Up in Smoke (King #8)

“Griff,” Smoke replies, gruffly.

Smoke. My kidnapper’s name is Smoke. And Griff? Where have I heard that name before?

“The bitch talking, yet?”

“Not yet,” Smoke says, cocking the gun. He pushes the barrel harder into my skin until I’m pressing my head against the back of the chair as far as it will go. “I’m working on it.”

It’s not far enough.

“Send the pictures,” Griff demands, sounding as if he’s talking through a stuffy nose.

Smoke holds up the phone and snaps a few pictures of me with the gun to my head. He taps out a few keys then returns the phone to speaker. “Sent.”

“I’ll make sure they get sent to anyone who’s ever had contact with Frank Helburn. One way or another he’ll get them and more importantly he’ll get the message. Show your face or the bitch dies.” Griff says, sounding pleased with himself.

He can be pleased with himself all he wants. It’s not going to work.

“You’ve got your picture. Flush the fucker out,” Smoke says.

“We’ll wait a week. If it doesn’t work we’ll throw her off the Skyway Bridge and come up with another plan,” Griff says. “Better yet. Hang onto her for a week. Take out your pound of flesh as you see fit then bring the girl to me.”

“I can end things just fine on my own.”

“You owe me, Smoke. If he shows his face he’s yours. If he doesn’t, you have one week. Then the girl is mine.”

Smoke grunts in agreement then hangs up. The gun leaves my head. He throws the phone into the drywall where it makes a pizza-sized hole.

I exhale the longest held breath in history and drop my chin to my chest. I’m shivering from both fear and adrenaline.

I’m still trying to catch my breath when something soft connects with my head. Another something falls on top of my bare feet. I’m surprised to find it’s a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

“Put those on,” Smoke orders, shoving things into his duffle bag.

When I don’t move right away, he gives my body a slow once-over. For a second, I think I see heat in his eyes, and my entire body tenses, remembering my earlier fear.

“You have two fucking seconds to put those on before I take them away and you spend the next week naked.”

I scramble as fast as I can to pull the jeans over my legs and the shirt over my head. The fabric of both is soft and stretchy, but still feels like sandpaper against my bruises and scabs. Regardless, I’m grateful to be covered again.

One week.

Just like that, my death sentence has been temporarily extended. I have seven days to figure out a plan. To escape. Whether I do it through bribery or by figuring out which god is the right one to pray to. Lucky for me, I still have a few tricks up my sleeve, and I’ll use every single one of them if I have to.

I’m fully dressed, but I’m unsure of what to do next. Smoke comes over and pushes me back down into the chair and pulls my arm down, cuffing my wrist to one of the legs.

“I see that look in your eyes,” he says. “It’s best you put an end to that shit right now.”

“What look is that?” I ask.

“Hope. It ain’t gonna do you no fucking good. Not with me. It’s best you stick to fear. Hope may feel like the beginning, but it will gut you in the end.” His lips brush my ear. “Trust me on that one.”





Chapter Eleven





The strong stench of motor oil and gas clings to the inside of my nostrils, rousing me back to consciousness.

I’m groggy. The inside of my mouth feels as if I’ve been chewing on cotton balls and tastes sour. I’m sure he’s drugged me, but I’m not sure with what. The sick part is that half of me, the half still reeling in pain, is grateful, while the other half, the half he kidnapped and threatened, is still both furious and terrified.

I’m laid out across the back seat. This time there will be no escape. No jumping out on the highway. He’s made sure of it. I’m blindfolded. Bound at both my wrists and ankles. Thick tape covers my mouth. I’m strapped down with both sets of seatbelts.

I don’t know what day it is or how long it’s been since I was taken from school. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is escaping.

It takes a while for my brain to become fully awake.

I will not panic. That’s the first rule.

I take a deep breath and try to recall the rest of the rules. They’re from a book I read by Dr. Ida Kurshner. It’s half autobiography and half ‘how-to’. The book detailed the kidnapping and subsequent escape she’d experienced as a young woman at the hands of a plumber who came to her home to do work one day and decided to take her with him when he left. At the end of the book, she listed her TO DO’s in case anyone reading ever found themselves held captive.

I recall Dr. Ida’s list.

#1) Avoid being captured all together by screaming and fighting back.

That ship has sailed, lady.

#2) Retain your composure and dignity. Do not beg or become hysterical. Do not cry, if at all possible. Smile and offer compliments without appearing manipulative.

I think the good doctor was also the same one who wrote all those housewife manuals from the 50’s. Curl your hair and put on lipstick before your husband comes home. Do not concern him with how bad the children might have been during the day. Smile often and make sure his dinner is hot and ready. You could end up with that new vacuum you’ve had your eye on if he thinks you’re doing a swell job.

No.

#3) Do not challenge your captor.. Show them respect.

Over my dead fucking body, Dr. Ida.

#4) Do not engage them in any conversation that could be upsetting for them.

Hey, Mr. Captor Man! How’s the family? See the game Sunday? Can you believe this weather we’re having? How about you letting me go and we meet up for a game of one-on-one at the rec center next week? Sound good? Okay, see you there!

#5) Connect with your captor on a personal level. Share personal stories. Make them feel like you have things in common. Better yet, make them care about you by relating to them.

Hey, you like killing and kidnapping? O.M.G. Me too!

#6) Seduction.

Number six is how Dr. Ida finally escaped. She convinced her captor she wanted him as much as he wanted her. She seduced him and they engaged in what she called a ‘consensual non-consensual sexual relationship.’ Over the course of a few months she gained his trust enough for him to let her go outside in the backyard on occasion where she eventually scaled a fence and ran to a neighboring house for help.

The problem is that Dr. Ida was dealing with a man having a psychotic breakdown. I’m dealing with a man who’s straight up psychotic.

I’m going to have to improvise on the list, but I’m going to try. I must try. I’ll do anything to make up for the sins of my father. I’ll pray to every god. I’ll sink to the lowest of the lows, because I will finish my work, even if it’s with a gun to my head during and a bullet in my brain after.

One way or another, I will be free.





Chapter Twelve