Hitched and Hunted

Mariah almost made the move herself, just to get it over with. He wasn’t going to let them out of here alive. Prolonging fate was nothing but torture.

Jake’s eyes bored into hers. For a second, she saw real emotion there, burning like a flame. “Nobody’s doing anything stupid,” he said aloud.

She heard his message loud and clear.

Behind her, she heard the click of a latch and the swoosh of the side door of the van sliding open. Cold, damp air poured over her body, eliciting a shiver.

She heard the sound of Victor’s footsteps retreat behind her. A moment later, he spoke, his voice a few feet away. “Turn around, Marisol.”

She turned to look at him, loathing burning in her chest, fueled by every fear, doubt and regret she’d ever had in her life. Victor stared back at her, his eyes coal-black and cold. There had been a time when she’d thought he was her friend. Maybe her only friend. Certainly her mentor.

But that was before she’d discovered what he really was.

He motioned at the wet grass below with a sharp jerk of the gun barrel. “It’s a short jump.”

She dropped from the van to the ground, gasping a little as her foot slipped on the wet grass. Almost immediately, Jake was right behind her, his solid body stopping her fall.

“Step away from her,” Victor growled.

Jake stepped back but remained close enough that she could feel his warmth despite the cold drizzle falling around them.

Victor had stopped the van a few feet beyond a small one-story bungalow built of river stone and wood siding that might have been white before weather and age had rendered it a drab, lifeless gray. A wooden porch extended the length of the house, covered by a sagging aluminum awning that seemed incongruous to the rest of the structure.

“Home, sweet home,” Victor murmured with a humorless grin.

Quite a comedown from the nice split-level he’d rented in Buckley proper, Mariah thought. She supposed he’d lost the lease while in prison.

Still, for a while, it had almost seemed like her home.

Inside, the sparsely furnished living room smelled musty. The darkness of the interior multiplied as Victor closed the door behind them, shutting out the gray light of the rainy day.

Victor didn’t bother turning on the light. He nudged Mariah’s back with the barrel of the gun. “There’s a door ahead, just to the left. Open it and turn on the light.”

Jake, who walked ahead of her, did as Victor commanded. He stopped in the doorway and looked back at Victor, rebellion written all over his face. “We’re not going down there.”

Mariah peered around him and saw what the bare lightbulb revealed—a narrow stairway leading down to a shadowy basement.

Stained cement floors. Exposed water pipes, cold and damp with condensation. The odor of mold and grime, filling her lungs with each breath. Darkness as deep and black as hell.

Her head swimming, Mariah stretched her bound hands forward, trying to find her balance.

Jake caught her hands in his, his fingers warm and strong. She gazed up at him, grounding herself in his gaze.

“You know I hate basements, Victor.” Her voice came out low and raspy. “Put us somewhere else.”

“Down the stairs,” Victor said flatly. “Go.”

Jake’s fingers tightened on hers. He spoke in a voice so quiet she could barely hear him. “You can do this.”

He led the way downstairs, his head high and his back straight. Mariah took strength from the sight of him moving slowly, steadily down the steps in front of her, a solid wall to stop her fall if she should lose her step.

The basement was as dark and fetid as she’d feared, but she could feel Jake’s warmth just in front of her, and some of her panic eased.

Victor turned on the light, another grimy bare bulb hanging from a wire overhead. Mariah blinked against the sudden illumination, her eyes adjusting until she saw that the basement was somehow even more depressing and dank than she’d imagined.

Victor directed them to the far wall, where water pipes curved along the grubby stone foundation. Jake muttered a low curse. “Just had these lying around?”

Peering around Jake, Mariah saw what he’d spotted—a set of handcuffs attached by one cuff to the pipe.

“I like to be prepared.” Victor waved toward the rickety-looking bench in front of the handcuffs. “Sit down, Jake. Mariah, I believe you’ve had some experience with handcuffs. Please put them on your husband.” He spat out the last word with pure contempt.

The paralyzing fear that had gripped her the moment he walked into the tent earlier that day had finally begun to fade, replaced with a simmering rage that twisted her gut into hard, fiery knots. Give me a chance to stop you, she thought. Just one chance.

“Would you rather be in the cuffs?” Victor picked up a pair of rusty wire cutters and motioned for her to come to him with the barrel of his gun. “That can be arranged.”