Extraction Point (Ricochet 3)

Quinn dozed on and off for a while— minutes, hours, days? It was light outside, but she had no idea if it was still Sunday or if it was Monday morning. All sense of time had stopped for her. Once in a while she heard Travis stomping around her father’s house and she feigned sleep every time he came into the family room. She knew damn well that physical pain wasn’t the worst thing Travis could inflict on her. Pretending to be unconscious was the best way to avoid his explosive anger. Travis only enjoyed raping her when she was frightened or fighting back. It excited him, got him off, the sick, twisted, bastard. She was honestly surprised he hadn’t done it yet.

Travis’ footsteps were somewhere in the kitchen so she used the opportunity to think about his appearance Quinn hadn’t seen him since the day she left, thank god. She always wondered how badly she’d injured him, but not even in her best fantasies had she done so much damage to his handsome face. Now he looked like the monster he was, hideous inside and out.

Quinn lay on the couch, her entire body sore and aching, and remembered the events leading up to that day as if they had happened yesterday.

One and a half years ago

Travis rolled off of Quinn’s battered, abused body. Standing over her, he zipped up his fly. “Get up!” He nudged her leg with the pointed toe of his cowboy boot. “Move bitch!”

Sniffling, Quinn moved to sit, the tinkling of glass beneath her. She moaned at the sharp pain from dozens of tiny cuts on her back. The red, white, and blue material of a flag shifted as she moved. Her hand was dripping blood from a gash across her palm.

He broke my daddy’s flag case.

Disrespectful bastard!

Quinn glanced around at the remnants of the display case for her father’s American flag, everything blurry through her tears. Bits of splintered wood were scattered around the broken pane of glass. Travis had raped her right on top of the shattered pieces and on top of the flag. The shards had sliced right through the heavy material and dug into her back and legs as he relentlessly drove into her.

Holding in a sob, Quinn realized she was still exposed from the waist down and Travis was towering over her, waiting for her to get up.

She yanked her dress down. “I—I’ll get the dustpan and broom.”

Quinn stood up on shaky legs, gathering her father’s torn flag in her hands. When she turned to leave, Travis grabbed her arm, wrenching it behind her back. She gasped at the pain that shot through her shoulder, but managed to bite back a cry.

“Go get cleaned up for dinner. You think I’m stupid, bitch? That I’m gonna let you alone with these sharp pieces of glass and wood?” He snarled in her face, his hot breath gusting over her. Quinn had to hold back the urge to vomit.

Travis shoved her towards the hall bathroom where Quinn stumbled and fell, landing on her hands and knees, the flag still balled up in her fist. A sharp stabbing pain shot through the deep cut on her hand.

“That’s better. You look good like that, Annie. Now go get cleaned up!”

Quinn staggered to her feet, entering the bathroom and locking the door. Putting the ripped flag on the countertop, she went through the motions of turning on the shower and getting a towel out, avoiding her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Trembling, Quinn went to get an Advil from the medicine cabinet and accidentally caught a glance of her bruised face.

She froze, horrified at the sight in front of her. One eye was swollen shut and purple. There was an angry red welt along her left cheek, along with a dark bruise. Her lip was split, a dried smear of blood across her chin. Below was a deep black and blue slash across her neck where Travis had stepped on her throat. Quinn lifted a trembling hand to her neck, her eyes filling with tears again.

This is my life. He’s going to kill me someday.

Quinn frowned, the movement eliciting a hiss when it pulled at a cut on her lip. She carefully pulled her dress over her head, wincing at every sharp stab of pain it caused. Staring at the flag, Quinn reached into the pile of material, retrieving the precious item she had slipped into its folds when she had gathered it up in her arms.

Smiling, she held it up to the bathroom light, turning it side to side, watching the fluorescent light glint off of it at different angles. Quinn grinned at her hard-earned prize. Her smile fell and she put the glass to her wrist. It would be so easy to get out, to end her pain. One quick slice is all it would take. With determination, she stared at the broken face in the mirror, taking in every bruise, every cut, every piece of her soul that Travis carved out and used for his pleasure… and it gave her strength.

N

o! You finally made a mistake, Travis. I’m going to get out of here or die trying.

Quinn buried the jagged shard of glass in a box of tampons under the sink. Travis was too macho to touch women’s things. He would never think to look there.

Soon, she thought. Very, very soon.

“Rick, we spotted him!”

Xavier called out from Mission Control, yelling down the hall to the conference room where Rick was sitting with Clint, drinking coffee to stay awake. Clint had forced him to take a break from the search, telling him he was useless if he was going to be so agitated and easily angered. He was able to calm himself substantially after Clint talked him down from the ledge he was hanging onto by his fingertips, but Rick was still scared as hell they wouldn’t reach Quinn in time.

Rick bolted out of his chair at Xav’s voice, Clint hot on his heels. “Where?” He focused in on the screen directly in front of Tucker, a grainy still shot from a camera.

“As of eleven hundred hours, he was still on 400 going north. He didn’t take the bypass, so that’s greatly narrowed down the possibilities.” Tucker continued typing as he spoke. “Here,” he used his chin to point at another screen, this one to Rick’s left. “He continued past Sandy Springs, so wherever he’s going, it’s out of the city.”

Rick stared at the photo on the monitor. The image of the man from the driver’s license picture matched the one in front of him. Even with the poor quality Rick could tell it was the same person. The primal instinct to defend what was his roared through his body. One way or another, Rick was going to take Travis Hardy out.

“So, the question is, what’s up there?” Xavier asked. He turned to his own computer and began typing. A map of Atlanta and it’s surrounding area came up on the large flat screen.