Shirlee McCoy - Running Blind

“No shadows? No light?”

“No.”

“It’s broad daylight. There’s light spilling in from the window I climbed in through. You can’t see it?”

She went cold at his words, everything within her stilling.

And then she reached up, touched her eyes, not sure what she expected to feel. What she hoped to feel. Maybe a blindfold. Something that would be blocking the light. But there was nothing.

“I can’t see anything.”

“You’ve got a deep bruise on your forehead. Maybe that has something to do with it.” His fingers traced a line from the bridge of her nose to her hairline, probing the tender flesh there.

“It doesn’t matter how it happened. I’m blind!” She could feel herself panicking, feel the breath catching in her throat, her mind spinning away.

“Hey, it’s okay. Take a deep breath. Let it out slowly.” He laid his palm against her cheek again, let it rest there as she tried to catch her breath.

“No. It’s not.”

“Yeah. It is. You’re alive, and you’re going to stay that way. We’ll worry about the rest after we’re out of here.”

He was right.

She needed to calm down, get a handle on her emotions the same way she had the day she’d been told she had cancer and had less than a year to live. She’d fought that diagnosis, and she’d won. This was simply another battle, another challenge.

“Okay. I’m okay,” she managed to say, even though she wasn’t sure it was true.

“I knew you were. Now, let’s get out of here and get you to a hospital.” There was a hint of an accent to his voice, but Jenna couldn’t place it.

“We have to find Magdalena first.” She pulled away, turning around in a circle, the darkness suddenly deeper, more oppressive. She was blind, and that was something she couldn’t think about. Not if she was going to help her friend and herself.

“I told you, she’s not here.”

“Then they took her. We have to figure out where they brought her.” She took a step, her arms out in front of her as she tried to navigate her way through the blackness.

“How? Who would we ask? The men who beat you? We don’t know what happened to your friend. Maybe she’s alive. Maybe she’s not. What we know is that you are alive, and if you’re going to stay that way, we’ve got to get out of here.”

Maybe she’s alive.

Maybe she’s not.

The words slammed into Jenna’s already pounding head. She and Magdalena had met in college and become good friends. Jenna had been Magdalena’s maid of honor when she’d gotten married and had been on hand for the birth of her son three years ago. When Jenna was diagnosed with leukemia, Magdalena had left her busy Houston medical practice and flown to New York to be by her side.

They weren’t just friends; they were sisters.

And there was no way Jenna was going to leave Mexico without her.

She yanked away from her rescuer’s hold and ran, arms stretched out, feeling through the darkness. Her feet tangled in something, and she tripped, momentum carrying her forward too quickly for her sluggish body to compensate. She went down hard, her hands and knees sliding across concrete, pain stabbing up her arms.

Hot tears slid down her cheeks and she didn’t have the strength to wipe them away. Didn’t have the strength to get up and run again.

She caught a whiff of leather and mint, felt a warm palm brush the moisture from her cheeks, the touch so tender and light, so filled with compassion that more tears burned behind her eyes.

“You’re in no condition to hunt for your friend. Do you see that now?” His voice rumbled through the darkness, steely and hard, much different from the gentleness of his touch.

Jenna stiffened, struggled to her feet, wishing she had the strength to prove him wrong. “You’ve made your point.”

“I don’t have a point. I have a goal, and that’s to get you back home alive.”

“What about Magdalena? She’s got a little boy.” All Jenna had was a black cat named Dante who came and went as he pleased.

“I know.”

“Then leave me here and go find her. I’ll be safe enough until—”

“Shh. Someone is upstairs.” He pressed a finger to her lips, and she froze, listening as a floorboard creaked above her head.

“We need to get out of here. Come on.” He swooped her up, carrying her across the room and setting her down again almost before she realized what he was doing.

“There’s a window high up on the wall. I’ll climb out, make sure the area is secure and then pull you through. Okay?” He whispered against her ear, his breath ruffling her hair.

There was a whisper of noise, and she knew she was alone again.

A minute ticked by. Then another.

Or maybe just seconds had passed, the darkness and ominous silence stretching each second into minutes, each minute into hours.

Floorboards creaked again, the sound reverberating through the tomblike basement.

Would the door fly open?

Would men pound down the stairs and haul Jenna away, just as they had Magdalena?

She reached forward and touched cement blocks, ran her palms up the rough surface, unwilling to wait another second for her rescuer to pull her through the window. Splintered wood dug into the palm of her hand, but she didn’t pull back.

The windowframe. It had to be.

It was high. Maybe two feet above her head, but not so high that she couldn’t manage to pull herself up and out. She felt along the wood with both hands, running her palms to the edge of the frame and as high as she could on either side. It was large enough to escape through, and she boosted herself up, ignoring the pain as slivers of wood pierced her skin.

If there was broken glass, she didn’t feel it as she maneuvered her shoulders through the opening, felt hot sun bathe her face and realized her mistake. Was she at ground level? Or higher? Was anyone watching her escape? Was her rescuer standing nearby, or had he run?

She didn’t know, but she was fully committed to her escape, and she wasn’t going to back down now. She reached forward, trying to feel the ground, and shrieked as someone grabbed her hand.

“Shh. Do you want whoever’s hanging out in that house to come after us?” her rescuer hissed.

“You could have warned me you were there.”

“I was trying to maintain silence for the safety of both of us.” He grabbed her other hand, tugged gently. “The ground is two inches below you. Come on. Let’s get moving.”

He gave another tug and Jenna maneuvered the rest of the way out the window. Humid air enveloped her, filling her nose with the scent of sun-baked earth and rotting garbage. Somewhere in the distance, people were talking or arguing, their rapid-fire Spanish beyond what Jenna was able to understand. Aside from that, the day was silent. No hum of traffic. No roar of buses. Nothing like the bustling Mexican border town where Jenna and Magdalena had been working with Team Hope.

“Where are we?” she whispered, as her rescuer urged her forward.

“Santo Trista. It’s twenty miles from the border. Now, how about we stay quiet until we’re in my car and out of here? I don’t like the feel of things.”

Neither did Jenna.

As a matter of fact, every hair on the back of her neck was standing on end.

Somewhere behind them, a voice called out, the Spanish words faint and unintelligible.

Her rescuer tensed, his hand tightening on Jenna’s. She could feel him shifting position. Was he looking for the source, searching for some sign of what was to come?

A loud crack split the silence, and Jenna screamed, the sound cut off as she was lifted, thrown over a shoulder. Her head bounced against warm leather, the jarring motion only adding to the throbbing agony in her head.