Collateral Damage

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my 'handler', Kristina Whitehall, who dealt with me during the highs and lows of the journey, making sure I never went too far off track. Sometimes, to reach the finish line, it takes that one person who, when you ask, "Am I insane?", says,

"A bit. But that's what makes you so good!"

Henceforth, I shall embrace the insanity!

Also, to my SO. Thank you for letting me read to you and all the times you said, "That's messed up! But it works!" You were right. XOXO

Blurb

Stolen from a bright life full of colors, happiness, and youth, Nicole Reed is dragged into a pit of pain and depravity where all she can hope for is a quick end. But her captors don't want to kill her. They want to use her to teach a little boy whom they plan to mold in their image.

She must free him before that happens. Only she can't stand against those who hold him, not alone. Her only hope is Vince, one of her tormentors, who may still show a glimmer of humanity.

Or maybe that's just a trick of the light.

Collateral damage: Injury inflicted on something other than the intended target.

Chapter One

"The worm gave the bird his secrets and soon flew again, spiraling down, down, down. The bird laid him gently in the mud, pretty eyes wide as she caught sight of bushes of berries, scattered seeds, and more worms than she could ever eat."

Baby faces inched closer, and tiny bodies hung on the edges of miniature seats, all eager for the next part, even though they'd heard the story before.

I softened my tone to do the voice of the bird. "'Thank you, little worm. You may go free.' And wiggling away on his plump, pink belly, mud-caked, smiling in rain-slicked glee, the worm once again had not a care."

Scattered claps filled the room as I closed the book. Spotting their mommies and daddies gathered outside the glass-walled room, half the kids raced to their cubbyholes to fetch their galoshes and ponchos. Those that remained loitered by the toys, either knowing their parents wouldn't come until later or not feeling all that excited about leaving.

I made no judgments. Seriously, seeing how exhausted some people were when they came to the Precious Ducklings Daycare to pick up their little ones . . . well, I counted myself lucky. I loved my job, and I loved the children. For me, every day was laughter and crayon-scribbled sunshine. A sniffle here and there, the odd tantrum, but nothing I couldn't handle. I gave what the tired parents couldn't. Nothing wrong with that.

Reaching over, I replaced the book on one of the rainbow colored shelves, among all the other tired-looking favorites at toddler eye level. The top shelves housed the shiny new books, with glossy covers and big, gold stickers proclaiming them bestsellers, recommended by this or that expert. I used those when I taught language, art, and math, but textbooks couldn't teach the little ones to love reading. For that, the teachers all supplied their own childhood favorites, and each had a color-coded label that matched our Precious Duckling smocks. My pastel green was chosen more often than not. Missy Marlo, the daycare coordinator, said it was because I did all the voices just right. Could be, but could also be that approaching each story like I was reading it for the first time—even if it was the tenth, or the hundredth—made all the difference.

Feeling a little tug on my sleeve, I glanced over at a chubby-cheeked, freckled face wreathed in bright, red curls. She looked a lot like me—twenty-five years ago. Her mother and I were second cousins on my father's side.

"Yes, Gloria?" I settled down, cross-legged, and smoothed my long, white, floral print skirt over my knees as she plunked onto the happy-face carpet we used for story time.

Her tiny nose wrinkled as she pointed at the bookshelf. "I don't like that story."

"
The Worm's Hand
?" I took the book back out and showed it to her. She nodded.

"But you ask me to read this every time it rains. Is there a reason you don't like it anymore?"

"Yes." She frowned at the book cover. "The worm is nasty, Miss Reed. He lets the birdie eat all his worm friends so he can get away."

Clever little thing
. The other kids focused on the beautiful illustrations and the worm finding a way to escape the bird. She'd deciphered a deeper meaning.

I was curious. "What should the worm have done instead?"

She didn't even hesitate. "Let the bird eat
him
."

"But the bird might have eaten his friends anyway."

"Nope." She grinned as though she'd already considered that. "Her tummy would be full."

"Hmm, very true. Well, how about the next time I read the story, I change the ending so he's a noble worm? Would you like that?" I smiled when she nodded vigorously. "Okay, next time it rains."

"Gloria!" Her mother called from across the room, sounding fed up of calling even though I'd only heard her once. "Let's go!"

Gloria didn't seem bothered by her mother's tone, so I didn't let it bother me either. The woman worked in a nursing home; her internal volume was probably a little skewed.

"I hope it rains tomorrow!" Gloria said before she skipped off to retrieve her things.

My shift over, I headed for the teacher's lounge, stopping several times to update a few parents on their child's progress: "Timmy's tying his own shoes now!" and "No, Bobby didn't have an accident today." The usual stuff.

In the lounge, I slipped out of my plain, white, canvas flats and took my favorite shoes—cute, open-toed, silver kitten heels I'd spent two paychecks on—from the shoe rack in the closet. Then I pulled on my long, beige, spring jacket and grabbed my leather clutch.

Amanda, the daycare's cook and my monthly clubbing buddy, met me by the front door on my way out. "Mind giving me a lift?"

"Sure." I waited for her to zip her Carolina Hurricanes sports jacket and pulled my hood over my head. The rain sloshed over the huge windows and glass doors, making the daycare look like it was under a waterfall. Cold water sprinkled in when I opened the door. Outside, parents dashed across the manicured lawns with their shrieking offspring, admonishing them to avoid the puddles.

At least they wore rubber boots. I gave the rain a few moments to lighten up while I considered swapping my shoes again. Before I'd made up my mind, Amanda towed me out. Then she threw her head back and let the raindrops splatter on her face.

"Ah!"

The rim of my hood brushed my cheek as I watched her. Much as I enjoyed a spring shower, my enthusiasm didn't match hers. Partly because the water squishing in my sandals was uncomfortable, and partly because I hadn't spent all day over a hot stove sterilizing baby bottles.

We made our way to my car, always parked four blocks from the daycare, right next to the gym. I'd inherited my mother's obsession with weight, but not her distaste for fattening food. An hour a day at the gym, and I could indulge a little.

"Oh, God, if it was just a bit later and no one was around, I'd strip and dance naked." Amanda smoothed her soaked, brown curls off her forehead. "Finally! The weekend!"

"Uh huh." I grinned, anticipating her next words. "Watermelon martinis, here
we
come!"

"This weekend? You'll come with me tonight? Really?" Amanda squealed at my nod. "She's ditched the schedule! Hallelujah!"

My decision was actually a knee-jerk reaction to a recent lecture from my mother about "finding the
right
man"—in other words, I'd go out of my way to take home a man she'd hate. But let Amanda believe what she wanted. Nicole Reed was being spontaneous.
Ra ra ra
.

"Feel like going to the gym first?"
Where I have dry clothes and sneakers.

"Feel like joining me for a threesome?"

That's a no.

"Do I seem like—?" A splash cut me off. A little boy jetted across the sidewalk and into the street. My heart sputtered as I made a grab for him. And missed. "Careful!"

Cars swerved, tires screeched, horns wailed as drivers leaned on them. I couldn't see the boy.

"Do you think . . . ?"

Amanda's fingers dug into my arms as she and I scanned the maze of cars. She jabbed her fingers towards the other side of the street. "There!"

We both ran, weaving around traffic that crawled back into two lanes. The honking kicked up again, but we ignored it. The boy--no more than four or five--must have been scared and lost. If we didn't reach him in time . . . .

He bolted into a narrow alley between a music store closed for repairs after a fire and a pawn shop with a charred, brick wall. The tang of melted plastic and smoke still tainted the air. We followed him, catching up as he tripped over debris. Steps ahead of us, he crumpled to his knees and sobbed. His wet, gray T-shirt clung to the bones of his spine and ribs like dirty, wrinkled flesh. He looked starved and cold. Poor thing.

"Hey." I shrugged out of my jacket, and then crouched and covered him with it.

"Sweetie, you'll be all right. We won't hurt you."

"I know." His whole body trembled as he looked up at me. Bloodshot, blue-gray eyes glistened between long wet lashes. Tears streaked the soot on his cheeks. "I'm sorry."

Something sharp pricked my throat. My eyes crossed as I focused on the huge knife in the little boy's hand. I didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Didn't move.

Then Amanda screamed. "Nicole! Ni—"

Liquid gargling. My gaze snapped toward her. Her lips gaped open, and blood spilled over them. Three hands hovered over her stomach—one holding a machete, all three shiny, coated in . . . .

My eye met Amanda’s for a second before she crumpled to the ground. The man who'd sliced her came at me. He blocked the mouth of the alley—a massive, black door shutting away the street. Rain rivulets flowed in the creviced, coal face, scarred like he shaved with that wicked blade. His plump lips stretched into a sinister smile.

"Not planning to run, are you?"

Run! Yes, run!

My gaze flicked to the trembling boy still holding a knife to my throat. Then to Amanda. Past the man's boots, I saw her hand. Her fingers twitched.

She was still alive.