It didn’t work. Carson had always been able to keep track of which way he was pointed, even as a kid. Not only had it come in handy exploring the woods and rocky hills of northwestern Pennsylvania in his youth, it made him the navigator of his squad, even before he’d been in charge of it. Driving in circles in the darkness was a smart move on their part. Not knowing his exact location meant he might not be able to find an escape route if he decided to cut and run, making him even more dependent on Chops and his team.
He played the game, looking out the window and squinting as if trying to figure something out, all the while keeping track of the rough distances and times between turns. He’d brought a paper map of the state in his bag, and he planned to put it to good use once he was alone.
Finally, they turned off of a paved road onto what appeared to be a long, narrow dirt driveway. As soon as they were on it, they killed their headlights, but Carson could tell it wasn’t well-graded. Neither car could exceed 10 miles an hour, and even at that speed they had to slalom around the worst of the holes.
After about a half-mile, it opened to a small clearing that contained little more than a shack. Tiny slits of light shown through the windows, which were either shaded or painted over. Another car was already there, so his driver made a tight U-turn to face back down the driveway before turning the engine off and getting out. Carson followed suit. Upon nearing the house, he saw Chops and Peetey standing outside the door.
“This is all you now, Navy,” Chops told him. “This should be the easiest thing we’ve given you. There’s bottles of water, some canned chow, a chemical toilet, and a TV with a couple DVDs. Keep the package covered and quiet. Don’t talk to the package. Don’t answer the package. Just sit there and keep a lookout. We’re leaving a car here if things get hot. If you do need to bolt, remember the package goes in the trunk. When you get clear, contact me.” He pointed off to the side of the house to what might have been a clearing in the trees. “See that opening? That’s a backup escape dirt road that will get you out to another real road. Any questions?”
“When can I expect to hear from you?”
“Not sure, but that package is very valuable, so we will touch base as soon as possible. Your car will be kept at a discreet location, and you’ll get it back when it’s all done.”
“All right.”
Chops clapped him on the back. “OK, you’re on.” He rapped on the door, and a man that Carson didn’t recognize stepped out. “Let’s go.” All five piled into the other two cars, and in a few seconds the red glow of the taillights and the rough sound of tires on dirt and gravel were both gone, leaving him standing there not really knowing what to do next. He entered the shack quietly, making sure to keep the door from slamming shut.
The house suffered from years of neglect. He found himself in what looked like a living room, with bare wood floors, plaster walls, and low ceilings. A small television, a crappy lawn chair next to a rickety table, and a large cardboard box full of food and water were the only décor. The area opposite the entrance had probably served as the kitchen years ago, as there was a sink and faucet as well as empty spaces where a refrigerator (probably an ice box) and an oven had once stood. There were two doors on the wall to the right; the close one was open and showed a very grungy bathroom. The far one was closed, and through it he could hear the faint scuffling and grunts from the hostage.
The hostage. Your hostage. Jesus. What kind of man have you turned into, Carson?
Carson knew he had to take a look. The only thing worse, in his mind, then what he was doing was to let his charge – that term sounded way better than ‘hostage’ – come to any harm, and that meant keeping an eye on things in there. He put his bag down and, walking as quietly as he could, pushed the door open.
He saw a figure wearing a black, form-fitting hood that covered his entire head and face except for the mouth, through which a knotted kerchief passed. He was bound to a fairly sturdy straight-back chair and was wearing a light green t-shirt, jeans, and tennis sneakers. Ropes encircled his upper torso, waist, and upper thighs, and Carson noticed how slight of a build he had. So slight, in fact, it confused him. He knew his own arms and legs were bigger than the average man, but the person tied to the chair looked underdeveloped, almost...
Carson stepped closer to get a slightly better look, but the worn floor creaked under his weight. The man’s head shot up, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. Carson froze, still unsure why stealth was so important to him, and then heard a muffled cry of rage and fear from his hostage. The yell did not surprise him at all, but the noise – which was clearly female – did. At the same second, he saw a pair of breasts through the t-shirt.
He’d never considered it would be a woman, not that it really mattered. A person was a person. It’s just that he’d been thinking along the lines of someone
