him into the back of the SUV before slamming the doors shut.

With a salute, he hops back into the SUV and drives off.

“One down, two to go. Let’s get back to the clubhouse and see if Chill has Scaro,” Dice suggests.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to see what they have to say,” I snarl.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: CHLOE

Awareness returns in fragments.

First comes the pain—a deep, relentless throbbing behind my eyes. Then the dryness coating my tongue and the foul, stale taste in my mouth. My thoughts swim through a heavy fog as I struggle to understand why my mattress feels wrong.

When I try to lift my hand to my head, I can’t.

My eyes snap open, but darkness presses in from every direction. For one panicked second, I think I’ve gone blind. Then I spot a thin blade of light slipping through a gap in the blinds. Dust drifts through the narrow beam, and the muted brightness tells me it’s still daylight outside.

I’m in an empty room. No, not empty. There’s a bedframe with a mattress. The one I’m lying on.

There’s no dresser, nightstand, or lamp—nothing but bare walls, covered windows, and the bed beneath me. The air smells stale, as though the door and windows haven’t been opened in months. Underneath that is another odor—sweat, mildew, something sour that makes my stomach clench.

I pull against the restraint around my wrist. Rope scrapes over my skin, sending a sharp burn up my arm. Both my wrists are tied over my head to the bed frame. My ankles are secured the same way, leaving me stretched down the center of the mattress. I test each restraint, but there’s little give. Whoever tied me knew what he was doing—or took the time to make sure I couldn’t move. Fear surges through me.

I lower my gaze as much as my position allows and nearly sob with relief. I’m still wearing my clothes. My shirt is wrinkled and twisted around my waist, but it’s still covering me. My jeans are still fastened. My boots and socks are gone, leaving my feet bare, but as far as I can tell, nothing else has been removed.

I swallow, though my mouth is so dry it hurts.

Where am I?

The pounding in my skull intensifies as memory punches through the fog.

The last thing I remember was driving home to change. Then the flashes of memory come.

The kitchen door. Zip ties, duct tape, and a bandana sitting on the counter. The shock of fear because I knew I didn’t leave them there.

I remember backing away before Steven Blackwood stepped into view.

I remember trying to run back to my truck. If I could just get inside…His arm locking around my throat. His breath against my ear as he promised I would be sorry for rejecting him.

Then nothing.

“Oh God,” I whisper. The words sound too loud in the empty room.

I turn my head toward the door. It’s closed. I can’t tell if anyone is standing on the other side, listening. I force myself to stop pulling at the ropes. Panic will only exhaust me, and torn skin won’t help me escape. I have to think.

Spock knows I’m supposed to return to the site. My father knows, too. When I don’t show up, they’ll look for me. Dad will try to call me. Spock will try to call. Where’s my phone? I shift my hips, but I don’t feel it in my pocket. I remember dropping it and then seeing it slide under the truck. They won’t be able to find me. Despair grips my throat, but I swallow back the fear. I can’t control what’s happening outside this room. I can only control what I do next.

I breathe slowly through my nose and study the room again. The ropes are looped around a metal bed frame. The knot at my right wrist sits below my palm, just out of reach of my fingers. The mattress has no fitted sheet, only a rough top sheet bunched beneath my back. The bed shifts slightly when I pull, and a faint metallic squeak comes from somewhere near my left ankle.

That might matter. I test the frame again, this time gently—another squeak. The sound is small, but so is the movement. Something down there may be loose—a bolt, a bracket, maybe one of the rails. I don’t know if I can work whatever it is free, but it’s the first weakness I’ve found.