Deliver (Deliver 1)

Prayer saturated his thoughts. He stammered through his favorite hymns, filling his heart with the inspirational, joyful words. He desperately needed the power of God to overcome this and to ensure he rose whole and confident and alive.

The walls of the box crept impossibly closer. He thrashed, uselessly. He widened his eyes beneath the mask, trying frantically to see, and met a shroud of black. So cramped, dark… His lungs panted. He needed to focus, to keep his head.

He tried to recall the meditation techniques he’d learned at his retreat. Sucking air through a dry throat, he pictured light filtering through the box’s wood planks, spreading a glow over him, chasing away the shadows. The walls around him expanded outward. The coffin doubled in size. Oxygen flowed in. His pulse slowed. He swiped his tongue over cracked lips. Bless the depth of his imagination.

Time stretched. Was it minutes? Or was it hours? They should’ve released him by now. What were they doing out there? Sharpening knives? Laughing about what a sucker he was? Or were they planning to move the box out back and bury it with him inside?

No, not death. She’d said he would be sold in ten weeks. He would have to be alive for that to happen. He latched onto the hope of survival, even as the implication of his body being auctioned for money brought its own horrors.

A violent shudder ripped through him. Purchased by what kind of person? For what purpose? He knew. He knew the answers and shoved them away, stretching his jaw to accommodate a panicked rush of breath. Heavenly Father, please help me.

Despair gave way to anger and frustration. His prayers weakened in conviction, losing their appeal. He had put himself in this situation. God had nothing to do with it. Doubt trickled in. Doubt in His divine rescue. Doubt in himself.

Too many terrible things could happen to him and his parents. The air thinned, and his lungs struggled against images of Mom and Dad’s bodies gutted in their bed and painted in blood. He curled his hands into fists, picturing Liv slicing off his fingernails with a razor blade. Nausea coiled in his stomach. The glaring possibility was rape. Was he strong enough to prevent Van from taking him from behind?

His heart pounded. His virginity was his to give, dammit, not to be stolen and dehumanized. The thought girded him, even as he knew his restraints enabled them to do whatever they wanted.

He rolled his head back and forth over the wood. What had he learned during his spiral of mistakes? Beyond his stupidity in blind trust? He was in the Two Trails Crossing neighborhood in Temple. His captors went by Van and Liv. Calm, physically fit, and armed, they posed a difficult barrier to break through.

Besides the mention of a Mr. E, she seemed to be the one in control. Who was she? Clearly not the girl who cried a sob story on the street. Hindsight punched him hard in the gut.

But she couldn’t be a sociopath. Hadn’t he glimpsed the real girl in his truck in her moving song? No one could fake the gravity he’d heard in her voice. What was driving her? Money was the obvious reason, but her aim seemed…more profound. Was she motivated by something deeper? Something attached to her?

A deep-rooted sadness had flooded her eyes and creased her mouth when he asked her not to hurt his parents. Then it was complicated by that second kiss, the one she took while he was pinned in the coffin.

Maybe he was only seeing what he wanted to see? Scrambling for the only thread of optimism in his reach? Perhaps the kiss was a design to mess with his head, but it had conveyed a hesitancy the first kiss did not.

There was nothing hesitant about Van. His composure was fortified by piercing gray eyes, so sharp they didn’t blink. Which made the calculation in his chumminess obvious—and confusing. Even as Josh had recognized it for what it was, he couldn’t deny he felt a little less tense when Van traded his steely gaze for a full-faced grin.

And the girl, who must’ve been some kind of slave, had somehow earned a respite from restraints and supervision. A reward for good behavior?

Sweet Jesus, one week in this nightmare and he might be drooling applesauce. He writhed in the chains, his hips banging against the sides. How much longer before they let him out of the freaking box?

He tried again to calm himself, catching his breath, rolling his neck and shoulders through the burgeoning pangs of muscle cramps.

There was a way out of this. Somehow. He just needed to man up and figure it out. Field experience in instructional ministry had taught him how to associate with people, how to listen to them, and guide them through tough situations. He would concentrate his attention on observing what she was hiding and hearing what wasn’t being said. He would study her face and learn her expressions. Once he discovered the heart of her, he would offer advice, befriend her, discover her strengths and weaknesses, and predict her next moves.

What if she beat him? Raped him? What were his limits? How much could he endure before he despised her so much he lost himself in hate?

Adrenaline burned through his veins. If he could survive the next few hours or days, he could survive ten weeks. Maintaining composure was paramount.

A ringing sound sliced the silence. It was a consistent lonely tone, like the lingering bong of a brass bell. Was it some kind of tinnitus?

He rolled his head side-to-side, and the frequency seemed to ripple around his ears. It was definitely streaming through the headphones. The volume wasn’t elevated enough to hurt. Just one loud, relentless blare.

The sound continued. His fingers tingled, as did the skin around his lips. Panic and irritation robbed his ability to catch his breath. He yawned over and over, popping his ears.

No change in frequency. No relief. He buckled down, fought the tremors in his body and the furor of emotions pushing against the backs of his eyes.

“Make it stop!” The scream shredded his vocal chords. “Please, stop.”

He counted to one thousand. He couldn’t calm his heart.

When would it end? He counted to five thousand.

All that existed was the certainty in one demanding tonality. He couldn’t focus.

Stop, stop, stop.

“Please…Please turn if off…Stop!”

His throat scraped, his shrieks unraveling his hold on his mind.

CHAPTER 7

Liv found Van downstairs in the sitting room, reclined in the armchair, a lit cigarette drooping from his lips. She stiffened as he patted his knee in invitation, his eyes twin sparks of silver in the glow of his phablet, the room’s only light.

The way he looked at her chilled her skin, even as his smoke-curled smile made her heart ache for things he could never give.

Spine steeled against the brutal beauty of his face, she put one sneaker before the other, plucked the cig from his mouth, and perched on his knee. “Ready?”

Moving his arms around her waist, he rested his chin on her shoulder and reached for the device. “Been ready since the day I met you.”

Her skin itched where his breath touched her cheek, where his leg pressed against her ass, where his arms brushed her hips. He was both an infectious rash and a soothing touch.

She finished the final drag on the cigarette and squashed it in the ashtray, eyes on the blank screen.

He launched their e-mail account, the inbox empty. Empty for nine weeks. She stared at it, willing it to beep, her exhale trapped in her chest.

A tap on the screen made the phone call. Another tap, and he switched it to speaker mode, his free arm draped over her thigh. The call connected on the first ring.

“Any problems?” Crisp and deep, the voice dragged a shudder from her lungs.

“No, sir,” she and Van said in chorus.

The inbox dinged, announcing a new message with an attached file.

“The recording is five minutes old,” Mr. E said, “and two minutes long. I’ll wait.”

Van clicked on the video file and leaned back. She bent toward it, where it perched in his outstretched hand.

On the screen, a woman in her late-forties sat at a table in a kitchen that had become fam

iliar from this camera angle. Wisps of gray curled through her short brown hair, her hands folded around the mug she stared into. If she glanced up, her eyes would be a deep warm brown, set in the determined expression of a woman who had birthed a child on the heels of an abusive relationship. A woman whose passion for skydiving came second to her love for her only child. The woman who said that anyone could fall; the skill was in landing.