Vicki Pettersson - The Taken

“No one to save you now, is there?” Schmidt said, reading her mind, and because of that-or just because he could-he yanked her head back by her hair and thrust his tongue in her mouth. Kit gagged and tried to pull away, a futile movement which only elicited an unexpectedly high giggle. Then he wiped her swollen mouth with the back of his calloused hand, did the same with the tears tracking her cheeks, all while chiding Hitchens about marks, imperfections, and waiting until the time was right.

Then the blindfold was ripped away and Kit was shoved into another room that was alive with heat, pregnant with murmurs, and far scarier than the lonely cell she’d tried to escape.

Blinking and squinting, she tried to make sense of what she saw. Then she wished she’d run faster.

Kit gasped, and futilely tried to cover herself while her mind whirled. Who were all these men? And they were here for… what? The girl? She caught sight of a bed, white and centered on a sea of red silk, its four posters jutting into the air like spears, while lights and cameras angled down from the rafters above. Kit’s vision swam, but her hyperfocus remained, and she saw everything clearly.

It was there, in the way the men were eyeing her, in their suits and ties, with champagne bottles and cigars at their sides. It seemed impossible that anyone should wear such a dead expression, but they all did… right up until the moment someone to the left of her moved. Then those faces came alive.

Kit whirled to find five bare-chested men staring at her from beneath burlap hoods, each pair of eyes pinned on her with the same coldness as Hitchens and Schmidt and all the others who just sat there, watching.

Backing away, she eased from Schmidt’s side, and this time his high giggle scraped along her spine like barbed wire. The room was otherwise stifling in its silence, and she fought back the scream clawing at her throat. They’d all like that.

“Before we start, we must go over the ground rules.” It was Chambers’s voice, but she had no idea where he was. Kit jerked her head, left to right, looking instead for a way out. “Wait-” she croaked.

“First rule?” Chambers continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “There are no rules.”

“Wait!” Louder now, but still not her voice. Why couldn’t she make herself heard?

“Have fun, boys.”

And a buzzer sounded, like a bell ringing for a fight. Schmidt laughed again, but he and Hitchens remained flanking the door while the five hooded men each took a step in her direction. Kit tried to think, to open her mouth and say more, but her mind was tangled, her tongue useless, and her inflamed coherence had turned on her. She felt and saw so much that her entire body had gone numb.

The men spread out to make a net, driving her toward its middle. Kit couldn’t help backing up toward the bed, even though she instinctively knew that’s where they wanted her. That’s where they’d attack.

In one last effort to make eye contact with someone, she finally found Chambers. He was sprawled at the back of the room, and almost looked bored, except his eyes were overbright, and seeing that, she finally knew the truth: No one was going to help her.

Pack mentality had set in, and like Chambers, these men no longer saw her. Stripped of the rockabilly clothing that defined her, and the words that gave her a power equal to physical force, Kit had nothing. She wasn’t a person to them, she was an object. And objects were there to be used.

Heart skidding, Kit considered running, cutting a path directly through the throng of heartless men. Surely no one would expect that. Yet she’d only taken two steps toward the aisle before one of the hooded men cut off the angle, again forcing her back.

Another attacker immediately feigned a lunge, and a few in the crowd applauded. Yet it was the lack of reaction that had the whimper rising in her throat. They’d all been here before, she realized. They’d done this to other women and gotten away with it.

And in a way, Kit thought, wiping at her face, I’ve been here before, too. Though it’d only been two men attacking her then. Not five.

And even one was too much. The tears welled and fell freely. “Please…”

But a backhand sent her sprawling to her knees. The force and anger of it seemed to surprise everyone… though it was the kick to her stomach that really brought the spectators to life.

“Do it again!”

And he would have if he wasn’t shoved out of the way by a second, bigger, hooded man. Kit nearly thanked him out of reflex, but then his hand was around her throat and the crowd was suddenly cheering.

Spots danced before Kit’s eyes as she clawed at his grip, and she barely registered the pain when her calves struck the platform. Her head bounced off one of the bedposts, but her attacker’s grip loosened when a third man-or maybe it was the first-rammed him from the side.

Maybe they’d take out each other, Kit hoped. But her next breath carried the next moment, and all of Kit’s remaining hope died with it. This man’s hands were shaking, hesitant on her skin, though he still managed to use a gold tassel to bind her wrist to the bed. More strong hands jerked at her other arm, and as she stared at the bedposts, for the first time ever, she wished away the rest of her life. “Oh, God…”

Stars danced in her skull as she was slapped again. Then again. A roar rose from the crowd like a single voice, then another sole male cry raged above them all.

Oh, God.

He came directly for her, a faceless body rocking with aggression and purpose and, even through her unsteady vision, she saw the raw hatred. Why would someone hate her so much? Not that it mattered anymore, because this was the one. His fist was already cocked, and his eyes beneath the hood locked on her like missiles as he plowed down two other men on the way to her.

The crowd roared. The man did, too.

Kit closed her eyes and prayed it would be over fast. Then her left arm went slack and she screamed anyway.

Opening her eyes told her nothing. Three men were down, not moving. And what was that rocking just above her? An open cage?

More screaming-was it her? No . It was Chambers, and Kit glanced over to see his face somehow looming and huge, though he remained at the back of the room. It was a microphone in his hand, she realized. That’s what the noise was, and as another hooded man dropped, he screamed what Kit herself was wondering: What the hell was going on?

The last hooded man, the one who’d felled them all, turned to Kit. Fumbling at her wrist tie, she succeeded only in dragging herself lower, and she screamed as he lunged, but suddenly they were both flipped over the side, hunched and out of Chambers’s view.

The amplified voice chased them over the edge. “Stop him!”

The man yanked off his hood.

And language flooded Kit again. “Grif? Grif! Oh, God! Get me out!”

His fingers worked against her restraint.

“Hey!” Hitchens’s voice rounded the bed before he did. “Hey, buddy! You weren’t supposed to injure the other-”

Grif spun just as Hitchens reached for his gun, and the blow had the weapon skittering across the floor. Rubbing her wrists, Kit raised her head. All eyes were back on her, but this time it wasn’t five against one. This time it was her against dozens.

“I’ll take those odds,” she said, and freed, fueled by the sound of her own voice, she lunged for the gun.

Men scattered like roaches as she swung the gun around the room, but Kit didn’t care. There was blood in her mouth and an ache in her ribs and every man fleeing had watched as she received both. Firing, she became one of them… but not quite. She chose her shots, aimed high. And searched for Chambers in the surging crowd.