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  "Which room?" one very annoyed male asked.

  Another man responded, "The white room. It was the only one ready."

  "What? It wasn’t meant for keeping someone in, damn it!"

  "Were any of the rooms?"

  Voices of the arguing pair continued forward, diminishing with distance. I moved as quickly as my hurt ankle allowed, keeping to the space between the shrubs and the building. I risked a peek out to catch a glimpse of who I might be up against. The men were not wearing uniforms but had all the bells and whistles security guards might have – radios, handcuffs, mace, and guns. A new rush of adrenaline coursed through my veins.

  I emerged from my hiding place and began to sprint. My footing was awkward at first but straightened out as I discovered how high my tolerance for pain really was. I navigated the building, hoping the grounds were not as expansive on the other side. Breathing heavily by the time I rounded the corner, I slowed down slightly to turn. Unfortunately, I wasn’t going slowly enough to avoid a head-on collision with another guard.

  We both bounced back. Our feet did not follow the change of direction so well and we each landed on the ground. I jumped up while he stayed down, hugging his chest, right where my knee made contact. I resumed my sprint.

  His wheezing voice carried after me, the walkie-talkie clicking. "She’s…in the … north yard."

  I ran straight across the lawn, the mammoth property had to end eventually. Soon groves of flowering trees began to fill the yard, becoming thicker as I progressed. Just as I turned into them for better cover, several more men emerged, surrounding me.

  I willed my body to stop. Panting, I looked between them, simply annoyed at this point. "You grow on trees around here?"

  No one answered. Five big men stood around me, each waiting to see who would make the first move.

  Chapter 3

  Hey, Yourself

  Sideways glances pointed to the one in charge. They seemed to be waiting for his consent. One of them spoke up, "How do you want to proceed, Shawn?"

  He looked at me, narrowing his eyes. "Detainment – by any means necessary."

  Lovely. He gave a slight nod, and two men stepped toward me, one on each side. I quickly sized them up. They were the smallest, but one was sporting a very ominous syringe. The arrogant prick didn’t even try to hide it.

  Facing my opponents, I pulled my shoulders back. There was no hesitation even as I considered the odds. Despite all I had been through, despite the pain in my leg and wrist that was threatening to come back, I felt stronger, quicker, and very clear-headed. I brushed it off as an adrenaline rush. It felt great. So great, in fact, that I didn’t have the patience to sit back and play defense.

  Taking the initiative, I turned to face the man with the syringe, fully aware the other one was coming up quickly behind me. My hand shot out to grab his wrist and I twisted until his grip on the syringe loosened. Not having to look, I leaned slightly to one side in order to avoid a blow the man behind me intended for my head. It was as if they were moving in slow motion – how generous of them. As luck would have it, his fist went straight through, making contact with the other assailant’s nose. A sickening crunch followed, and his blood splattered my face.

  While both of them were busy looking stunned and trying to comprehend what had just happened, the other guards moved forward. I grabbed the syringe and emptied half of it into the thigh of the guard behind me. He staggered back a few steps and looked at me like I just killed his cat; his face contorting in shock and anger. The other guards seemed to be hesitating, moving toward me, stopping, looking at the leader, and moving again. Before they could decide what to do, I turned to the one bent over, nursing his broken nose, and emptied the rest of the syringe into the most easily accessible part of him, his butt. Just like a bad action movie, they both fell over at the same time.

  I was still panting, half from the fight, half from the run, but I made an effort to stand tall. The three other men just stood there, not bothering to hide their expressions of shock. Apparently I had just proven myself a worthy opponent.

  Shawn recovered first, quickly masking his expression. "Kaitlyn Alder - drop the syringe." Hearing my own name made me hesitate. They knew me. I had no idea if that was good or bad. He saw me waver with uncertainty and tried to strengthen his case. "It is empty anyway."

  Never one to listen to reason, I shook my head, "Can't give up my only weapon." I spun the syringe in my hand once, for effect.

  Shawn's eyes widened only slightly, "You don't need a weapon."

  "I would if my life depended on it. And right now I’m getting the feeling my life depends on it," I said, gesturing to the two unconscious men on the ground.

  Shawn casually took a few steps toward me and I got my first good look at him. He was maybe a foot taller than me with sandy-blonde hair, tousled by the run. A smooth face, with clean lines – perfect boy-band material. His attractive qualities were betrayed only by two cold blue eyes, which gave away too much. His half-smile did not touch them. They were malicious – as if they had seen pain he was only too eager to return. Whether I was the appropriate target or not mattered little to him.

  He kicked one of the men on the ground. The man stirred, jerking slightly before becoming still again. "See? We weren’t trying to kill you, just put you back to sleep."

  "Pass." I held his gaze but my fingers twitched at my side.

  His condescending look all but told me what a silly girl I was. "Unfortunately, you don’t have much say in the matter."

  "Two down says I do."

  "You don’t have any more serum," Shawn said.

  "Still," I depressed the syringe until it was fully extended. "It can poke an eye out."

  He smiled his malicious little half smile again, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a knife. "Not as well as this."

  Shit. I silently cursed myself for letting sarcasm escalate the situation. It was a poor self-defense mechanism. I hadn’t even considered the consequences.

  The fact that I knew I was at a distinct disadvantage must have been evident on my face. He puffed up his shoulders and chest. "You should have taken the needle, it would have hurt less."

  "En garde." Before my mouth finished uttering such a cheesy line, I had already shrugged it off. No one ever accused me of being quick-witted.

  Shawn closed the remaining distance between us. The other men backed off, giving him his space. As soon as he was close enough, he thrust out the knife, aiming for my chest.

  So much for not killing me.

  I leaned sideways, leaving my hip in front of him. Grabbing him at the wrist and bicep, I used his own momentum to flip him over my hip. He landed hard on his back. I paused, stunned at my newly discovered talent of fighting. Keeping a tight hold on his wrist, I twisted his arm giving his body no choice but to follow. He was forced to lay face down on the ground. I gave his wrist another sharp twist and the knife fell out of his hand.

  "Bitch!" he screamed. "You will bear my mark before this is over."

  I snorted with laughter at his exclamation.

  Laughter subdued, I grabbed the knife and made three quick cuts on his back. Blood seeped through his shirt instantaneously in the shape of the letter K. Not one to be outdone with tacky declarations, I announced, "But not before you bear mine." I stepped back, releasing my grip on him, feeling entirely too pleased with myself.

  It was short lived; four hands grabbed me. I had forgotten about the remaining two guards, significantly bigger men, who now had me sandwiched between them, keeping me all but immobile.

  Shawn took his time getting up from the ground, dusting himself off before turning to face me. His eyes bore into me, burning with pure hatred. He twisted my wrist, the same maneuver I used on him, confiscating the knife. My eyes followed its tip as he ran it past my face. I squirmed and the guards’ hold tightened. Pleased he had my undivided attention, he replaced the knife in his pocket and reared his hand back for the punishing blow. The sense of mo
vements coming in slow motion worked against me. The split second before he closed in on my cheek with his fist lasted far too long.

  I winced, bracing myself for the inevitable strike. It never came. Instead, I heard a loud slap. Cautiously opening one eye and then the other, I only saw Shawn's knuckles, tightened with rage and mere inches from my face. I looked past the fist, finding a newcomer gripping Shawn's wrist.

  I would have liked to call it a Mexican standoff but that implies each person has some sort of advantage; I did not. Restrained beyond any hope of action, I studied the latest addition to the group. He was average height and weight, with darker hair and a slight muscular build. His eyebrows were thick and flat; expressionless. There was enough stubble on his chin and cheeks to tell me he hadn't held a razor that morning, and probably not even the morning before. Still, there was something appealing about him. I chalked it up as nothing more than gratitude for sparing me a potential broken jaw.

  The two men, their hands still locked together, stared each other down. It was a silent conversation, but one could follow the gist by telltale gestures; a raised eyebrow, a twitch at the corner of a mouth, a hardened stare, lowered lids. Finally, a blink, and Shawn withdrew his fist. Suppressed coughs and clearing throats, the kind of noises that usually followed an awkward moment, drew me from my trance. More guards had joined the group.

  The newcomer turned to face the two men holding me. "Let her go."

  The guards obeyed but didn’t step away.

  "She won’t run again." His reassurance was directed toward the guards, but he looked at me. He was right. I wouldn’t. Not until I had a better plan, at least. I let my eyes meet his. They were striking; pools of green that caused me to take a sharp breath in. I forced my gaze away and shook my head as if to clear it. There were more suppressed coughs and a few shuffling feet around us. He was still looking at me, expecting some kind of, I don't know, introduction maybe?

  I raised my hand slightly and said in a low voice with downcast eyes, "Hey." I wasn’t about to thank him, and they apparently already knew my name.

  "Hey, yourself." A connection, however small, was established through our shared inability to converse. It was enough to ease some of the tension. Ignoring the anxious looks of the rest of the guards, he took the time to give me more information than anyone else cared to, "I am Micah."

  He waited long enough for Shawn to leave the pack and disappear into the building. I would have been grateful except that Micah apparently intended for me to go in the same direction. He motioned for me to follow. I hesitated but had little choice. The circle of guards stepped forward as I did. The careful coordination of their pace to mine was too much to resist and I stopped mid-stride to take a sudden step backwards. Some of them froze in place, some stepped back and some having not seen me at all kept going. It was a fine mess and resulted in several collisions. They had a long way to go before they could hit the big time.

  My laughter was cut short by Micah’s chiding, raised eyebrow, but as we walked a quick glance up revealed his poorly hidden smile.

  Chapter 4

  Needed

  After escorting me back to the building I had fought so hard to leave, Micah relinquished control of my arm to the guards, who weren’t nearly as gentle. Gripping hard enough to cause bruising, they half-dragged me to a basement room resembling a lab with pristine, white floors and walls, hard fluorescent lighting, and pungent smells strong enough to give me an instant headache. Long tables containing microscopes, computers, and beakers with various colored liquids filled the room. One chair stood alone in the center. They shackled my arms and legs to it. Before I could even test the sturdiness of my bonds, the guards shuffled out and a large team of medics sporting long white coats moved in, taking their various stations in the lab. It was so well choreographed that I half expected them to break into a show tune on cue.

  Truthfully, a Broadway performance would have been preferable. Without a word, they began typing away on computers, mixing mysterious concoctions, and they were all very effectively ignoring me.

  "Who are you?" No response, not even from the women, whom I'd thought might have some compassion.

  "Where am I?" Someone dropped a beaker. There was a lot of commotion to get it cleaned up but no one clamored to answer my questions.

  One of the medics walked toward me with a long, ominous syringe. "What is that? Don’t put that in – OW!" I flexed my leg muscles, trying to work out the pain left behind on the inside of my thigh. "You could have at least bought me dinner first!" Again, ignored. Several more walked toward me armed with more syringes, vials, and spotless, shiny metal instruments. The only interest they had in me was which vein produced the most blood for extraction or where they could stick the next injection, none of which let me fall into a deep blissful sleep. The hours began to blend together until I was unsure if it was day or night.

  When they finally did start speaking to me, it was a barrage of personal questions. Normally I would have been tight-lipped but any acknowledgement of my existence was music to my ears. Of course the sleep deprivation and possible drugs coursing through my system may have made the interrogations all the more dream-like.

  "No. I don’t hate your pants." A Cyclops loomed over me, drilling me about his wardrobe. A bucket of cold water sloshed over me.

  I squinted my eyes and focused; the face at least had two eyes now.

  "No, no. I asked if you can remember your Great Aunt’s middle name." He threw his arms in the air. "This is pointless, she is too wasted." He stormed back to his workstation. "Collins! How many cc’s did you give her?"

  My answers wouldn’t have been any more help with a clear head. I knew very little about my lineage. My family tree was no giant sequoia; it was more like a squash. The Alder roots didn’t go very deep, so far as I knew.

  After more unsuccessful interrogations, they began to apply an earthy-smelling concoction to my wrist, ankle, ribs and the various bumps and bruises that covered my body. It didn’t take long to realize how quickly I recovered from my injuries. Most of my bruises were already yellow and on the verge of disappearing altogether. Johnson and Johnson would have paid a fortune for that stuff.

  The medics untied my straps a few times to allow me to use a bathroom connected to the lab. I was afforded no privacy. The need to pee left me indifferent. I came back from one such trip to find a garbage bag of old clothes in my chair.

  "So, what. I’m staying?" A medic dumped the clothes out on the floor and walked away without responding.

  Shrugging, I began to sort through the clothes. I picked up a shirt with armpit stains and wrinkled my nose in disgust, "These smell." I realized I was still wearing the black, cotton lycra pants and matching race-back sports bra from the avalanche, which were now torn and admittedly smelled worse than anything from the bag. I managed to come up with shorts and a t-shirt two sizes too big, but at least they didn’t have any stains. There were several items boasting splotches that looked suspiciously similar to bloodstains.

  I changed into the new clothes in the middle of the room, which earned a few fleeting looks. Those that I caught peeking went quickly back to their work after one nervous glance up in the corner of the room. I followed their gaze and saw, for the first time, a small video camera rotating slowly back and forth. Well, that is new.

  A loud buzzer echoing through the room caused me to jump to my feet. One of the medics walked over to open the door. Temporary hopes of a possible escape opportunity were quickly dashed as Micah entered the room and locked the door behind him. I didn't want to test this one quite yet; not until I felt stronger and a little less drug-y. He didn’t acknowledge me but I kept my eyes glued on him as he walked around the room, consulting with the medical team and reading over their notes, lab results, ordering more tests, blah, blah, blah.

  Finding him to be no immediate threat, I looked away and instead searched for a small weapon I could hide on me while everyone seemed to be distracted.

  "I
wouldn’t do that." Micah’s voice, soft as it was, startled me. He was standing not two feet away.

  I jumped and recovered too slowly, "Do what?"

  He looked at me with his hand on his hip, as if debating whether or not to elaborate. "Never mind. Here."

  He placed a paper plate with one small sandwich on the floor in between us. I didn’t hesitate; I was starving and had he been any closer I would have shoved him back to get to the food. The meat was too thin and dry, but it tasted like heaven. He watched as I gulped down the sandwich in three bites, then inspected the plate for crumbs. Finished, I realized what I must have looked like, kneeling at his feet practically begging for nourishment in any form. I wasn’t going to give him or anyone here the satisfaction. Starting now.

  Wiping my mouth, I cleared my throat and slowly stood. I walked over to the chair that kept me hostage for so long, and took a deep breath. Nothing will faze me. I sat down, crossed my legs and began toying with one of the straps that had chaffed my wrist raw. "So, Micah – like the stone?"

  "Yes, like the stone." His expression matched his name. He walked toward one wall of the lab, keeping his distance, and leaned against it. His posture was misleading. The muscles on his forearms, tense with well-defined lines gave him away. He was ready for action. But why?

  We remained in silence, stealing quick glances at each other. The awkward tension only increased each time one of us was caught mid-stare.

  He was handsome, in a rough, construction worker sort of way. Passing him on the street any other day I would have pegged him as a blue-collared worker, with a couple days worth of stubble on his upper lip, cheeks and chin and short hair that seemed like it would be unkempt if only a little longer. He looked just a few years older than me, but the deep lines etched in his face could have rivaled those of my late father’s.

  Our eyes continued to play hide and seek, darting in for a quick look, then out again. Neither of us turned our heads away; that would have been considered backing down, as silly as it was. Finally, we caught each other at the right moment, and once we did, it wasn’t easy to let go. His eyes were a startling color of green. They were hypnotizing, holding me hostage more effectively than the bonds I toyed with. An Afghan refugee girl who famously graced the cover of the 1985 June issue of National Geographic had similar eyes. I kept the photograph tucked away in my camera bag and referred to it whenever I shot people, always attempting to capture the same breathtaking effect. Her eyes emanated a strength that endured the hardships of a war-torn country and would endure whatever else the world would throw her way with dignity and grace. I saw the same magic in his eyes, though there was nothing feminine about it. They exuded warmth that invited you in but were hardened enough to keep you humble during your stay. What I would have given to photograph him as a farmer hard at work in his field. Or maybe in a coal mine – his eyes would have glowed in contrast to the murky shadows of the dirty tunnels.