Cambria Hebert - Text

I was glad it was Friday. I felt like I needed a break from work, but a break from work meant endless hours to fill. I wasn’t the type of man that could just sit around idle. I used to be. But not anymore. Now, I needed distraction. I needed less time to sit around and think.

Bronx walked in from the other room and snatched a Red Bull out of the fridge before turning to me. “You coming tonight?”

I grinned. “Of course. Bring your twenties. I’m feeling lucky.”

Bronx shook his head. “When’s the last time you actually won one of our poker games?”

Honestly, I couldn’t remember. I wasn’t about to admit that. I grinned. “Exactly. It’s high time for me to clean yous out.”

“That’s a lot of talk,” Bronx said, chugging the Red Bull.

“We’ll see,” I boasted and returned to the automatic weapon lying on the table.

“Good thing you’re better with guns than you are cards,” he cracked on the way out.

I chuckled. He was right. If I was as good with cards as I was with guns, I would have been able to get out of the Marine Corps a long time ago. I might even have been able to avoid some of the demons I would likely carry to my grave.

Even though I sucked at poker, I still played. Every Friday night, the boys and I got together for a weekly game. Beer, chips, sports, and cards. It was a good way to end the week—and a good waste of time.

Most Marines I knew just drank away their issues. They spent a lot of time in bars, throwing around the money they worked for all week and then waking up in some stranger’s bed the next morning.

I wasn’t opposed to drinking or sex.

But getting so drunk I couldn’t remember my own name and having a one-night stand with someone I would likely never see again wasn’t my idea of a good time. Not that I hadn’t tried those things. I had. Drinking and sex was only a temporary solution, a Band-Aid over a wound. In the morning I would just wake up, the wound would still be there, and I would only feel worse about myself.

I drained the Red Bull, crushed the can in my hand, and tossed it into the trash. Flashes of last night’s dream played through my head like the opening credits of an action movie. The sound of gunfire and screaming drowned out the sound of the rock music and caused me to grip the edge of the table in my hands.

My heart rate kicked up a bit and I felt a flush of sweat break out across my forehead. I took a couple deep breaths and forced away the images.

It was over.

I was in Pennsylvania now.

I was stationed at an Inspector/Instructor unit (we call it I & I) where there was no war, no violence.

I sat down in my chair as the sound of gunfire echoed through my head. “Nate,” a voice yelled. The sound of the explosion had me pushing back my chair and standing up, staring off into space. I knew I was was just being haunted, but I was unable to shake the memories.

“Shit,” I muttered and blinked, focusing once more on the room around me.

I stalked around the table, the thump of my boots echoing off the linoleum floor. I leaned out the doorway to where Bronx and some of the others were working. Actually, they weren’t working; they were gathered around Patton’s desk, looking at a magazine, all of them laughing like teenagers.

“Put that shit away!” I snapped. They all jumped like they got caught smoking weed and Patton slammed the magazine shut and slid it into his desk drawer.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that,” I told them as they looked around nervously. Dirty magazines were a big no-no around here. Marines needed to be professional and conduct themselves like the representatives of this country they were.

“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” Patton said.

“Get back to work,” I ordered, and they scattered like cockroaches in a well-lit room. “And turn that music up!” I barked.

“Did he say up?” I heard one of the guys whisper to another behind me.

I strode into my office and over to the table and stared down at the stripped weapon. Maybe the methodical cleaning and detailing was exactly what I needed.

The volume of the rock music rose a notch. The loud screaming of the band shoved its way into my head.

Good.

Maybe the sound would drown out my own thoughts.

Consciousness worked its way into my brain like a worm wiggling into a wild apple lying beneath a tree. Little by little, reality came back. When I thought about it later, I wondered if perhaps it was my body’s way of trying to protect me from what was happening.

The sensation of being dragged had awareness fully crashing over me. I felt like a tsunami swept me along, pummeling me with memories of what just happened, taunting me with whispers of the horrible fate that awaited me when I finally opened my eyes.

So I decided that opening my eyes could wait. I didn’t really need to see what was happening right this second… did I? I had no doubt that whatever I would see in the very near future was going to be more than enough.

I concentrated on what was happening around me. Someone—the perverse kidnapper, I presumed—was dragging me at a fairly quick pace. My feet and ankles were being ripped along the ground. I could feel little cuts and nicks stinging my skin near my ankles, and I bit my lip against the pain.

The man had me beneath the armpits, hauling me like a ragdoll. I wondered why he didn’t just carry me; he was big enough. I wasn’t a very large person (something I was seriously sorry for in that moment). All the running I did kept me thin, and I only stood about five foot three.

I was the perfect prey for someone like him.

God, I was so stupid.

What had I been thinking going out on a trail like that alone? Why hadn’t I ever been scared? Why hadn’t my overactive imagination cooked up scenario after scenario of all the vile things that could happen?

Maybe I should have gotten a dog. A big, mean one.

No. I didn’t want that. Because if I did have a dog and he was with me today… he might have gotten hurt trying to protect me. At least I was alone and the only person that would get hurt was me.

What about your family? The spontaneous thought had tears rushing behind my closed lids. Would I ever see them again? How long would it take someone to realize I was missing? I lived a fairly reclusive life. I worked from home—I didn’t have an office or coworkers expecting me at a certain time.

My family and I talked on a regular basis, but not every day. I lived alone. Sometimes I went for days without seeing anyone at all.

I could be dead by then.

My best hope was that my presence online would be noted. That someone—anyone—might notice I wasn’t there posting or chatting people up like normal. But even so, my friends online wouldn’t know that something was wrong. They would likely assume that I got swept up with an idea, that I was hiding in my writing cave.

Sure, after several days of not replying to messages or posting teasers on my fan page, someone would begin to wonder.

I could be dead by then.

Well, shit. I wasn’t ready to die. I had a book to finish. My newest fictional boyfriend had totally stolen my heart. I couldn’t let his story go unfinished.

My eyes sprang open. The will to live and stubbornness kicked in full force. I planted my feet flat on the ground and dug them in. The man towing me along faltered in his steps as my feet tried to run away.

He laughed, holding on to my biceps, and continued walking. My arms were at my sides so I whipped them up behind me and grabbed a handful of the skin on his leg and yanked. Several of his long leg hairs ripped out and the sound gave me a sick satisfaction.

“Agh!” he yelled and dropped me. My teeth slammed together when I hit the ground. I rolled onto my belly and pushed up on hands and knees. He moved fast, drawing his foot back and kicking me in the side, my ribs taking the brunt force.

I groaned and collapsed back onto the ground. The pain was searing. So sharp it made it hard to breathe. Tears blurred my vision, yet I refused to cry. I would not cry. I would not dissolve into a useless puddle.

I was going to fight.

And if I died, I was going to die trying to live.

He reached down and grabbed a handful of my sweaty hair and yanked my head back. He forced me to look into his face. I committed every detail I could to memory.

He was broad, with wide shoulders and thick biceps. His hair was a sandy color, buzzed close to his head. His thick eyebrows slashed straight above his blue eyes. His skin was olive toned, his lips thin and his jaw square.

If he wasn’t kidnapping and trying to kill me, I might think he was attractive. His personality must really leave a lot to be desired if he had to resort to kidnapping women. A face like his would at least get him a date.

I wanted to ask him why he was doing this. What was his motive? What kind of sick pleasure would a man possibly get out of this? But I was afraid of the answer. Besides, I didn’t need to know any of that to fight back.

“You want me to hit you again?” he growled, staring into my face.

I didn’t say anything. The answer was obvious.

He jerked my hair and I cried out. Damn, that hurt. Then I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. I would be damned if I cried out anymore. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me in pain.

“Get up.” He grunted and pulled me up. I was surprised when he drew his hand away that a huge clump of hair didn’t come with it.