Chapter 3 - THE TRAP AT BLACKWOODThe pressure on my windpipe was instant and crushing.
Before I could get a breath to yell, a second man slammed his body against my back, driving his knee hard into the small of my spine. The camera slipped from my numb fingers, clattering into the wet gravel below.
I twisted, throwing an elbow backward with everything I had. It caught the man behind me in the ribs with a dull thud, making him grunt, but the grip on my throat didn't loosen.
"Look what we found sniffing around the fence line," a raspy voice growled in my ear.
A heavy boot kicked my camera across the gravel, sending it sliding right into the bright circle of yellow floodlight illuminating the railyard floor.
Gordon Pierce turned around at the sound.
When his eyes fell on the camera, then shifted to me as I was dragged out from the shadows by two six-foot-four security guards wearing black tactical vests, all the color drained instantly from his face.
"Jack?" Gordon gasped, his eyes wide with utter shock. "How the hell... how did you find this place?!"
The two guards forced me to my knees on the cold concrete. My hands were wrenched behind my back, bound tightly with heavy plastic zip-ties that cut viciously into my wrists.
Carla stepped forward, her tablet clutched against her chest, her eyes wide with terror. "Gordon... he has a camera. Did he take photos?!"
One of the guards kicked my camera over to Gordon. Gordon picked it up, flipped open the digital display, and scrolled through the recent images.
His face went from pale shock to a dark, twisted mask of pure fury.
"Full high-res shots of the serial tags," Gordon whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying mixture of rage and panic. "Full shots of my face. Full shots of the trucks."
He looked down at me, stepping closer until his expensive leather dress shoes were three inches from my face.
"You really couldn't just take your pink slip and walk away, could you, Jack?" Gordon said softly, his voice shaking. "You had to play the hero."
I spat a mouthful of blood onto his shoe.
"You stole thirty million dollars of steel from Arthur Whitfield, Gordon," I rasped, my voice raw from the grip on my neck. "You planted fake paper trails in my name. You think a few zip-ties are going to save you when Whitfield finds out?"
Gordon laughed, but it was a thin, desperate sound that carried no real humor.
"Whitfield isn't going to find out from you, Jack," Gordon said, turning the camera over in his hands and dropping it onto the concrete. He raised his heel and brought it down hard, crushing the memory card and lens into a hundred shattered pieces of black plastic and glass.
"No paper trail," Gordon murmured, looking at his two security guards. "No camera. No Jack."
"Gordon," Carla whimpered, taking a step back. "What are you doing? We agreed—no violence! We were just supposed to frame him!"
"That was before he showed up at Blackwood Marsh with a camera, Carla!" Gordon screamed, spinning on her with such violence that she jumped back three feet. "If he walks out of this yard, we’re all going to federal prison for twenty years! Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a cell?!"
Carla closed her mouth, her hands trembling as she looked down at the ground.
Gordon turned back to the guards.
"Load the rest of the steel onto the barge," he ordered, his tone flat, cold, and final. "Put Mercer in the back of the tool shed near the river bank. When the barge clears the channel at three a.m., lock the shed doors and set fire to the old timber stock next to it. The whole marsh will burn by morning. By the time the fire department puts it out, there won't be anything left of Jack Mercer to ask questions."
The two guards nodded without a word.
They hauled me to my feet by my arms, my shoulders popping painfully under the strain, and began dragging me across the muddy railyard toward a small, rusted corrugated-iron shed sitting fifty yards away on the dark edge of the river bank.
I fought back with everything I had. I kicked, I twisted, I tried to throw my weight off balance, but bound with zip-ties and held by two men who outweighed me by fifty pounds each, I was useless.
They kicked open the heavy wooden door of the shed, shoved me hard inside, and sent me crashing onto a pile of cold, damp burlap sacks and rusted iron chains.
The door slammed shut.
A heavy iron padlock clicked into place from the outside.
Total darkness swallowed me whole.
I lay on the filthy concrete floor, gasping for air, the rough burlap scratching against my cheek. Through the thin metal walls of the shed, I could hear the distant, muffled thrum of the diesel generators, the high-pitched whine of the gantry crane, and the harsh voices of Gordon’s crew hurrying to finish loading the steel onto the river barge.
I rolled onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest, trying to work my hands around to the front of my body.
The heavy plastic zip-tie was pulled impossibly tight, cutting deep into the skin of my wrists until I felt the warm, slick trickles of blood running down my palms. No matter how hard I pulled, the nylon wouldn't yield an inch.
Three a.m.
I had less than two hours before they set fire to the shed.
I rolled over, my fingers frantically searching the dark floor around me. I felt rusted nails, rotting wood, damp dirt, and broken glass.
Then, my elbow knocked against something small, hard, and metallic tucked deep in the inner breast pocket of my heavy work jacket.
I froze.
My hand slipped inside the pocket, my fingertips brushing against a small, cylindrical piece of cheap plastic.
The walkie-talkie.
When I had left my kitchen an hour ago, I had shoved the little blue radio into my coat pocket without thinking—a subconscious habit born from eight months of living next door to Rebecca.
My fingers fumbled frantically with the small plastic casing.
The power knob was turned off.
Using my index finger and thumb behind my back, I twisted the knob.
A tiny, almost imperceptible click echoed in the pitch-black shed.
A faint, quiet green light illuminated the fabric of my coat pocket.
I pressed my ear close to my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it would burst.
I couldn't hold the talk button and speak cleanly with my hands bound behind my back. If I made too much noise, the guard standing outside the shed door would hear me through the thin iron walls.
I had to work my hands under my knees.
I pulled my knees up as high as they would go, pressing my forehead against the cold floor, and forced my bound hands down over my heels. Pain exploded through my shoulders and lower back as my joints popped, but I gritted my teeth and pushed through it until my hands slipped around my boots and came out in front of my body.
I collapsed onto my side, panting heavily, sweat pouring down my forehead despite the freezing air.
I pulled the blue walkie-talkie out of my coat pocket.
May you like
I lifted it to my mouth, pressed the small rubber button with my thumb, and whispered into the microphone with every ounce of strength left in my lungs.
"Rebecca..." I breathed into the static. "Rebecca... please tell me you're awake. Over."
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