Page 82 of Protecting the Nerd

The second the stench of diesel fuel drafted into my nose, the truth hit. A boat. They’d taken me onto a boat. I was trapped in a windowless cabin, the constant hum of engines singing a monotonous lullaby.

Adrenaline surged, lending strength to muscles still lethargic from sedation.

“Come on, come on,” I whispered, refusing to succumb to the rising tide of claustrophobia. Focus. Sucking in measured breaths through clenched teeth, I forced my brain to concentrate. There had to be variables I didn’t see, elements to exploit.

“Control what you can control,” I recited the mantra that had guided me through countless solitary nights of research. It grounded me, clearing the fog of fear.

I rose on shaky legs, steadying myself against the wall. Time to take inventory. I clumsily patted down my clothes with my bound hands, finding pockets emptied of anything useful. No phone, no wallet, no watch.

I shuffled around the room, searching for something—anything—that could aid in my escape. But the room yielded nothing but smooth surfaces and a door that didn’t budge under my weight. Crap.

Okay, so I might not be able to escape now, but the ship had to dock eventually. And when it did, I’d have to be ready.

When the boat’s engine ground to a halt, I’d lost all sense of time. Had it been a few hours or much longer? It had felt like an eternity, the dark cabin around me more like a coffin than a room. I strained my ears, listening for any clues as to where we were, but I couldn’t make out anything.

The door swung open, flooding the small space with blinding daylight. Before I could so much as blink against the brightness, rough hands grabbed me, yanking me off the floor. My two captors didn’t say a word, communicating through force as they shoved me forward. The second I noticed the crate, I started fighting, flinging my arms and digging my heels.

But the two men only laughed as they manhandled me into the crate. My elbow slammed against the edge, and white-hot pain seared through me, leaving me breathless. It was enough for them to push me far down and close the lid, the echo of it slamming shut behind me reverberating through my bones.

I couldn’t do anything but brace myself against the walls as the crate lurched, then moved. The world outside was reduced to muffled sounds and the occasional jostle that sent shivers of unease down my spine and, from time to time, shoots of pain. The crate was offloaded from the ship and carried into a vehicle—another van, if I had to take a guess. This time, they weren’t letting me out.

Time trickled by as we drove to yet another destination. By my estimate, we’d driven about an hour when we slowed down and turned onto a gravel path that crunched under the wheels. We bumped along for what felt like an eternity until, finally, the vehicle came to a stop.

During the ride, I’d had to endure the synthetic smell of oil and rubber, but as they opened the doors and carried the crate out, another scent permeated—the unmistakable odor of manure. And was that a cow mooing?

We were on a farm. I had no idea where, but farms were usually secluded. That meant fewer people to notice something odd, like a crate being carried out of a van. They walked a short while before they put me down, and the lid was taken off. I rose, but my muscles were cramped from being in a tight space for that long, and I would’ve fallen if one of the guys hadn’t grabbed me.

“Thank you,” I said automatically, and he looked at me comically. “Sorry, force of habit.”

He mumbled something and the one word I could make out was amerikantsy, so he’d probably commented on me being a stupid American. Whatever.

They helped me out of the crate, untied my hands, and handed me a bottle of water and a paper bag. “Breakfast,” the guy said.

Breakfast. Did that mean it was morning? When they had snatched me, it had been around eleven p.m., so how much time had passed?

Where was I? Some kind of barn.

Before I could ask or say anything, the men walked out and slammed the door shut. A bolt slid into place, locking me in. I blew out a breath.

Okay, time to take inventory. How did I feel? I had a faint headache, which was no surprise, considering the situation I was in, and my elbow hurt like a mother from where I’d banged it on the crate, but other than that, I was fine. Tired with achy muscles but otherwise fine. That was good.

My stomach growled, so I lowered myself onto the floor and checked the bag. Two bagels. I’d take it. I munched on a dry bagel and washed it down with sips of water. If they’d transported me on a ship and then by van, I had to assume I was at the location where they were planning to hold me, at least for a while. A set location meant routines, and routines were opportunities to figure out weaknesses and blind spots.

Once I had finished the bagel, I pushed myself up. They’d locked me into a barn where the smell of musty hay and manure lingered. It was a simple rectangular structure with a half-loft that had likely once held hay. The barn was empty, except for a stack of hay bales in one corner. In another corner, a crude shed had been built, maybe ten by eight feet. A storage shed for tools, maybe? The door was locked, but the wood and the lock didn’t look sturdy. I would love to see what was inside. Was there any way I could get in?

I surveyed the walls, tracing the rough-hewn planks and searching for loose boards or hidden openings. Nothing. No, the door was my best bet, but to break it open, I needed leverage. I’d already checked the barn for tools, but I did it again. Nothing.

Wait, maybe in the loft? An old, rickety wooden ladder hung from two pegs on the wall, and with effort, I took it off and positioned it against the edge of the loft. I carefully climbed up and pushed two hay bales out of the way. Bingo. They might’ve checked the barn to make sure it was empty, but they’d forgotten about the hay loft, and now I had a pitchfork and two rusty chains to work with. Excellent.

And even better, at the top of the hay loft was a small window, likely meant for ventilation rather than view. I should be able to fit through if I managed to find a way to get up there, but then what?

I hid the pitchfork and chains under the hay bales, climbed back down, put the ladder back, made sure the floor didn’t show any evidence of my activities, and sat down to eat the other bagel…and plot my way out.

28

QUILLON

The FBI had set up their command post in the community center in Forestville, which had been the closest town to where the attackers had executed their ambush. Four agents were still fit to work. Two were about to be medevacked to Seattle, and to my shock and sorrow, three agents had died, all three of them in the lead car, which had been blown to bits. More agents were on their way to Forestville, including Coulson, who was flying in from Washington, DC.

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