Page 42 of Intrepid

That was where I’d found my practice subject—a man looking to meet up with a thirteen-year-old, preferably.

I’d spent the next few months studying him, the way he groomed girls on popular teen sites, posing as a fifteen-year-old kid. All the while trading graphic images of prepubescent girls getting raped and beaten on the same dark websites that’d advertised hitmen and arms dealing.

After months of observation, I’d decided to approach him online, pretending to be the teenage daughter of parents who just didn’t get me, while he’d posed as a teenage boy who did. I’d found it both amusing and sickening, the way he’d feigned care and concern, weaving fantasies of running away together, completely oblivious to how deeply into shit he’d fallen.

We’d agreed to meet at an old hotel on the East side. Outdated, without cameras, that rented rooms by the hour. It was there he’d made the terrifying discovery that the girl he’d been chatting with happened to be a healthy adult male with an appetite for justice, so I’d drugged him and brought him to an abandoned house, where I’d spent the next few hours field dressing him, the same way my uncle had taught me while hunting deer. Shoulder-length gloves over a plastic tarp made it so much cleaner, before I’d eventually burned all of it, including his body.

Not leaving so much as a single intact tooth behind.

When it was clear I’d gotten away with his murder, as well, I’d pulled my list once more and set to work.

Starting with The Pawn.

15

Jameson

Nine years ago …

I was certain morning had arrived, though it was hard to tell in the darkness.

A maddening thing: darkness. The way the skin felt more raw and vulnerable, as if the body naturally went on alert in the absence of light.

Burns scattered over my body converged into a phantom numbness, the edges of which were just painful enough to keep me from focusing too hard. If I did, I’d feel those unforgiving shocks zapping my bones, and hear the crackle as they seared my arms and legs. My knees, palms, and the tops of my feet tingled with the jolts of electricity that’d danced across them, and the vibrations under my skin proved my body wouldn’t soon forget the sharp needling waves of agony. Every dry swallow scraped down my throat, until I could no longer produce enough saliva. The hollow ache of hunger sat low in my stomach, tamped down by the fear of the unknown—the uncertainty that we’d walk out of the place alive.

I imagined my father coming to pick me up at Jo’s after a long and stressful shift, only to find her pacing in a panicked mess. There’d be police, neighbors peering out of their windows at the commotion, Jo and my dad would wrack their brains trying to remember what we were wearing earlier that day—the small details that seemed so insignificant, but meant everything. They’d unquestionably assume we’d gotten hurt while exploring, or fell asleep somewhere. I doubt either one of them could conceive that something much more sinister had been in play.

My father likely wouldn’t sleep through the night. He’d be tired and rundown from working third shift, but he’d stay up, tormented over the possibilities. Beating himself up for leaving me there and being a shitty father.

That bothered me most, because my dad didn’t deserve those thoughts. He didn’t deserve to blame himself for what he’d had no control over.

What I’d essentially had no control over.

I tried not to think about the many times I’d warned Eli, practically begged him to leave and walk away. It’d only piss me off, and I couldn’t afford to be pissed off at my friend. We had to stick together. I had no idea what the day would bring, what sadistic play the three had planned.

From somewhere in the darkness, Eli’s quiet whimper carried across the room. For whatever reason, they’d focused on him more than me. A few times, his mouth brought on the punishment, but even after he’d gone compliant, they continued to mess with him. At one point, they’d moved him from his closet to somewhere else in the house, and all I could hear were the muffled screams through the thin walls.

Eli had refused to talk to me, when they’d finally brought him back, but I could hear his whispers between sobs. A plea in the dark.

I twisted awkwardly toward the sound of his sobbing, peering into complete blackness. “Eli,” I whispered, pushing past the dry choke in my throat. “Just … hold on, okay? We’re going home, I promise.”

He sniffled and sobbed some more.

“Whatever they did to you … they’ll pay. All of them.”

“My father’s coming for me.”

His response sank like a brick to the pit of my gut. Panic could be a frightening disease, the way it infected the body, paralyzing it, until it finally reached the brain and delusion set in. Though I knew he’d reached that point, a part of me wanted to surrender to the hope that he was right. That my father would find the assholes and make them pay in horrific ways.

I knew better. Escaping would be up to us, and the men who captured us had, no doubt, learned by trial and error, to ensure there was no escape. We’d have to keep our wits about us, and I could sense Eli’s was slipping by the minute.

“I wrote a letter. My dad is going to send someone for us. I told him where I hid my secret. I know why we’re here. It’s my secret.”

Jesus. He’d finally lost it.

“What secret, Eli?” I half-heartedly entertained his ramblings, only because, even if it was crazy, it kept me connected to him.

“A secret. A secret I have. It’s in that rusted car at the Packard. Glove compartment.” His burst of laughter was unfitting, painfully so, as he gagged and sniveled. “Those fuckers won’t know what hit them!” Laughter turned to choking, and with each second that passed, I listened to the snapping of threads that held the two of us together. “My dad is the greatest criminal that ever lived. He has connections. He’ll come for us.”