Cargo: an edge of your seat thriller Page 2

  Terrified, Peterson resorted to begging again. “Please! I implore you! Don’t do this!”

  The kidnapper paused just long enough to give Peterson hope, then said, “Twenty-four hours, Mr. Peterson. No…Twenty-three hours and thirty-three minutes now. You took longer to wake up than we calculated.”

  “Please!”

  “You’ve got some calls to make,” the kidnapper said and hung up abruptly.

  Anthony Peterson stood where he was in yesterday’s suit…an older but still fit businessman, now a prisoner of…God only knew who.

  He let his arm go limp. It had only been minutes since he had awakened.

  He was stunned, still groggy and in great pain.

  He was alone.

  He was trapped.

  2

  Desperation: 1:41 AM

  Anthony Peterson was not the kind of man who took orders. He had rarely answered to anyone in years, and when he had, he had never been the kind of man who enjoyed doing so.

  After composing himself as much as he could, he slid the phone into his pocket and walked right up to the doors and pushed. They would not open.

  Maybe they would slide open?

  Nothing.

  They must have been locked tightly from the outside. They didn’t give even a millimeter. Was he welded in?

  Christ!

  Peterson felt the fury rising in him. Who the hell were they to do this to him? To his wife? He banged on the door as a substitute for his captor’s face, kicked that chosen spot a few times, then banged again. The noise rang out loudly.

  Someone had to hear.

  He banged again and again, then went to every wall and banged harder and harder, shouting, “Help!” and “Let me out of here!” over and over.

  Anthony Peterson refused to let up. “I need help! Get me out of this place!” Someone would come. Someone would hear.

  He screamed and banged on the walls until his voice was raw, and his throat burned and his hands were bruised.

  “Damn it. Just…let me out,” he croaked weakly and fell against the wall.

  He slid down the wall to the floor to rest, exhausted, covered in sweat and hyperventilating.

  He really was trapped. He knew that now. He had to accept it. That and the fact that either no one could hear him, or those who did hear him were in on this kidnapping.

  No one was coming to help him, so he had to find the courage to help himself.

  He sighed and summoned every bit of courage he had. This was not an easy proposition considering the situation. Anthony Peterson was never helpless. Never in his life. Never until now. Thus, Anthony Peterson had no way to deal with being helpless.

  Shakily, Peterson got to his feet and retrieved the phone from his pocket.

  This was not his own phone. Anthony Peterson would never have a phone so cheap. This had been purchased and provided by the kidnappers. He went through the phone. Every app, every folder, every button, everything he could find and came up with nothing. Certainly none of his contacts were in this cheap thing.

  He tapped a few icons and thought of who he could call. What numbers did he know by heart? The convenience of cell phones had sounded the death knell for memorized phone numbers for most people. Peterson was not most people. He prided himself on his ability to memorize account numbers, phone numbers, dates, and just about anything else he needed to recall.

  The problem now was this dazed state he was in. His mouth was dry. He felt as if he hadn’t eaten in a month. Worst of all, his head ached like no hangover he had ever experienced. He was going to have to clear his head if he was going to put these memories together. Maybe the key was to focus on something else. Something like his freedom.

  An idea came to him and he searched for a GPS location. If calls could be made, surely the GPS would work through this metal thing.

  But no… They were smart. It was disabled.

  He inspected the case. He recognized the brand. ‘AfterSHOK.’ It was a heavy duty, shockproof job that gave maximum protection and even doubled as an external battery. Great product. The commercials for it showed people throwing their phones across the rooms in hilarious parodies of anger and then picking them up and finding them unscathed.

  Another comical ad had Frankenstein’s monster using a phone with their case while electricity was shooting through him. He turned around and looked at the mad scientist and said, “Dad, do you mind? I’m on the phone! Okay, you were saying?”

  The phone itself, on the other hand, was far from state of the art. It was one of those hackable knockoff phones. It was a smart phone, but just barely. It was a cheap phone, the kind they sold in pharmacies. As close to ‘disposable’ as they got.

  The case probably cost three times what the phone did.

  The message that sent was clear. They didn’t want him to have any extra capabilities with this phone, but they wanted it to remain functioning and powered no matter what. This phone was his lifeline, but on their terms only.

  Whoever the hell was behind this had blocked the internet on it as well. All browsers uninstalled, email clients uninstalled. Nothing seemed to work except the clock, the talk feature, and maybe the text app.

  But who could he call or text? Who that could help him?

  “Tom!” he said out loud. “I’ve got to call Tom,” he added in a determined whisper, then dialed his closest business associate’s number from memory, albeit slowly.

  Tom Pocase was more than an employee or executive assistant. Tom was a special breed of sycophantic savant. He was smart enough to get everything done that Peterson needed to get done and to remember accounts and passwords like a machine, but also loose enough in his morals to do anything Peterson ordered him to do.

  Tom was also probably just dumb enough to stay loyal and not think too much for himself.

  Peterson waited for the connection to be made. For a moment, Peterson couldn’t breathe. He stood there, frozen, waiting for the call to connect. When he finally heard ringing, he exhaled hard and relaxed.

  But impatience got the better of him. “Come on, pick up, pick up, pick up!” he muttered, pacing and gesturing with his free hand.

  At last, Tom picked up. “Hello?” he said groggily, clearly no happier than Peterson would have been about being woken up in the middle of the night.

  Peterson was immediately relieved to hear Tom’s voice and exclaimed, “Tom! It’s Anthony!”

  Tom took a second to digest those three words, then grunted, “Anthony? Jesus, it’s two o’clock in the morning.”

  It was 2:02 actually, but Peterson ignored that. “Just listen! I’ve been kidnapped.”

  The sleep left Tom’s voice quickly, and he shouted incredulously, “Kidnapped?”

  The word hung in the air, and Peterson felt himself unconsciously recoil from it as if the word itself was an adversary. He composed himself to confirm that horrible word, but was cut off as Tom’s voice broke the silence and laughed. “What is this? A joke?”

  Peterson shook off his fear at the frustration Tom’s inane question caused. He began to pace and gestured as if Tom was in front of him. “No! They took Susan too. If I don’t give them what they want, they’re gonna kill her.”

  “What? Who is? Who’s gonna kill her?”

  Peterson wondered with annoyance why the fuck that should matter. “Some people. I don’t know who.”

  Tom’s voice changed. It was as if he only then accepted that this just might be true. “Where are you?”

  Peterson’s lower lip quivered. Where could he begin? There was so much to explain. “I’m locked in a metal shipping container somewhere. I don’t know where. It…it could be anywhere.”

  “Well, shit, man, for God’s sake, call the police,” Tom said, as if Anthony hadn’t thought of that and was merely calling for some friendly advice. Tom was reliable, but not the sharpest tack in the corkboard.

  Peterson explained as politely as he could. “If I call the police, they’re gonna kill her. They could be liste
ning to this conversation right now.”

  Tom froze. Peterson could hear it. It wasn’t a gasp. It was like a sudden fear took his breath. There was no longer any sound coming from anywhere on Tom’s side. Tom was spooked even from his safe, warm bed.

  “Wha’d…uh, what exactly…what…what…” Tom stuttered, now completely shaken by the possibilities. “What do they want?”

  Peterson could scarcely believe the amount he was about to quote. “Ten million dollars,” he said, with a cold, incredulous laugh in his voice.

  “What?” Tom obviously could not believe what he was hearing, and his voice echoed the shocked incredulity of Peterson’s own.

  Peterson’s mind reeled. He closed his eyes and focused. What he was about to say caused him actual pain. Pain to his very core. This was not the kind of man Anthony Peterson truly was.

  “Look, look…just…I need you to sell everything!”

  “Everything?” Tom repeated, taken aback.

  “Ev-er-y-thing!” Peterson repeated, exasperated to the point of shouting, “All my shares. My whole portfolio. Everything. Then, when you get the money together, get back to me, and they’ll give me the account to wire it to.”

  Tom was silent to the point that Peterson was ready to ask if he was still there. “You’re serious about all this, aren’t you?” he said at last.

  Peterson rolled his eyes in disbelief. What the fuck kind of question was that? Peterson shook his head and ignored the question, waiting for Tom to speak again.

  “Anthony…are you sure this is really how you want to roll with this?” Tom asked, with audible concern and even skepticism in his voice.

  Peterson sighed and shook his head. He was exhausted and completely out of options.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know…I don’t even know what I’m doing right now! All I know is that I want Susan back.”

  “So, you want me to do this? For sure?”

  Peterson nodded, as if Tom could see him, then said, “Yeah. Unless I come up with a better idea, I need to have this ready to…to appease them.” The words tasted sour as he spoke them.

  Tom was silent, thinking. Then, he responded, “I hear you. You gotta do what you gotta do. If I come up with a better idea than this one, I’ll share it.”

  “You do that. But until then–”

  “I do exactly what you say, boss!” he said almost comically. Then, his serious voice returned. “I’ll get back to you,” he said, with a determined tone to his voice.

  He hung up, and Peterson let his cell phone hand sag to his side.

  3

  September Memories: 2:14 AM

  Anthony Peterson, the man who had everything, was feeling decidedly poor at the moment.

  And the thing that surprised him the most at that moment was it was not only the money he was thinking of.

  Oh, he was furious about losing the money and having to give it to the people he hated most in the world…or, perhaps, one person. Whoever the fuck it was…he hated them…and he was about to make them ten million dollars richer at his own expense.

  He was fuming.

  But, quite unexpectedly, the thing he felt worst about was the possibility of losing Susan. That surprised him. Of course he loved her. He knew that. However, much of that ‘love’ came from her value to him as a status symbol. She was a beautiful, young trophy wife, and every man and half the women they came across surely imagined fucking her as soon as she caught their eyes.

  But they couldn’t have her. She was Mrs. Susan Peterson, which made her Anthony’s own. Yet even at his most devoted, Anthony Peterson knew in his heart of hearts that he loved nothing more than his money. Susan was part of the show. Susan was an integral element in the tapestry that made up the successful façade of Anthony Peterson, right up there with his other possessions and all of his many mean green almighty dollars.

  Or so Anthony Peterson had always thought.

  But now…

  At this moment, he was furious at the kidnapper and goddamn cronies he might have, not only for forcing him into this mess and bleeding him dry, but for putting Susan at risk. Susan.

  Susan.

  If they hurt her…

  When he had first met Susan, he was still legally married, but had been separated from the mother of his children for some time. It had been a time of reeling and reanalysis of his life as his first wife Marie slowly succumbed to her illnesses. And Anthony Peterson, never an unselfish man, hadn’t the heart to witness it all. And there were other things. Other painful things that he was only able to quench when he met Susan.

  Sure, Anthony had had his affairs over the months, the cleaning lady at his office was one notable example, but Susan had caught his eye like few others ever had. Where Marie was old, Susan was young and vibrant. Marie had stopped caring about her appearance and cut her hair into short, sensible curls while Susan let her wild, straight locks flow free. Marie had been content to stay home and spend his money. Susan was a go-getter, an actress always seeking out bigger parts.

  His children, Evan and Elena, had been hoping that he would reconcile with their mother. That was never to be in the cards once Susan took his breath away. After their first date, he knew he needed to be free and quickly finalized the divorce.

  With Susan on his arm, deals went quicker, faster, easier. Informal country club contacts became major deals with Susan by his side. She impressed everyone, and everyone was impressed that old Anthony could score such a hot little number. He soon knew he was going to have to seal this deal himself and make Susan his bride. And soon he did, much to the joy of his friends and business associates. Much to the chagrin of his children.

  Evan and Elena did not show up for their September wedding.

  Was it the money Susan loved? Maybe so. Was it her beauty and the prestige she brought him that Anthony loved? Maybe so. All he knew was that things were better with Susan, and he was happy to invest in her. And on his wedding night, he swore to any god who was listening that he would destroy anyone who even tried to take her away from him.

  Of course, he always expected this would be some young heartthrob, not a psychotic kidnapper, but his rage was no less. His rage was increased tenfold.

  Anthony Peterson would have his revenge one way or the other. There could be no doubt about that. Anthony Peterson always paid back in kind. Many people had found that out over the years.

  You didn’t fuck with Anthony Peterson.

  But if they hurt Susan…even a little bit…these bastards would have no idea the hell that would rain down on them. This was Susan. His Susan. Any vengeance in his past would feel like a gentle breeze compared to the damage he was prepared to do. And he knew just how to take revenge and who to partner with for maximum payback.

  You did not fuck with Anthony Peterson.

  The thought of that revenge, which he was quite sure he would have, almost made him smile, in spite of his terror and fury.

  And then, the phone rang and startled him back to his wits.

  Spooked, he grabbed the phone and answered shakily.

  “Mr. Peterson.”

  It was the kidnapper again in that all-too-calm whisper of his. Peterson already hated that voice. He already imagined making that voice scream.

  “Look, I just spoke to my closest associate. He’s putting together the money now.”

  “For the sake of both you and your precious little wife, I sure hope so.”

  Peterson shook and composed himself. He was caught between gritting his teeth in fury and crying in terror, so he did his best to sound calm and even friendly in the face of this enemy.

  “Yeah, look, just tell me something, please. Why are you doing this? I mean, why me?”

  “Why not you?”

  It was almost clinical, that voice.

  “All right, I understand about the money. I can understand that, but why me? Why me personally? There are a lot of rich guys you could have chosen. I’m just an honest businessman. I pay my taxes. I don’t understand
why you’re doing this. I’m a good man.”

  For the first time, Peterson heard the kidnapper’s voice change. Up until then, the bastard could well have been a robot. Now he laughed sardonically as if to say, “That’s rich,” and when he spoke, the already whispering voice had changed to a hateful hiss.

  “A good man? No, no, no, you don’t get to where you’re at by being good, Mr. Peterson.”

  “No, it’s the truth. Nobody’s perfect, but I do not deserve this!”

  The kidnapper was ready, calling his bluff. “You honestly believe you’re a good man?” he asked, with a tinge of sarcasm.

  “Yes! Yes, I do!” Peterson yelled back, steadfast in his convictions. “I believe in God, I follow the rules, I give to charity.”

  “Charity? God? Taxes? Oh, no, no, Anthony Peterson, you’re not a good man. Your history speaks for itself. Taxes? You’ve been cheating on taxes more than you have your wives. Charity? Shit, your charitable contributions are just another way to cheat on your goddam taxes. It all filters back to your profits, doesn’t it, foundation-boy? And God? What do you think God would say about that sort of thing, Peterson? Let God come and get you out of your little box.”

  Peterson’s eyes widened at the cruelty. “Wait, wait! Even if what you’re saying is true, and I ain’t sayin’ it is, what makes me deserve this in your…” his shaking voice gave way to anger for once, “… sick, twisted little mind? I’ve never done a goddam thing to deserve anything like this.”

  “Never?”

  “God, no, never! I’m a good–”

  “What about September twenty-fifth?” the kidnapper abruptly blurted.

  September again? His anniversary?

  Peterson’s blood ran cold, and sweat beaded on his forehead instantly. Those simple words were a blow to his gut. Images flowed into his head and paraded before his bloodshot mind’s eye. He paused, working his jaw wordlessly as he tried to find the words to defend himself.