outrun her
captors if the opportunity presented itself was a question that would have to
be answered if, or when, the chance arose.
As the helicopter droned on, Jamie cocked her head towards
the pilots up front and listened to their conversation, which was businesslike
and spoken in a difficult-to-follow jargon. The only thing she was able to pick
up on were references pertaining to their altitude and present airspeed and
certain terrain features they were looking out for. Much to her chagrin, though
she had hoped for some tidbit to slip, their conversation revealed nothing
about where they were now, or where they were going.
After a few minutes of straight and level flight, the
helicopter abruptly nosed down and banked right, dropping a big chunk of
altitude in the process. Consequently the aggressive maneuver caught Jamie
unaware and, when the craft finally righted, her head moved past center and
thumped against the opposite bulkhead, further aggravating the concussion and
resulting in an intense wave of nausea that set her salivary glands into
overdrive.
“I’m about to throw up,” she croaked, her jaw beginning to
lock. She tried some shallow breathing but the hot fetid air inside the hood
only made matters worse. And though she could sense the man moving just inches
to her right, he made no reply. So she doubled down. Made it personal by
calling him by name. “Come on, Carson . What possible harm can I do to
you? You think I’m going to open the door of a moving helicopter and run for
it?” she asked, twisting her hooded head in his direction. He remained silent.
“I can’t even feel my fucking fingers.”
Still he made no reply.
She panned her head forward and called out loudly, hoping to
be acknowledged by the pilots. “I need help back here. I’m going to be sick.”
Nothing. Just the rotor blades beating the air
overhead.
Her jaw locked open and a flurry of tremors wracked her
body. Deep in her esophagus she felt the first little acidic tickle, her body
forewarning her of the rising tide of bile. Then her stomach clenched tight,
involuntarily doubling her over. To her right, she heard a metallic snik that
was instantly recognizable, causing her to tense further. She imagined a
gleaming eight-inch blade locking into place. Then her mind began to jump the
rails, conjuring up the wolfish glare of a man whose face she hadn’t yet seen. Breathe ,
she told herself. If they wanted you dead, Jamie, they would have left your
bullet-riddled body back at the quarry alongside Logan and Gus.
Then something brushed her thigh, causing her to recoil and
shrink against the helicopter’s cool metal skin. She felt the hood go tight
around the crown of her head. She heard the rasp of rough burlap as her head
was being pulled toward the center of the chopper—towards the man she’d
overheard the pilots calling Carson. Then her mind messed with her again. Tried
to convince her the blade was being dragged across her neck, so real she could
almost feel the flesh parting as a mortal half-moon-shaped incision was opened
up under her chin. Then the blood sluicing down her chest, hot and sticky and
metallic to the nose. She waited for it. Welcomed it. Instead, the hood came
off with an audible pop. And as quickly as she had embraced the thought of
death, the stark terror of living the rest of her life in pain while suffering
through every type of degradation returned to haunt her.
The greasy sack collapsed into a pile on her lap and, for a
split second before the sun behind him became too intense, she saw Carson’s
profile in her peripheral vision. We’re flying north , she thought just
before closing her eyes.
“You puke anywhere but in that bag and you will find
yourself flying under your own power,” he said, catching her wholly by surprise.
His voice was gravelly and she wondered if he’d suffered some kind of injury to
his vocal chords in the past. She wanted nothing more than to see her captor.
To look into
captors if the opportunity presented itself was a question that would have to
be answered if, or when, the chance arose.
As the helicopter droned on, Jamie cocked her head towards
the pilots up front and listened to their conversation, which was businesslike
and spoken in a difficult-to-follow jargon. The only thing she was able to pick
up on were references pertaining to their altitude and present airspeed and
certain terrain features they were looking out for. Much to her chagrin, though
she had hoped for some tidbit to slip, their conversation revealed nothing
about where they were now, or where they were going.
After a few minutes of straight and level flight, the
helicopter abruptly nosed down and banked right, dropping a big chunk of
altitude in the process. Consequently the aggressive maneuver caught Jamie
unaware and, when the craft finally righted, her head moved past center and
thumped against the opposite bulkhead, further aggravating the concussion and
resulting in an intense wave of nausea that set her salivary glands into
overdrive.
“I’m about to throw up,” she croaked, her jaw beginning to
lock. She tried some shallow breathing but the hot fetid air inside the hood
only made matters worse. And though she could sense the man moving just inches
to her right, he made no reply. So she doubled down. Made it personal by
calling him by name. “Come on, Carson . What possible harm can I do to
you? You think I’m going to open the door of a moving helicopter and run for
it?” she asked, twisting her hooded head in his direction. He remained silent.
“I can’t even feel my fucking fingers.”
Still he made no reply.
She panned her head forward and called out loudly, hoping to
be acknowledged by the pilots. “I need help back here. I’m going to be sick.”
Nothing. Just the rotor blades beating the air
overhead.
Her jaw locked open and a flurry of tremors wracked her
body. Deep in her esophagus she felt the first little acidic tickle, her body
forewarning her of the rising tide of bile. Then her stomach clenched tight,
involuntarily doubling her over. To her right, she heard a metallic snik that
was instantly recognizable, causing her to tense further. She imagined a
gleaming eight-inch blade locking into place. Then her mind began to jump the
rails, conjuring up the wolfish glare of a man whose face she hadn’t yet seen. Breathe ,
she told herself. If they wanted you dead, Jamie, they would have left your
bullet-riddled body back at the quarry alongside Logan and Gus.
Then something brushed her thigh, causing her to recoil and
shrink against the helicopter’s cool metal skin. She felt the hood go tight
around the crown of her head. She heard the rasp of rough burlap as her head
was being pulled toward the center of the chopper—towards the man she’d
overheard the pilots calling Carson. Then her mind messed with her again. Tried
to convince her the blade was being dragged across her neck, so real she could
almost feel the flesh parting as a mortal half-moon-shaped incision was opened
up under her chin. Then the blood sluicing down her chest, hot and sticky and
metallic to the nose. She waited for it. Welcomed it. Instead, the hood came
off with an audible pop. And as quickly as she had embraced the thought of
death, the stark terror of living the rest of her life in pain while suffering
through every type of degradation returned to haunt her.
The greasy sack collapsed into a pile on her lap and, for a
split second before the sun behind him became too intense, she saw Carson’s
profile in her peripheral vision. We’re flying north , she thought just
before closing her eyes.
“You puke anywhere but in that bag and you will find
yourself flying under your own power,” he said, catching her wholly by surprise.
His voice was gravelly and she wondered if he’d suffered some kind of injury to
his vocal chords in the past. She wanted nothing more than to see her captor.
To look into
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