The Taken (35 page)

Which Grif would be doing if he tried to stop her. Sighing, he tilted his head up. The plasma was thickening, and now swirled like fetid clouds above the trailer. “Come on.”

Bridget followed close as they moved from machine to ladder, up and then over. Then they reversed, slipping down onto the trailer, and he was pleased when Bridget landed with no more sound than a cat burglar. She pointed to the entry hatch just in front of their toes.

Testing, Grif found it swung open silently, though he was still careful to lift it degree by degree. His power from Anne lingered, because even though no light filtered in or out, a steel catwalk popped below him like tiles in a Scrabble game. He entered, paused to be sure he hadn’t been seen, then helped Bridget inside, only taking a breath again when she’d closed the hatch behind her. Crouching and silent, they looked around.

There was only one other figure up on the catwalk, and he was hunched opposite them, turned away, thick cables crowding the space in between. Fiddling with equipment, and intermittently putting his hand to his ear, he was clearly engrossed in whatever was being said over a wireless headset.

“Cameraman.” Bridget pointed, and Grif saw she was right. The man had a shoulder cam, another propped on a tripod, while a third could be seen on the adjacent pathways. Yet it was the headset that bothered him most. One low word into that baby and everyone would know they were there.

Grif turned his attention to the room below, spotlit in pastel hues to appear oddly serene, like twilight emerging on a cool summer’s eve.

But this was no day at the beach. Dozens of men flared around the makeshift room in spokes and cushioned chairs, each with a side table holding refreshments and a simple electronic paddle. The floor was carpeted in black, the walls draped in white sheers.

But the room’s center was the real focal point. There, a platform stage sat draped in red silk, a four-poster bed centered atop, dripping with crystals and gold tassels. So there were lights, there were cameras . . . and there was the promise of action.

Plasma undulated over the sheer, silken walls.

“There he is.”

Following Bridget’s hard stare, Grif found Chambers at the back of the room. His chair was identical to the others, but he’d elevated himself, like he was a statue or god. His shirt appeared blindingly white in the pastel spotlights, though that was because everyone else was in black. It made him look like nothing could touch him, and that alone made Grif want to punch him square.

Chambers leaned back in the plush chair, a gleam sparking in a gaze worn by spoiled four-year-olds and homicidal killers alike. He lifted a microphone, and smiled. “Before we commence the final bidding, I’d like to take a moment to welcome our first-timers. That’s each of you seated in the front row. I think you’ll agree, it’s an exclusive club that you now find yourselves in, so don’t be surprised to find your social network outside of this room greatly expanded. We, men of taste, men of the
same
taste,” he clarified, “help each other. One final word of advice . . . make sure your electronic paddles are at the ready. Bidding tends to get . . . frenzied.”

He laughed, and Bridget growled beside Grif, but the sound was drowned out by a loud buzzing. The cameraman whirled in their direction and for a moment Grif thought they were spotted. Bridget did, too; her tense limbs began to shake, but Grif put a hand on her arm, and could tell the moment she saw it. The camera wasn’t pointed at them but between them, at a space in the rafters occupied only by a giant ventilation grille.

“Not a grille,” he whispered harshly, his mouth gone dry.

“A cage,” Bridget finished, and the cameraman punched a control panel at his side. Every gaze below lifted, fastening upon the black metal frame, though the interior was velvet-lined from top to bottom, its contents entirely obscured. It lowered slowly, no doubt to build anticipation, until it was suspended above the bed’s center, and hovered there like a question. The plasma began to crawl across the floor . . . though that’s not why Grif jumped. Something moved inside the cage. “Is that . . . ?”

“A woman,” Bridget said tightly as the cameraman moved again, and the black velvet curtain fell away.

But Charlotte couldn’t truly be called a woman, Grif thought, swallowing hard. Not by a long shot. Just as what she wore certainly couldn’t be called clothing. But the silken restraints were meant to approximate both, snaking along her limbs to wrap up and around her torso, ending in a knot at her neck. One tiny nipple peeked from between the bindings, a pink petal flare against all the black and white, while one thigh lay exposed, revealing the full of her smooth bottom. Grif wanted desperately to take off his jacket and cover the child up.

But worse than the bindings, worse than the overt objectification, was the look in her eyes. As the cage slowly rotated, giving every man in the room a full and measured look, her stare was as blank as a doll’s . . . and, of course, that’s exactly what she was to them. A plaything to be toyed with, used, and discarded when they were done.

Charlotte’s non-gaze remained locked above the heads of the gathered men, her body motionless even as her cage rocked. Crossing his feet at the ankles, Chambers lifted the microphone again. “Let the bidding begin.”

Electronic paddles lit up all around the room.

“Jesus, Bridget . . .”

But she was gone. Grif had been so focused on Charlotte, he hadn’t seen Bridget closing in on the cameraman and the control panel at his side.

Grif spotted the clouds forming even before she lunged. With a maddened cry, she didn’t just bring the cage to a halt, she reversed its course. Jerking it back up and flashing a blade Grif didn’t even know she carried, she gutted the man who had lowered it.

A gust of air rushed Grif, and from the corner of his eye, he spotted wings in the rafters. “Shit.”

A Centurion. Glancing back at Chambers’s confounded face, hearing the disgruntled murmurs from the men as Charlotte’s cage continued to rise, he knew that more were coming.

Chambers was now yelling from behind his palm, causing the headset in the dead man’s ear to go crazy with commands.
Get it fixed. Do it now
. But the cameraman was prone and twitching, and Bridget had eased back into the shadows. Grif didn’t dare move, but pretty soon there’d be nowhere to hide.

Then Chambers surprised him. Instead of continuing to rant, he dropped from his small dais and crossed the expansive room until he was centered next to the bed. Though he cast a quick, irritated glance directly up, he replaced the frown with a wide smile, and leaned against one spearing bedpost. “We seem to be having slight technical difficulties, but at least your appetites are whetted. That’s good. I was going to save this next surprise for after the bidding, a little something to make this night extra-memorable, but I see no reason to wait now. We have a very . . . special show tonight.”

The microphone tilted in Chambers’s hand, like an old crooner entertaining a rapt, admiring audience. And those gathered
were
rapt. “Now, you’ll have to excuse our next prize for any unseemly behavior. She’s never been this route before, but I have full confidence that she’ll take to it quite easily.”

Grif found himself leaning over the rail without even knowing how he got there.

“You should brace yourself for some rough play. She will resist, and she will also be restrained, and hopefully she will cry out. Let me assure you that no matter what it looks like, she is a volunteer. She wants this. She needs it. And do you know why?”

Chambers ceased pacing, and scanned the faces there like they were gathered in a boardroom. “Because that, my brothers, is her raison d’être. Her role is to act as victim to your conqueror. She is like a lion in the Coliseum, and being put down is her purpose.”

Then he nodded to the corner where the white panels parted to reveal five men, shirtless and hooded, very much resembling the gladiators that Chambers had likened them to. Entering the room, they stood equidistance apart, hands folded in front of them.

“Each of you has been preselected for this sport. You’ve all shown yourselves as trustworthy in the past, so this is my gift to you. Feel free to jockey for position. A little friendly competition always puts grit in your blood, and grants you the respect of your brothers who’ve chosen to watch. Perform well for them, but remember, the five of you are ultimately a team.” He gestured again toward the door. “Now, shall we bring out the prize?”

And the door, Grif thought, was proof that more rooms lurked behind this one. Bridget was already working on freeing Charlotte, and she knew the way out. Meanwhile, the men below would be occupied while he searched for Kit. Yet the plasma plummeted to the floor as the door swung wide, and though he already had one hand on the rungs leading out, Grif had to glance down.

Schmidt. First seen by Grif on a gas station’s security monitor, last seen fleeing Tony’s, there was now a bandage on his face where Anne’s bullet had grazed his cheek.

Detective Hitchens entered next, and Grif huffed, surprised but not. He’d sensed darkness in the man at the stables, and would lay odds that he was the one who’d killed Paul.

Yet pulled along after them, wearing little more than mascara smeared beneath tear-filled eyes, was the woman that
Grif
had placed in danger again and again.

And now again.

Pow, Kit . . . right to the moon!

And she might as well have been on the moon. Another flurried rush of wings sounded in the rafters, and Grif knew Courtney was in. Sarge was right. No matter how hard Grif had tried, nothing had changed at all.

Grif’s heart took up an ear-splitting thump, and his insides grew icy, same as when he’d landed on the Surface. Where were the decent men on this godforsaken mudflat? Where were the police, the Guardians . . .

He looked back at Kit and cursed.

Where was God?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

B
lindfolded again—and bleeding from the mouth where Hitchens had struck her—Kit was surprisingly coherent. It was as if the blow had brought everything into focus, and not just her vision but all of her senses. She felt the floor beneath her as she walked, different on the heel than the toe, just as the ache in her jaw from Hitchens’s fist was different than the swelling in her lip, or the looseness of her tooth.

Though so much for no bruises.

Kit also knew the instant she and Hitchens were joined by Schmidt, and, of course, it would be him. Hitchens was just muscle and meanness, but Schmidt had intelligence and ambition, and was doubly dangerous because ruthlessness was attached to both.

“I should have raped you first,” Schmidt hissed in her ear, arms sliding hard and rough along her exposed flesh. She remained silent, but couldn’t help the shudder that passed through her already stiff limbs or the way her heart hammered beneath his crawling fingertips. But she’d felt this fear before, hadn’t she? And Grif had been there then. So it was possible, if she held out hope . . .

“No one to save you now, is there?” Schmidt said, reading her mind, and because of that—or just because he could—he yanked her head back by her hair and thrust his tongue in her mouth. Kit gagged and tried to pull away, a futile movement which only elicited an unexpectedly high giggle. Then he wiped her swollen mouth with the back of his calloused hand, did the same with the tears tracking her cheeks, all while chiding Hitchens about marks, imperfections, and waiting until the time was right.

Then the blindfold was ripped away and Kit was shoved into another room that was alive with heat, pregnant with murmurs, and far scarier than the lonely cell she’d tried to escape.

Blinking and squinting, she tried to make sense of what she saw. Then she wished she’d run faster.

Kit gasped, and futilely tried to cover herself while her mind whirled. Who were all these men? And they were here for . . . what? The girl? She caught sight of a bed, white and centered on a sea of red silk, its four posters jutting into the air like spears, while lights and cameras angled down from the rafters above. Kit’s vision swam, but her hyperfocus remained, and she saw everything clearly.

It was there, in the way the men were eyeing her, in their suits and ties, with champagne bottles and cigars at their sides. It seemed impossible that anyone should wear such a dead expression, but they all did . . . right up until the moment someone to the left of her moved. Then those faces came alive.

Kit whirled to find five bare-chested men staring at her from beneath burlap hoods, each pair of eyes pinned on her with the same coldness as Hitchens and Schmidt and all the others who just sat there, watching.

Backing away, she eased from Schmidt’s side, and this time his high giggle scraped along her spine like barbed wire. The room was otherwise stifling in its silence, and she fought back the scream clawing at her throat. They’d all like that.

“Before we start, we must go over the ground rules.” It was Chambers’s voice, but she had no idea where he was. Kit jerked her head, left to right, looking instead for a way out. “Wait—” she croaked.

“First rule?” Chambers continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “There are no rules.”

“Wait!” Louder now, but still not her voice. Why couldn’t she make herself heard?

“Have fun, boys.”

And a buzzer sounded, like a bell ringing for a fight. Schmidt laughed again, but he and Hitchens remained flanking the door while the five hooded men each took a step in her direction. Kit tried to think, to open her mouth and say more, but her mind was tangled, her tongue useless, and her inflamed coherence had turned on her. She felt and saw so much that her entire body had gone numb.

The men spread out to make a net, driving her toward its middle. Kit couldn’t help backing up toward the bed, even though she instinctively knew that’s where they wanted her. That’s where they’d attack.

In one last effort to make eye contact with someone, she finally found Chambers. He was sprawled at the back of the room, and almost looked bored, except his eyes were overbright, and seeing that, she finally knew the truth: No one was going to help her.

Pack mentality had set in, and like Chambers, these men no longer saw her. Stripped of the rockabilly clothing that defined her, and the words that gave her a power equal to physical force, Kit had nothing. She wasn’t a person to them, she was an object. And objects were there to be used.

Heart skidding, Kit considered running, cutting a path directly through the throng of heartless men. Surely no one would expect that. Yet she’d only taken two steps toward the aisle before one of the hooded men cut off the angle, again forcing her back.

Another attacker immediately feigned a lunge, and a few in the crowd applauded. Yet it was the lack of reaction that had the whimper rising in her throat. They’d all been here before, she realized. They’d done this to other women and gotten away with it.

And in a way, Kit thought, wiping at her face, I’ve been here before, too. Though it’d only been two men attacking her then. Not five.

And even one was too much. The tears welled and fell freely. “Please . . .”

But a backhand sent her sprawling to her knees. The force and anger of it seemed to surprise everyone . . . though it was the kick to her stomach that really brought the spectators to life.

“Do it again!”

And he would have if he wasn’t shoved out of the way by a second, bigger, hooded man. Kit nearly thanked him out of reflex, but then his hand was around her throat and the crowd was suddenly cheering.

Spots danced before Kit’s eyes as she clawed at his grip, and she barely registered the pain when her calves struck the platform. Her head bounced off one of the bedposts, but her attacker’s grip loosened when a third man—or maybe it was the first—rammed him from the side.

Maybe they’d take out each other, Kit hoped. But her next breath carried the next moment, and all of Kit’s remaining hope died with it. This man’s hands were shaking, hesitant on her skin, though he still managed to use a gold tassel to bind her wrist to the bed. More strong hands jerked at her other arm, and as she stared at the bedposts, for the first time ever, she wished away the rest of her life. “Oh, God . . .”

Stars danced in her skull as she was slapped again. Then again. A roar rose from the crowd like a single voice, then another sole male cry raged above them all.

Oh, God.

He came directly for her, a faceless body rocking with aggression and purpose and, even through her unsteady vision, she saw the raw hatred. Why would someone hate her so much? Not that it mattered anymore, because this was the one. His fist was already cocked, and his eyes beneath the hood locked on her like missiles as he plowed down two other men on the way to her.

The crowd roared. The man did, too.

Kit closed her eyes and prayed it would be over fast. Then her left arm went slack and she screamed anyway.

Opening her eyes told her nothing. Three men were down, not moving. And what was that rocking just above her? An open cage?

More screaming—was it her?
No
. It was Chambers, and Kit glanced over to see his face somehow looming and huge, though he remained at the back of the room. It was a microphone in his hand, she realized. That’s what the noise was, and as another hooded man dropped, he screamed what Kit herself was wondering: What the hell was going on?

The last hooded man, the one who’d felled them all, turned to Kit. Fumbling at her wrist tie, she succeeded only in dragging herself lower, and she screamed as he lunged, but suddenly they were both flipped over the side, hunched and out of Chambers’s view.

The amplified voice chased them over the edge. “Stop him!”

The man yanked off his hood.

And language flooded Kit again. “Grif? Grif! Oh, God! Get me out!”

His fingers worked against her restraint.

“Hey!” Hitchens’s voice rounded the bed before he did. “Hey, buddy! You weren’t supposed to injure the other—”

Grif spun just as Hitchens reached for his gun, and the blow had the weapon skittering across the floor. Rubbing her wrists, Kit raised her head. All eyes were back on her, but this time it wasn’t five against one. This time it was her against dozens.

“I’ll take those odds,” she said, and freed, fueled by the sound of her own voice, she lunged for the gun.

Men scattered like roaches as she swung the gun around the room, but Kit didn’t care. There was blood in her mouth and an ache in her ribs and every man fleeing had watched as she received both. Firing, she became one of them . . . but not quite. She chose her shots, aimed high. And searched for Chambers in the surging crowd.

She spotted him rushing a ladder that’d been obscured behind sheers, but then gunfire from Grif’s direction had Kit diving back behind the bed. “Grif!” She had to fight to hear her scream over the blood pounding in her ears.

“Stand up, Ms. Craig,” boomed one sure, singular voice throughout the now-empty room. “Stand up, unless you want him to die.”

“No, Kit! Don’t—” Grif’s voice cut off abruptly, a pained grunt curling at the end.

Kit stood. New chills broke out over her spine as she spotted Schmidt’s fully extended arm, and the gun grazing Grif’s temple.

“Do you know what you just did?” Schmidt’s words were as sharp and even as teeth.

“Stopped you all from hurting women.”

“You’ve stopped no one!” he roared, and he shook so hard she thought he’d fire for sure. But somehow he swallowed all of that hate and anger down.

Where did it go? Kit wondered. Where did a man put all of that inside of him?

“You can’t beat me, Craig. I
am
the police. And here’s what I’m going to say in my report. I found you here on an anonymous tip from a tourist—strange activity—and when I entered, you fired. Thank you for already providing the bullets.”

“No. I—”

Schmidt raised his voice. “So I was forced to return fire. And now Griffin Shaw, a man with no records on file—very interesting, by the way—is dead. After using you as a human shield, of course.”

“You’re delusional. No one will believe that,” Kit said, jerking her head at the mess around them. “And Chambers will turn on you.”

But Chambers was already gone, and Schmidt’s too-high laughter rattled through the empty room. “I’ll kill him, too.”

“So you’re just going to kill everyone? Destroy the entire world on your way to . . . what?” She shook her head. “What are you after?”

“Only that,” Grif said, sounding calmer, saner, than anyone had the right to with a gun pointed at his head. He cut his eyes sideways, as if tracking something that swirled and slid along the floor. “That’s what those destined for the eternal forest do. They destroy. And in doing so, they teach the Third exactly how to treat them.”

Kit frowned.

Schmidt cursed. “Jesus, Hitchens was right. You two really are weirdoes.” He looked back at Kit. “Now drop your gun, and kick it away.”

“No,” Grif said, before her fingers could loosen. “This is a forty-five and he already fired five shots. He’s only got one left.”

“One will do,” Schmidt snarled.

“Shoot him after I’m dead,” Grif told Kit evenly.

Kit saw Schmidt’s eyes narrow, still hard but less sure. “How noble. Letting the lady make the choice.”

“You can do it,” Grif said, ignoring Schmidt.

But Kit wasn’t sure she could. And how many bullets did she have?

And how could she live if Grif died because of her?

She looked at him, eyes pleading for him to understand, then took a step forward. “Kit,” Grif growled.

“Grif,” Kit growled back, inching toward him.

Schmidt laughed, his swagger back. “She doesn’t have it in her.”

Angling toward Grif’s other side, Kit raised her arms, sighting Schmidt’s head. “Drop when I say so, Grif.”

Both men’s eyes flared wide, but it was Schmidt’s voice that lowered. “I will chase you down.”

“You can’t chase everyone. Besides . . . I might not miss.”

That did it. Schmidt redirected his aim. Kit found her trigger, too, but he was right, it was too late. She knew it even as she fired, and she jolted backward before the bullet struck, anticipating the hit. She smelled smoke, tasted tin on her tongue, and saw a flash, burning hot, then black, before her vision returned.

Schmidt was still there, yet he’d fallen and was now staring at her through the clearing smoke . . . or at something he found equally horrifying. He should have been looking down because a red pool grew beneath his chest as his limbs went slack. Kit’s breath left her in a jagged exhale as she stared, but she couldn’t hear it through the ringing in her ears.

“Grif!” She couldn’t hear that, either, or his answer.

But she saw him. He was right
there,
somehow felled by the bullet meant for her, close enough to touch, yet like Schmidt, already drifting away.

The gun clattered to the floor as she dropped to her knees. “No!”