Jill Sorenson - Badlands

The voice in Owen’s ear told him what to do: find the closest exit. He was familiar with the layout of the building. A production assistant waved a group of people forward. Owen placed his hand on Penny’s shoulder as they skirted around stage and lighting equipment. He looked for Penny’s mother but didn’t see her.

The alarm continued to go off in loud, intermittent blares. He couldn’t hear any more instructions from his boss. Pressing the button on the microphone at his collar, he checked in. “Moving toward the exit,” he said, reciting their code names and basic location.

They spilled out the door into a pavilion on the side of the main building. Audience members were emerging from multiple exits. Most of them headed west, to the area behind the convention center. It offered access to the harbor, parking lot and adjoining hotels. The production assistant went the same direction with the rest of the employees.

Owen didn’t follow. Penny would get recognized in the crowd, and his team was prepared for this kind of situation. They had a driver waiting in the loading area in front of the building, ready to whisk them to safety.

“To your left,” he said, squeezing her upper arm. It was early evening, just before dark, with good visibility. There were some random people milling around, along with a couple of photographers in casual clothes.

Owen hated the paparazzi even more than he hated those Freedom Party rejects who criticized Penny for having a baby out of wedlock. At the last political event she’d attended, some jerk had thrown a water balloon at her, soaking her blouse to near transparency. Of course the cameras had flashed before Owen could remove his jacket to cover her. The photos had been posted everywhere online.

He’d heard that one of the sleazy gossip magazines had offered to pay top dollar for a “crotch shot.”

Over his dead body.

Owen understood the public fascination with Penny. Her father was running for president. She’d grown up in the lap of luxury, made relatable mistakes and survived one of the worst natural disasters in U.S. history. She expressed herself sincerely. It didn’t hurt that she had a movie-star face and a figure like a Victoria’s Secret model. With her long legs, dark hair and radiant smile, she was stunning. The media loved her.

He spoke into his microphone once again to communicate their whereabouts, directing Penny toward the Cadillac at the curb. Secret Service had their own vehicles, so this one was used exclusively by Penny and her sisters. As they approached the car, Owen sensed a presence closing in on them. It was probably one of the photographers, hoping to get an angle up Penny’s skirt as she climbed into the backseat. He opened the back door, urging Penny and Cruz inside. Their driver, Keshawn Jones, was at the wheel.

Before Owen could glance over his shoulder to assess the threat, he noticed a rush of movement by the driver’s side. A masked man jabbed his fist through the open window, striking Jones in the neck.

The next few seconds passed in a blur. Owen reached for his mic just as he was tackled from behind. His fingers never found the talk button. A sharp pain hit his midsection, radiating through his torso like a bolt of lightning. Not a gunshot wound or a knife laceration. Electroshock. He was incapacitated before he even collapsed.

The man with the taser shoved him into the vehicle and climbed inside. Owen quaked like an epileptic. He couldn’t fight back or even resist. His body shook uncontrollably, and his thoughts scattered.

He was vaguely aware of Cruz’s muffled screams as Penny tried to quiet him. Everything else was pain. Pain in his torso, where the device had struck him. Pain in his muscles, which had seized up. His face contorted into a grimace, and his chest tightened. The pain went on and on, never ending.

Darkness edged in. Soon he’d be unconscious. Dead.

Owen didn’t realize the man with the weapon was still stunning him until he stopped, taking the device away from his side. The door slammed shut, and the vehicle accelerated. Owen slumped over, his cheek mashed against the leather seats. The worst of the pain receded, but the twitching continued.

“You didn’t have to tase him that long,” someone said from the front seat. “You almost killed him.”

Even in his fractured state, Owen recognized the voice.

It was Shane. His older brother, who’d just been released from prison. Shane must have pushed the driver aside and taken over.

“He’s still alive,” his attacker said. Then kicked Owen in the ribs for good measure.

Owen hardly felt the added insult, though he struggled to fill his lungs with oxygen. Cruz wailed in dismay, asking about Owen and sobbing his name repeatedly.

“Mommy, Mommy, what’s wrong with Owen?”

“Shut that kid up.”

Owen lifted his head to speak to Penny. His vision was blurry, his mouth slack. When he tried to speak, a string of saliva dribbled from his lips. “M’okay,” he mumbled, forming the words for Cruz’s sake. “I’m okay.”

Penny looked horrified. Maybe he should have saved his breath.

The man put away the taser and cuffed Owen’s hands behind his back. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. His muscles felt like jelly. He wiped his chin against the fabric of his jacket. Lethargy drowned out most of his embarrassment.

“He’s okay,” Penny murmured to Cruz, rocking him in her lap. “He’s hurt, but he’s going to be okay.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the hospital,” she said immediately. “Owen needs a doctor.”

She knew what was happening. Of course she knew. She wasn’t dumb. Even he knew, and his brain was fried.

“What happened to him?” Cruz asked.

“He had a seizure.”

“A seizer?”

“Seizure,” she corrected. “Shaking you can’t control. This man is helping Owen so he doesn’t hurt himself again. Isn’t that right, Mr....?”

“Dirk.”

“Mr. Dirk.”

It was a bullshit name, but it was a bullshit story. Owen should have been more careful approaching the vehicle. In his haste to get Penny and Cruz away from the paparazzi, he’d delivered them directly to...

The kidnappers.

He couldn’t believe Shane was involved in this. He couldn’t believe Shane was here. His brother had been living at a halfway house in Northern California. It went without saying that this violated the terms of his parole.

“The kid wasn’t supposed to be with her,” Shane said.

“What do you want to do with him?”

Penny tightened her arms around Cruz protectively.

“I can’t drop him off on the street corner,” Shane replied.

“Maybe he’ll double our take,” Dirk said.

Owen rested his forehead on the edge of the seat and tried to recover his wits. His stomach churned with nausea as he sorted through the fuzzy details. Penny was the target of this crime, not Cruz. The disappearance of two Sandoval family members would be noticed and investigated at once.

Despite the mix-up with Cruz, this kidnapping appeared to be an organized effort. The fire alarm must have been rigged. They’d known Penny had been about to take the stage. They’d known she had a single bodyguard—him—and not an entourage. They’d been following her. Waiting for an opportunity to strike.

The ease with which they’d executed the plan appalled him. With lucidity came regret. He’d failed to protect Penny and Cruz. Failed on every level. He’d been tricked, overpowered and stunned into submission.

Cruz had a booster seat, but Penny didn’t put him in it. Her arms were wrapped tight around him, her jaw clenched with determination. If anyone tried to take him from her, she’d claw their eyes out.

As the car went around a sharp corner, Owen slid towards Dirk. He wasn’t trying to challenge him in any way, but he couldn’t prevent his body from listing that direction. He had no control, no anchor.