Jo Robertson - The Avenger

Good, she was keeping her wits about her.

Olivia wouldn't be the goat sacrificed on the altar of the killer's ego. She'd fight back. And when her efforts were useless against her monstrous abductor, she'd fight some more.

Jack's dream-eyes made out the vehicle license plate and caught the highway signs that showed the direction the car traveled. He glimpsed the thick, straw-colored hair that lay at the back of the enemy's neck. Sensed the malevolent purpose that blackened his heart.

Every instinct commanded Jack to race toward the killer who held Olivia captive. But he couldn't. First, he had to be released from the dream-vision state. With wrenching effort, he forced himself back into his own body.

He awoke, prostrate on the living room floor.

Shaking his head like a wet dog, he tried to rouse his lobotomized brain from the combined effect of the drug cocktail he'd taken. He should have taken the Phens, but he was afraid they would counter his ability to find Olivia. He fumbled for his discarded cell phone and punched in the number, but his voice was controlled when he spoke.

"Where the hell are you?" Slater shouted and then continued without waiting for an answer. "Based on Ted's testimony, we got a judge to sign an arrest warrant for Randolph, but he's nowhere to be found. And that's not all."

"I know. Olivia's no longer at Isabella Torres' apartment," Jack said, his voice flat.

"You should get back here, Jack. I've got a BOLO out on both of them, but we have no idea where Randolph's taken her." Pause. "Or if he's the one who's taken her. Could be that ex-husband. Or even Diego Vargas."

Jack carried his phone into the bedroom where he wrestled with a pair of cut-off sweats and a gray, sleeveless tee shirt. "No, it's Randolph. Don't worry. I'll get her. I know where she is."

"How the hell… where?"

Jack flipped the phone closed without answering and pressed the off button. Better that he wasn't interrupted during the next several hours. He retrieved the medicine vial and swallowed half a dozen more red pills. He wanted his hunting instincts to be rapacious. Not dulled by human feelings.

He told himself that this hunt was just another assignment, nothing more. Not the most important mission of his life. Not the one to save the only woman he'd ever loved.

Less than a minute later, clothed only in shirt, shorts and athletic shoes, he grabbed the car keys to the Blazer and followed his instincts. Sooner or later, he'd have to abandon the vehicle and track by foot, but for now, his instincts would guide him to Olivia and the killer.

Glancing up through the windshield, he grimaced at the thin jack-o-lantern grin of the moon swinging insanely in the sky.

One madman chasing another madman, he thought wildly, while a third one watched from above. He stepped on the accelerator and the car sped forward.

When consciousness returned, Olivia's eyes fluttered open to complete darkness. She sensed rather than saw a cramped interior and felt the claustrophobic confinement around her. She lay on her right side, her arms clasped around her knees and her knees pushed up against her chest.

When she tried to stretch her legs, her feet banged against a hard surface. She groped over her head to feel cool, smooth metal. Beneath her, she touched what felt like coarse woven fibers – carpet, she guessed. She inhaled the distinct odor of gasoline and exhaust fumes. She was lying in the trunk of a car. Not her car, she surmised. Not Howard's little sports car either. The smooth, quiet murmur of the engine belonged to a larger automobile.

A surge of adrenaline shot through her body and drove out reason. Too many movies about kidnapped women stuffed into car trunks where they couldn't move or breathe. Where they died. She had to get out of here!

Breathe. Stay calm. Don't panic.

Obeying her own commands, she inhaled deeply through her nose and slowly blew the breaths out of her mouth until she gradually relaxed. Contrary to what she imagined, the air in her tiny prison, though redolent of oil and gasoline, was clean. No noxious fumes wafted up to choke off the oxygen. She felt cramped, but otherwise, seemed unharmed.

The car suddenly lurched. Then the steady thrumming of the wheels beneath her. For about five minutes – though she had little sense of time in her dark box – the car traveled steadily on smooth pavement. She tried to identify passing landmarks. At intervals, a tiny stream of light signaled the passing of lighted areas, a gas station or restaurant. She peered through the darkness at her wristwatch, but there wasn't enough light inside the trunk for her to see the non-luminous dial.

What seemed like an hour later, the terrain changed and she felt the rougher bump of a different road, the frequent start-and-stop jerks of the vehicle. Stop signs? Had they left the city? Were they driving through a residential area? Or were they traveling on county roads, notoriously less well paved?

In a little while, she noticed a gradual climb, the automatic shifting of the gears as the car made its way up an incline or a sloping mountain. Howard drove steadily upward, the speed moderate, the road rough. Not freeway, she thought although their speed seemed fairly fast, over fifty miles per hour.

Where was he taking her?

The bastard had drugged her, she thought, in a rush of fury. She recalled the needle prick high on her leg. How did Howard know about drugs and syringes? Her naivety emphasized how little she knew about her kidnapper.

He must've followed her or someone at the jail had leaked the information. But why had he chosen her for his sick games? What part did she play in his crazy religious scheme?

Did he count on her staying asleep during the entire journey? Or would he be expecting her to pounce from the trunk and fight back once he released the lid? He'd have to open the trunk at some point. Else, why kidnap her? Jack said the DLK was organized, planned. She was sure Howard would have a plan for her. But what?

Cramped, sticky, and exhausted, she listened to the relentless drumming of the engine's motor and the rum-rum-rumming of the wheels on asphalt. Hours must have passed by now. She dozed at one point, and was finally roused from her stupor by the slowing of the car and the distinct crunching of tires on gravel.

He was stopping! Suddenly alert, she strained to listen. The sound of the engine dying, the faint clank of metal, the gurgle of liquid, like water being poured from a jug. He was filling the gas tank.

She forced herself to think logically. Distance. He'd driven far enough to require another tank of gasoline. What was that? Two hundred miles in a big sedan? Less, if he'd started without a full tank. No, Howard was far too methodical not to have planned for this.

Without thinking of the consequences, propelled only by the need to survive, she twisted from her side to her back and thumped her bare feet against the trunk top as hard as she could. If they were in a public place, someone had to hear the noise. But her leverage and angle were all wrong, and in the small space, she couldn't put enough power into the kicks.

She yelled as loudly as she could. "Help, someone help me! I'm in here!"

"Shut up, Olivia." Howard's voice was close and so deadly calm that she instantly closed her mouth and abandoned all hope of attracting attention.

"No one can hear you," he continued in the same speciously controlled voice, "and if you continue with such unseemly behavior, I will open the trunk and slit your throat."

Howard's words, spoken with such aplomb, such cheery declaration, chilled her far more than any ranting or screaming could have done. She froze. She hardly breathed. Sweat dripped from her hairline and pooled in the creases of her neck. Her hands were clammy and her stomach roiled in the first waves of nausea. She felt hopeless for the first time since Howard had burst through Isabella's front door.