Cargo: an edge of your seat thriller Read online

  Peterson closed his eyes tightly and sighed. He had been a notorious partier himself. Somehow, he knew precisely where this was going. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “It wasn’t…Anthony, it wasn’t a problem before. Well, not a big problem. We went out, partied, came back here…did the deed…fell asleep, and then, you called.”

  “So…”

  “So, we both, I…I mean this girl had a few, and I guess she got bored from all the work I was doing…for you, you know?”

  “I get the picture.”

  “So, I guess she got back into the stash on her own.”

  “Tom?” Peterson calmly spoke. “What did she take?”

  “Nothing,” he said defensively. “Well, not much.”

  “Not much?”

  “Just a little low-grade acid, you know.”

  “Acid.”

  “And some heroin. And…uh, a speedball.”

  “Heroin and a speedball?”

  “Well, maybe two? Two or three speedballs.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Then, I gave her a little bit of coke to ease her down.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Um…” Tom thought. “Well, that…and some pot…and a little…little bit of mescaline.”

  “Jesus Christ, Tom, my life and my wife are on the line, and you’re busy hitting some girl over the head with an entire fucking pharmacy?”

  “…and some vodka,” Tom added nervously.

  Peterson looked off to the side, frustrated and in almost complete disbelief that this already nightmarish night had to get worse. “Tom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you high right now?”

  “Oh, no!” Tom said. He sounded amused by the question, and it was not quite believable. “You know I don’t…I’m straight.”

  But Tom didn’t sound ‘straight’ to his boss.

  “Tom?” Peterson was patronizing, talking to Tom as if he were a small, dull child. “Tom? You’ve been through two rehabs already. You promised me you had this under control.”

  “I do,” Tom said shakily. “I do… just… don’t worry about me, it’s her.”

  “What happened?”

  Tom coughed nervously and laid out the scenario. “Well, after you hung up on me, I checked on her, and she was…ugh, she was vomiting in her sleep. I guess she had passed out, you know, after…while I was busy with you. And then, she puked in her sleep.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “No, I mean, it’s okay. I put her on her side so she doesn’t choke. And uh, well, she started coughing up blood too.” He sighed, confused and scared. “It’s just now…I, I, I can’t get her to wake up. I’ve tried everything. She’s, she’s uh, she’s turning kind of blue, and I, uh…”

  “Turning blue? Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tom, call a doctor, now!”

  Tom laughed-cried a freaky, tearful sound and said, “I cuh…I can’t call a fucking doctor, muh-man. I’ve got two felony DUIs under my belt. Third strike, and I’m a goner. Game over!”

  Peterson couldn’t believe he had to be sucked into this shit. How irresponsible could one man be?

  Tom continued ranting. “And that’s not even counting my wife. I call an ambulance, and she finds out about this? Forget the cops, man, she’ll murder me. I’ll be in worse shape than you are now!”

  Peterson would have berated Tom’s stupidity, if he could, but what he had said was true. Tom really was the only one who could help him. The only one with access to everything and the knowledge of how to move it all. He fought back his highly fucking irritated side and tried to stay calm and give instructions.

  “Now, Tom? Tom!”

  “Y-yeah?”

  “I want you to call a Doctor Ivy. Now, do you remember Doctor Ivy? I’m almost positive I gave you the number. It should be in your phone now. That’s Ivy. I-v-y. Check now.”

  “Okay.”

  Peterson didn’t wait. “He can help you. He’s a friend, he’s specialist in these situations and he’s very…discreet. Just call him up, he makes house calls.”

  Tom croaked, “Okay, I have it here, but I really think she might be dead by the time he gets here.”

  Peterson closed his eyes. This just kept getting worse and worse. “Well, then, you’ve got to get her to him…fast! Hurry! The address should be in your phone too. Where are you now?”

  “I’m in a hotel downtown.”

  “All right, then you should be fine. Wrap her up, pick her up, and get her to your car. Quick.”

  “You want I should wipe the vomit and blood off her face first?”

  Peterson grunted. Tom wasn’t thinking straight due to fear and stress. At least Peterson hoped only fear and stress was fucking Tom up. If he really was high…

  “Uh, yeah, Tom, I think that might be a good idea, Tom,” he said patronizingly, while actually nodding at the phone.

  He heard Tom put the phone down, then rustling noises and a pained “OOF!” as he picked the girl up. The hotel door slammed behind him.

  Quietly, Peterson heard, “I’m in the hall…aw, fuck.” More rustling followed, then Tom spoke again, sounding strained and nasally. “I’m in the hallway with her now.”

  “Put me on speaker phone, Tom, don’t try to carry the girl and the phone at the same time.”

  “Aw, yeah. Smart.” He laughed. Peterson heard a beep and then a thud that sounded like Tom had dropped the phone onto the girl’s chest.

  “Now, Tom, we’re going to have to get you on a Bluetooth headset or something so that you–”

  “SHH, SHH, SHH!” Tom shushed him. “There’s some people coming toward me.”

  “Well, keep moving, then,” Peterson whispered sharply.

  This was ridiculous. At some point, he had to wonder what was worse, dealing with Tom’s buffoonery or being electrocuted by his captors.

  “Ha! Hello! Oh, yeah, she’s fine!” Tom said, presumably to the other guests. “We just had sort of TOO good a night, if you get my meaning, ah? Yeah. Debauchery. HA HA!”

  Peterson rolled his eyes then jerked straight again when he heard a tripping sound, followed by Tom cursing and something heavy falling on the phone. Then, there was silence.

  “Tom? Tom? Hello?” Oh, Jesus. Was he on his own now? He looked around the small chamber and his eyes went wild with fear. “Tom? Tom, please!”

  Finally, he heard more rustling, and Tom’s voice saying, “Sorry.”

  “What the hell happened, Tom?” Peterson demanded.

  “I just dropped her.”

  Peterson shook his head and closed his eyes, trying to remain calm. “Well, pick her up, Tom!”

  “Okay.”

  Had the stakes not been so high, Peterson would have felt like the straight man in a very ridiculous black comedy.

  “I’m coming to the car now,” Tom said. “Hey, what do you think would be better for her in this state? Put her in the trunk or lay her down in the back seat.”

  Peterson kept a straight face even in his sarcasm, saying, “Well, you know you could be a gentleman and put her in the front seat.”

  “Front seat. Got it,” Tom said breathlessly.

  Peterson heard the car door open, and he added, “Fasten her seatbelt, Tom.”

  “Seatbelt. Got it,” he said, breathing heavily.

  Peterson listened while the door slammed, Tom pranced around to the other side, got in, and started the car.

  “Oh, come on!” Tom said, and Peterson could hear the engine revving, but no sounds signifying it was going anywhere. “Fuck, man!” Tom said and kept pushing the gas.

  “Tom?” Peterson asked, impatiently. “Are you in park?”

  He heard a click, and then, the engine roared.

  “Idiot,” Peterson muttered under his breath and hoped Tom hadn’t heard him.

  The car sped backwards with screeching tires and then crashed into something.

  Peterson yanked the phone from his ear.

  “Tom?”

  “Yeah. I
’m here. I just…backed into a street light.”

  This had left the realm of ludicrous a long time ago. He silently hoped he was unconscious somewhere, and this was just some long, dangerous, extremely annoying nightmare.

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  “No, we’re okay,” Tom said, almost casually.

  “Then drive, Tom, drive!”

  The car roared, and Tom said, “Yeah, yeah.”

  Tom’s souped-up Charger sounded like it was rocketing down the street. That was good. Speed would save his ass sooner. The entire container seemed to rumble at the sound of the engines.

  “Red light coming up.”

  Peterson sneered. “How’s she looking?”

  Tom paused as if checking her, then said, “Not good.”

  Peterson shouted, “Then run the fucking red light, Tom!”

  “Run it?” Tom asked, taken aback.

  “You see a lot of cross traffic?”

  “None.”

  “Cops?”

  “Nope!”

  “Well, no cop, no stop! Run that goddam thing!” Peterson yelled. This was almost fun, in a morbid sort of way.

  The car rumbled louder as Tom said, “O… kay” and accelerated toward the intersection.

  Peterson had to imagine him gunning the engine as the noise of the engine hit its crescendo as it zoomed through the intersection like a race car passing through the finish line.

  “WOO-HOO!” Tom yelled victoriously. “Oh yeah! Oh-ho-ho, my God, that was my first red light.”

  Peterson was relieved but still nervous. “Well, don’t dwell on it, Tom, keep going if you want to save three goddamn lives tonight.”

  “I do,” Tom said, then added, “Oh, God, another red light coming up.”

  “How’s it look?”

  “It looks, um…good. Uh, pretty clear.” He chuckled. “No cop, no stop, right?”

  Peterson was concerned, wide-eyed, but said “If you think you can make it, do it!”

  Tom was excited and nervous and still sounded crazy. “Ohhhhhhh…” he started, almost emulating the engine. “I thiiiiiink…I can do iiiiiit!”

  The engine revved again, and Peterson’s jaw dropped open and his fist clenched as he listened intently.

  The car sounded dangerously fast, building again to that crescendo.

  He’s gonna make it! Peterson thought. The sonofabitch is gonna make it!

  Then, he heard Tom’s tires screech, and the phone slide around the cab of the car. Peterson heard many car horns and squealing tires, as if a wreck was imminent.

  He closed his eyes, waiting for the crash, and tightened his fist so hard it shook. Then, the car zoomed again, and the honking horns were far behind.

  Tom shouted in ecstatic glee, “Ohhhhhh, my fucking GOD, that was fucking sweet!”

  Peterson called loudly, knowing that with the dropped phone, he had more of the car to cover now to be heard, “Okay, Tom, I’m glad you’re having fun, but maybe we should think about–”

  “Oh, no, Anthony, I’ve got a sharp turn coming up! Am I supposed to brake or accelerate on sharp turns?”

  “Tom, now, Tom!” Peterson called to him. Tom was playing with his own life as well as the lives of three others, including Anthony goddam Peterson’s. “Tom, brake, please brake!” he shouted.

  The tires screeched like angry birds of prey as Peterson heard the car spinning as if out of control.

  “WOO-HOO! So sweet! Oh, my fucking God, I feel like a stock car racer!”

  “Okay, Tom. Slow down. Listen to me.”

  “What? Hang on, I can’t hear you. Let me slow down and get the phone.”

  Peterson sighed and shook his head. Of all the people to have your life in the hands of, he had to have his in the hands of Tom fucking Pocase.

  “Okay, I’m here. The phone was on the floor,” Tom said. “Aw shit!”

  “What?”

  “I almost hit a parked car. That would be bad, right?”

  “Yes, Tom. That would be bad, but you didn’t, did you? Now what’s the GPS say?”

  “Five minutes?”

  “Okay, are you going to be okay now on your own?”

  Tom sounded confident and even thrilled. “Hell yeah, I’m good. We’re both good now. She’s definitely breathing right now.”

  “Okay, Tom, that’s fine, now, that’s fine.” Peterson felt again as if he were talking to a hyper child. “I’m going to hang up now and–”

  “No! Why?”

  “Tom? I need to call the doctor for you and tell him you’re coming and that you’ve got a special package. Now, when you’re done, you call me back after you’ve left her with him, you got that?”

  “I will!”

  “And Tom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “No more running red lights, and you slow down around those corners. If you die, I die, the girl dies, and Susan dies.”

  “No pressure,” Tom mumbled. “But I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “I know you will,” Peterson said, calmly pleased. “Thank you, Tom.”

  He could still hear the car speeding down the roadway as he hung up the line.

  He put the phone over his heart and took a breath.

  Jesus.

  If the kidnappers didn’t kill Anthony Peterson, Tom sure as hell might do it for them.

  10

  Unbound and Ungagged: 4:25 AM

  Anthony Peterson’s wife, Susan, was alone in the room, as planned.

  Every so often she could almost feel someone looking in on her. It was that strange, universal feeling of being watched. Of course, she couldn’t see who they were or hear much of anything. The blindfold they had tied (a bit too tightly) around her head also covered her ears and made everything sound muffled.

  This further impacted the brief conversation she had had with her husband. From what she could hear, however, he sounded terrified and, for once, deeply in love with her.

  The bastard.

  Why hadn’t he bothered to make her feel loved before this terrible day?

  She was terribly uncomfortable. The ropes hurt, and the chair was hard. She couldn’t even shift around for comfort in this horrible situation.

  She didn’t know who they were or how many they were. That made it all the more frightening. Her entire world was now darkness and muted noises. That, and the taste of the duct tape across her mouth.

  She bowed her head and thought of trying to sleep again. She doubted she would. Every time she slept, she gained the comforting feeling that this was all a nightmare and that she could wake up and be free.

  Then, she awoke and found that reality was worse than any nightmare.

  Beneath the blindfold, her eyes widened as she heard a high-pitched noise. What was it? She couldn’t place it at first.

  It was…a creaky hinge. Someone was entering the room.

  “MMM! MMMM!” she struggled to speak.

  “I’m taking the tape off now. Don’t scream, or I’ll have to hurt you,” a deep, emotionless male voice said. She stopped attempting to communicate. “Do you understand?”

  Susan nodded twice and then raised her head to allow easy access to the tape. A rough hand slowly peeled off one edge, then ripped it off quickly.

  “Gah!” Susan gasped at the stinging pain.

  “Best to do it all at once,” the cold male voice said.

  “Are you freeing me? Did Anthony get the money?” she asked with hope in her voice.

  “No, not yet. They needed someone to check on you. I was bored enough to volunteer.”

  Susan didn’t respond, though the words caused her hope to sink. The voice was so cold and cruel. She knew it wasn’t the voice of the kidnapper. The boss, or whoever he was, but the words proved that she didn’t mean anything to this man. If Anthony failed to come through, then this man would probably be one of her rapists.

  “Here, I’m going to give you some water,” the man said and she felt a plastic rim touch her lips. “I’m squeezing now,” he said, and
she gave a slight nod as the water flowed into her mouth, slowly so that she didn’t choke. She gulped it down with gusto. She felt as if she was dying of thirst. “That’s enough,” he then said and withdrew the bottle.

  “Why are you doing this?” Susan asked pleadingly.

  “No questions. I’m not here to talk,” he said. “If I ask you a question, you answer. Aside from that, keep it shut.”

  She then felt his hands on her head. He felt around her long, light brown hair, almost tenderly, as if feeling for something. Was he going to skip the wait and rape her now?

  “What are you doing?” Susan asked, timidly.

  He stroked her around the eyes and ears, around where her blindfold was tied, and then withdrew his hands. “Do you have a headache?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Splitting.”

  “I’m not surprised. You don’t have any bumps that signify a concussion, but this damn thing is on too tight. I should’ve done it my damned self.”

  “You did this? You’re the one who took me?”

  He chuckled coldly. “One of them, yeah. But I’m not the one who put this on. I’m going to take it off of you and replace it,” he said, and Susan felt that glimmer of optimism once more before he added “That is if, and only if, you promise to look straight ahead. If I see either one of your eyeballs, I’m going to pluck it out. You got it?”

  Susan gasped loudly. It was almost a small scream. Then, she nodded. “I promise I won’t look.”

  “Right,” the man said and began to untie the blindfold.

  It came off, and she felt immediate relief, as if blood was finally flowing properly throughout her head. She could hear a few small sounds in the distance, and she could see that she was in a dark, neatly organized storage room with olive-drab paint covering everything and a very small window in the door. Nothing on the floor but her chair and an unmarked, olive-green duffle bag propped up in the corner. Every shelf was meticulously organized, from what she could see.

  “Where is this place?”

  “No questions, Mrs. Anthony Peterson,” the cold voice responded. “This isn’t an interview we’re doing here. You’re a captive. Your life is on the line, and that’s all you need to know. They put you in here because you wouldn’t stop whining and crying, and nobody wanted to listen to it anymore. I gave you some water to keep you alive…for the time being.”