Kidnapped At Christmas. Maggie Black K.
the top floor of a converted house in downtown Toronto. There’d been new flyers plastering the staircases. Bright blue this time, with dire warnings from her landlady Yvonne about the dangers of both trespassers and raccoons. The streets were dark. The world was frozen. She’d slipped through the icy back alleys toward the Torchlight News office. She’d buried her hands in the pockets of her vintage wool overcoat, feeling for her gloves before realizing she’d left them behind. And then?
She wasn’t wearing her coat now.
How long ago was I kidnapped? Did I even make it to work?
With Christmas only two days away, the newspaper’s office was already closed for the holidays. But she was the newspaper’s main fact-checker. She was never really off. Last night her laptop had refused to load, so she’d headed into the office this morning to grab a backup tablet so that she’d have something to work on—because a good story waited for no one.
Samantha had singlehandedly created and updated the paper’s research database—nicknamed ATHENA, because “Aggregated Torchlight Hub for Enforcement and News Analysis” was a mouthful. Not that she ever got the glory. Or wanted it, for that matter. Samantha was a desk jockey. Someone who was quite comfortable working in the shadows, making sure overenthusiastic reporters—and their stories—stayed accurate. It was her job to verify that Torchlight got every fact right, to see the bigger picture and to even catch patterns that others might miss.
Was that why I was kidnapped? Because of something I researched?
“I think she’s awake.” The rough voice yanked her attention back to the freezing van. The stench of stale cigarettes filled her lungs. A man seemed to be crouched in the back of the van beside her. A gloved hand pushed a long strand of honey-blond hair off her cheeks. “Or maybe not. I can’t tell. She’s still breathing anyway. We almost there?”
“How should I know?” A second voice came from the direction of the driver’s seat. Also male, but higher-pitched and with a bit of a whistle. Like a mean stray dog who’d lost some teeth in a street fight. “You think I can see any street signs out here?”
The van hit a bump. Her body bounced against the cold, metal floor.
“Hey! Watch it!” The one that smelled like cigarettes swore. The one that whistled laughed. Neither sounded that much older than their midtwenties. Silence stretched out endless around her again, filled with nothing but the howling wind, the bitter cold and the rumble of the engine.
Fear ran cold through her veins. This had to be a dream. This couldn’t really be happening. Years ago, in college, she’d been tormented by night terrors for months after a fellow student had broken into her room in the middle of the night. But even at their worst no nightmare had ever felt as real as this.
Come on! Focus! She could think her way out of this. Her bare hands were bound together at the wrists in front of her by what felt like fabric. Her feet were tied together at the ankles by something thin that rustled as she shifted. The road turned rough beneath them.
Who are these people? What do they want? How did I get in this van? She didn’t know. Panic swirled like turpentine inside her mind, wiping her memory clean and filling her throat with bitterness. Facts. She had to focus on facts, no matter how small. There’d been a congratulations card in her bag for her editor, Olivia Ash, who’d just had a baby girl. There’d been a shiny new billboard for Eric Gibson’s morning radio show on top of the Silver Media building. Would Eric suspect something was wrong when she didn’t show up for coffee? She’d met the charming radio host a few months ago, when he was dating her neighbor. The neighbor had moved out and moved on, and suddenly Samantha had found herself being Eric’s shoulder to cry on.
Was their Christmas coffee today a date in his mind? Or had it finally sunk in that she really did love her single, quiet, workaholic life and didn’t need anything more? It was hard to tell if Eric was interested in her romantically or if he was just trying to be a good friend. Figuring out people had never come as easy to her as sorting out facts.
The vehicle slowed to a stop. She heard the metallic shriek of a van side door sliding open.
“What is this? Is that a light on over there?” The one who smelled like stale cigarettes sounded more than a little irritated. “You told me no that one would be here.”
“Well, I didn’t really know, now did I? Let’s just get it over with.”
Hands grabbed her ankles and dragged her out across the floor. She kicked out hard with both feet at once, catching her abductor in what she hoped was something vital. He swore and let go. The bonds binding her legs snapped free. She fell, landed on the ground beside the van and scrambled to her feet. She ran through the snow, waiting any moment to feel rough hands grab her again. A gunshot shook the air. Wet flakes pelted her head. The air was dark around her. However long she’d been in that van, the sun still hadn’t risen yet. She kept going, blind, through trees, over the snowy ground, using nothing but differences of light and shadow to guide her, holding her elbows out in front of her to protect her head, as her bound hands struggled to free her eyes from the fabric covering them.
Then a yellow gleam of light shone ahead, so bright the blindfold shone gold.
She ran toward it. The snow turned to gravel beneath her feet. The comforting smell of wood smoke filled her senses. Her knees hit a step. She pitched forward, landing hard on a staircase. With a desperate yank she pulled the blindfold down from her eyes and looked up at the towering farmhouse. A single light shone down from a window on the second floor. She could hear a dog barking inside. The relentless and determined yapping seemed to fill her heart with hope. A window slid open above her.
“Hey! Hello! Is there somebody out there?” A deep, rich voice filled the air, wafting down from above through the pelting snow. Her dark eyes looked up to the shape of the man standing in the window above her. Light shone from behind him, ringing his tall silhouette. He had broad shoulders and strong arms. Her fingers pulled at the tight gag still binding her mouth, struggling to make sound escape her lips.
Yes! I’m here! She yanked at her gag as it stole her voice from her lips. Help me! Whoever you are, help me!
“Hello?” he called again. “Is everything all right?”
Please! I think they’re going to kill me.
She stumbled to the front door. Her bound hands fumbled for the doorknob. It was locked. The barking grew louder, with the hint of a snarl.
Then the window shut above her. He was gone.
Please, Lord, she prayed. Wherever I am, whoever this man is, I need his help. He’s my only hope.
Footsteps sounded heavy and hollow on the wood behind her. She turned and caught a quick glance of an old, ugly scar slashed across an unfamiliar face. Gloved hands shoved her down onto the snow-covered porch. She kicked out hard, twisting her body against the man’s grasp. But he held firm. One hand slid something hard and round underneath the small of her back.
She tried to sit up. But he pushed her down.
The device beneath her clicked.
“Now listen carefully, Miss Colt,” he hissed. The stench of stale smoke filled her nostrils again. He pulled a roll of something red and shiny from his pocket. “There’s a live land mine under your back. You hear me? A land mine. An explosive. I’m going to tie your legs again and you’re going to lie still. Because, if you move, it will explode and you will die.”
* * *
The dog was still barking, hurtling its tiny furry body through the upstairs hallway of the Ash family’s country house so quickly that even with almost a decade of military service under his belt, Corporal Joshua Rhodes of the Canadian Armed Forces could hardly keep up.
Not that the soldier ever needed much of a kick to sprint into action. A few short days of holiday leave was hardly enough time to readjust his system to the quieter rhythms of civilian life. He’d been lying, already dressed, on top of the sleeping bag he’d slung on the bed in the front room, wrestling