Read Online The Slab by Jeffrey J. Mariotte - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeffrey J. Mariotte
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to stop them for speeding, to be transported away with a wish, her thoughts became so jumbled that she lost track of where she was. There was no telling what they wanted with her, but there was no way it would be good. Men didn’t kidnap someone just to shower her with gifts and crown her a princess. At the least, she figured she was looking at being gang-raped. At worst, she would die in some awful fashion.
There was, of course, one other possibility—they might have kidnapped her for ransom money. If that was the case, they were going to be seriously disappointed.
By the time they stopped she was parched and nauseous. Her arms, cuffed behind her, had gone numb but they had ached for a long time before that and would again, she knew, when sensation came back into them. Her back and neck felt like they were on fire, and her legs were as sore as if she had run a marathon.
She thought she’d never get the taste of the gag out of her mouth. But then, there was a good chance that she’d die with it there. Who knew what these men had in mind for her?
When the SUV’s back was opened, she had looked up from her position on the floor, wide-eyed and fearful. She knew she probably looked like a scared doe, and she hated that. At the moment it was the best she could muster.
The car had parked somewhere out in the desert near an old shack, mud-walled with a simple tarpapered roof, dark in the long shadows cast by the sun dropping behind a nearby hill. Two of the guys pulled her from the vehicle, one muscular with curly gray hair in a yellow polo shirt and khakis, the other smaller, furtive-looking, with straight brown hair and a drooping mustache that gave him a dour expression. He wore a T-shirt with a silhouette of a deer in cross hairs and a gun shop logo on it, over camouflage fatigue pants. That one said, “There you go,” as they stood her on her feet. But when they let go of her, her legs couldn’t support her weight and she collapsed into the dirt. She felt tears spring to her eyes, though she fought to hold them in.
“Come on, get her,” the curly-haired guy said. The tone in his voice, and the speed with which the mustached guy and a couple of others jumped to obey, indicated to Lucy who was in charge here. The man had spoken with the confidence that his command would be carried out swiftly and efficiently. She wondered if he had been a military man in his younger days.
She had, on the ride here, determined to remember as many details about all of them as she possibly could. If she did manage to get out of this alive, she wanted to be able to put all these men in jail.
The mustached guy held the cabin door open while two of the others held her arms and helped/dragged her inside. The curly guy that she took to be their leader, or at least their Alpha dog, had gone in first, carrying an armful of rifles. The man on her right was older than the others, with thinning black hair turning to silver on the temple that Lucy could see when she turned her head. His prescription glasses had clip-on sunglasses attached. He wore a white guayabera shirt, though he was no Mexican, and black slacks. On her left was a younger guy, muscular in an orange tank top and jeans, with long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She thought about trying to pull free from their grip, but realized that she wouldn’t be able to take two steps without falling down until her legs recovered from the cramped ride.
The cabin, once they had her inside and a couple of lanterns lit, turned out to be nicer than she’d expected. The furnishings in the main room were primitive but adequate—a couple of old couches and some thrift-store chairs arranged around a stone fireplace, all atop an ancient wooden floor. Sleeping bags were rolled neatly and stacked near one of the couches. The guns were leaned against one of the bare adobe walls, less than twenty feet from her but far out of reach. A kitchen area held no modern appliances, but there was a
There was, of course, one other possibility—they might have kidnapped her for ransom money. If that was the case, they were going to be seriously disappointed.
By the time they stopped she was parched and nauseous. Her arms, cuffed behind her, had gone numb but they had ached for a long time before that and would again, she knew, when sensation came back into them. Her back and neck felt like they were on fire, and her legs were as sore as if she had run a marathon.
She thought she’d never get the taste of the gag out of her mouth. But then, there was a good chance that she’d die with it there. Who knew what these men had in mind for her?
When the SUV’s back was opened, she had looked up from her position on the floor, wide-eyed and fearful. She knew she probably looked like a scared doe, and she hated that. At the moment it was the best she could muster.
The car had parked somewhere out in the desert near an old shack, mud-walled with a simple tarpapered roof, dark in the long shadows cast by the sun dropping behind a nearby hill. Two of the guys pulled her from the vehicle, one muscular with curly gray hair in a yellow polo shirt and khakis, the other smaller, furtive-looking, with straight brown hair and a drooping mustache that gave him a dour expression. He wore a T-shirt with a silhouette of a deer in cross hairs and a gun shop logo on it, over camouflage fatigue pants. That one said, “There you go,” as they stood her on her feet. But when they let go of her, her legs couldn’t support her weight and she collapsed into the dirt. She felt tears spring to her eyes, though she fought to hold them in.
“Come on, get her,” the curly-haired guy said. The tone in his voice, and the speed with which the mustached guy and a couple of others jumped to obey, indicated to Lucy who was in charge here. The man had spoken with the confidence that his command would be carried out swiftly and efficiently. She wondered if he had been a military man in his younger days.
She had, on the ride here, determined to remember as many details about all of them as she possibly could. If she did manage to get out of this alive, she wanted to be able to put all these men in jail.
The mustached guy held the cabin door open while two of the others held her arms and helped/dragged her inside. The curly guy that she took to be their leader, or at least their Alpha dog, had gone in first, carrying an armful of rifles. The man on her right was older than the others, with thinning black hair turning to silver on the temple that Lucy could see when she turned her head. His prescription glasses had clip-on sunglasses attached. He wore a white guayabera shirt, though he was no Mexican, and black slacks. On her left was a younger guy, muscular in an orange tank top and jeans, with long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She thought about trying to pull free from their grip, but realized that she wouldn’t be able to take two steps without falling down until her legs recovered from the cramped ride.
The cabin, once they had her inside and a couple of lanterns lit, turned out to be nicer than she’d expected. The furnishings in the main room were primitive but adequate—a couple of old couches and some thrift-store chairs arranged around a stone fireplace, all atop an ancient wooden floor. Sleeping bags were rolled neatly and stacked near one of the couches. The guns were leaned against one of the bare adobe walls, less than twenty feet from her but far out of reach. A kitchen area held no modern appliances, but there was a
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