Page 21 of Love Set Free

I’d already recorded the video they wanted with Tattooed American Guy and emailed it to my dad, and she doesn’t have anything, like food or medical supplies, with her, so I’m a bit curious why she’s even in here. Although as she slams the door shut behind her and begins to pace and wave her arms around, it seems like she might just be in this room so that she could loudly and irately rant about her dissatisfaction over how my kidnapping is progressing.

“...cannot believe that rat-ass coward Silva scuttled off that way. Just ducking out on us? On our partnership? Although, let’s face it, he was only ever brought on to do all the on-the-ground, grunt work. And then...then... That emotionless, stick-in-his-ass Mueller has the balls, the ice cubeballs, to dare insinuate that it’s somehow our fault that fucking Silva pulled a disappearing act? Such bullshit!”

Ouch. It has to hurt, how hard Could’ve Been a Model punches the wall. The wall might look as though a stiff sneeze could blow it over, but it is still a goddamn actual fucking wall. But she doesn’t even flinch, not the way I do, when she twists her torso and throws a sudden, solid right cross to the wall beside the door.

Jackson is doing a good job listening to me and keeping quiet, but even he can’t stem the whimper of surprise and worry that escapes him. I heard it, even with the several feet I’ve left between me and his box. But Could’ve Been a Model is too muchon a roll with her vociferous complaining for her ears to have caught Jackson’s reaction.

“And Silva’s leaving isn’t even the first issue this whole clusterfuck of an operation has had,” she continues. “With all the shit luck and unanticipated delays... Now, the police are swarming like the vermin they are all over the neighborhood where our supposedly safe and secure headquarters was situated. Not to mention, I have no idea what the fuck Mueller was thinking with this whole...” To my dismay, Could’ve Been a Model turns to face Jackson’s box and waves at it while saying, “I don’t know whyhewas ever part of the plan at all. That was all Mueller’s idea. ‘Keep the rich boy happy,’ he says. ‘Give him a friend to keep him calm and cooperate.’ Stupid, complicated, and unnecessary bullshit, I tell you. Just bullshit.”

I’m nothappyto have her attention swing to me, not with as angry and crazed as the look in her eyes is as she turns to me. But I am relieved that her attention has shifted off my Jackson.

“And now he has us messing around with making videos and sending follow-up emails, like we’re fucking arranging for a playdate...”

The fact that she’s in this room with us and speaking in English so I can understand everything she’s saying... If that hadn’t been enough to tell me that she wants me to dump all of her anger on me, her next words would’ve clued me in.

“Would you like to know how things would’ve been different if I’d been the one in charge of this shitshow that Mueller still somehow thinks is a kidnapping operation?” There’s nowhere else for me to go, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to merge my body with the wall behind me as Could’ve Been a Model takes several slow, deliberate steps toward me.

Looming over me, seeming larger than she actually is, she reaches out but, thankfully, her hand stops just short before touching me. Nonsensically, I can’t help but think that the touchof her skin would somehow be magically deadly, like a poisonous viper.

“First, I would’ve sent a more…physicalmessage to your parents to inform them of their mistake in not paying closer attention to our initial ransom demands. It’s easier than you may think to send an ear, or a toe, or…a what-have-you through the mail. All you have to do is package it up in some reused Amazon box and fill out that the contents contain novelty party decorations on the customs shipping form. And secondly…“ A cruel, bloodless smile stretches the lush, full lips on her incongruously perfect and stunningly attractive face. “I never would’ve allowed the inclusion of the pointless deadweight over there,” she states, obviously referring to my Jackson. And while I take exception to her description of him, it seems in my best interests to not vocalize it. “But if I’d let Mueller have his way the way he did, I most certainly would’ve eliminated that same unnecessary idiot as swiftly and expediently as possible the very instance he was no longer needed. I don’t care that you somehow convinced Mueller that a little extra money”—sure, let’s go with the idea that $2 million, or some $500,000 once split four ways, which is the amount I negotiated for Jackson’s ransom, is only a pittance—“ was worth the hassle of keeping that bit of human trash around. As far as I’m concerned, the man in that box over there should be nothing but a bit of meat feeding whatever stray dogs that stumble across his body.”

The terror I feel when I see her casually reach into a pocket and pull out a gun… It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Nothing has ever come close to it, not even the fear I’d experienced when Brazilian Guy had held a gun to my own head. Because, somehow, I know…Iknowthat gun isn’t for me. I’m still worth a hefty-ass payday, delayed as it may be, and there’s not as much chance that Could’ve Been a Model is going to risk upsetting that payoff by putting a gunshot hole or two in me.But Jackson… She’s already shown that she has no compunction about eliminating him.

I’m therefore not at all surprised when she calmly states, “But it’s not too late to rectify that situation. I can just as easily dump a random dead body in the closest refuse pile to this location as I could’ve to the last. One thing I will say for Mueller, no matter what city we set up shop in, he does know how to pick which neighborhoods are full of people who won’t give a shit, or open their traps to the cops, if they happen to see somebody dumping something of the…corpse variety.”

I don’t think I think at all as she turns her back on me and begins advancing with her drawn weapon toward Jackson’s box. I just move.

“Not a fucking chance, bitch,” I mutter as I launch myself out of my crouched position in the corner.

Any football playing experience I have is from phys ed class, well over a decade ago, at the elite private high school I attended. But fuck if I didn’t execute an impressive flat-out tackle on that fucking bitch threatening my Jackson.

Yells and grunts fill the air as I land heavily on top of her, along with a loud, cracking thwack as her head collides with the corner of Jackson’s wooden box.

“Phoenix! What’s going on? Phoenix?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t spare even a second to reassure Jackson that I’m fine. Especially as I don’t want to lie to him and I’m not entirely sure that I am fine. Not yet anyway.

I sure as hell hadn’t formulated any sort of plan, other than doing whatever it took to prevent her from shooting my Jackson. So, now that she’s down, I’m quickly scrambling to figure out what the fuck I should do now.

I’m still sprawled out on top of her and I can feel the movement of her breaths, so I know she didn’t hit her head hard enough to kill her. Luckily, though, whacking her head againstthe solid corner of the box seems to have incapacitated her. At least, for now. No telling how long that would last or just how down for the count she is. Indeed, even as I have that thought, a low, pained groan comes tumbling out of her.

Shit, fuck, damn.

It occurs to me that I should probably figure out where the hell her gun landed when I took her down. I really don’t want her getting her hands back on the fucking gun.

My eyes quickly scan the floor near where Could’ve Been a Model and I ended up and I spot the black metal of the weapon lying a foot or so past the stretch of her right arm. Should I remain on top of her to try to prevent her from getting up, or move to get my own hands on the gun?

The decision gets easier when she heaves and starts to roll beneath me. We’re much the same size and Could’ve Been a Model looks like she works out and is as physically fit as I am, so it probably wouldn’t take much effort for her to dislodge me from on top of her.

I fling my body to the right, in the direction of the gun.

Meanwhile, Jackson’s voice is continuing to call my name and beg me to tell him what’s going on. No doubt he can hear me and Could’ve Been a Model flailing and fumbling around, but this side of the box is more solid than the one with the hole he and I had looked at each other through last night and doesn’t have any good spots for him to look through to find out for himself what’s happening.

“Phoenix! Phoenix! God, what’s going on? Are you okay? Talk to me, Phoenix!”

My fingertips graze the gun’s grip when I feel strong fingers pinching and grabbing near my waist.

“Oh no, you don’t, you stupid fucking coño,” she cries. And now, she’s the one clambering on top of me.

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