Chapter 33 Closing In
As they were talking, a distant sound cut through the forest. Sirens. Faint at first, then growing steadily louder. Ethan, as well as the thugs, seemed to assume that it was the fire department responding to the fire at Ethan’s cabin.
“It certainly won’t be the Sheriff,” Ethan muttered under his breath, a cynical twist to his lips. Local law enforcement, in Thorne’s pocket, had proven useless time and again. But who then? He wasn’t sure, but it was a distraction, an opportunity.
Seeing no other way out, knowing that Mark and David would soon be in position, he called out, his voice carrying clearly, "We’re coming out!"
The bullhorn responded instantly. “Make sure you leave your weapons behind.”
Ethan dropped the .308, the heavy thud echoing in the suddenly silent cabin. He took a calculated risk, stepping through the shattered front door, hands raised high above his head in a gesture of surrender. The cold air hit his face, and he saw them: a line of armed men emerging from the trees, their weapons trained on him. But then, beyond them, through a break in the trees, he saw the flashing lights. Not the fire department, but three dark SUVs, heavy-duty, with the unmistakable placards of the county sheriff’s office pulling into the winding dirt lane.
In the same instant, from the left flank, David’s voice boomed, amplified by the sudden silence, “Thorne’s men! I’ve got one of them covered! Put down your weapon, now!”
From the right, Mark’s gravelly voice echoed, giving the same order. “This is your one warning! Drop everything!”
The sudden appearance of law enforcement, coupled with the flanking maneuvers by David and Mark, caught Thorne’s men completely off guard. Their formation broke, some turning to face David, others Mark, their attention fractured.
The Sheriff, a stern-faced man with a broad girth, stepped out of the lead SUV, his hand already on his sidearm. “County Sheriff! Drop your weapons! All of you!” Four deputies from the other two vehicles fanned out behind him, their rifles coming up.
Thorne’s men, caught between three forces, hesitated, then slowly began to lower their weapons, some dropping them with a clatter. David and Mark, seeing the Sheriff and his deputies taking over, also dropped their weapons.
Ethan didn’t wait for whatever was about to happen. His eyes had scanned the terrain, the layout of the road. He knew this was his only chance. As the Sheriff and his deputies moved to secure the area, as Thorne’s men were slowly being apprehended, Ethan didn’t look back. His mind was miles away, racing through the winding mountain roads, searching for her. He broke into a sprint, rushing for his truck, which was still parked further down the lane, hidden from the immediate view of the cabin. He fumbled with the keys, started the engine, threw it into reverse, spun it in a tight arc, and gunned it down the lane, leaving the chaos behind him. He didn’t know where Thorne had taken Clara, but he would find her. He had to get to Clara.
“Get rid of her,” Thorne’s voice, a silk-lined razor, sliced through the deadening silence.
The words were a brutal command, a death sentence delivered with the casualness of ordering coffee. Adrenaline surged through Clara. She didn’t think; she reacted. She sprinted for the door, the heavy oak slab suddenly a beacon of hope in the opulent, yet suffocating, room.
Before her fingers could even brush the cool brass handle, the hulking figure near his desk lurched toward her. He moved with a terrifying speed that belied his size, cutting her off, his massive hand clamping down on her arm.
Clara cried out, a raw, desperate sound, struggling against his grip. She kicked, flailing wildly, caught in a snare. Her cashmere sweater, a small comfort against the chill mountain air just hours ago, was now a hindrance, catching as she twisted. “Let me go! You bastard!” she screamed, her voice hoarse, tears stinging her eyes. But her struggles were futile. He was too strong, an immovable object to her desperate, flailing force.
The thug, unfazed by her resistance, let out a deep, bold laugh that rumbled from his chest, a sound devoid of humor, full of contempt. “She’s a feisty one, boss.”
Thorne, lounging back in his plush leather chair, joined in, a thin, cruel smile playing on his lips. His laugh was a dry, reptilian hiss. Clara’s stomach churned. They were enjoying this. She was prey, and they were the predators, reveling in her terror.
Then, Thorne’s thug, eyes devoid of any warmth, lingered on her, a chilling glint entering them. “Mind if I have a little fun with her first, boss?” he asked Thorne, his voice a low growl, a wicked grin stretching across his face.
Clara’s blood ran cold. The implication was clear, sickening. She renewed her struggles, a desperate, frantic energy coursing through her. “No! Please! Have some decency, Thorne!”
Thorne merely shrugged, a dismissive gesture that sealed her fate. “Do what you want,” he responded, his tone submissive. “Just make sure nobody ever finds the body.”
The words echoed in the sudden silence of the office, chilling Clara to the bone. Nobody ever finds the body. It was a casual instruction for murder. She was utterly helpless in his powerful grasp. He began to drag her, pulling her backwards, out of the office, her heels scraping against the polished hardwood floor.
The grand three-story house felt like a labyrinth of terror. Her captor, indifferent to her pleas and weakening struggles, dragged her down the wide, carpeted hall, past framed landscape paintings that seemed to mock her dire situation. Each step was a plummet deeper into despair. Down another flight of stairs they went, the descent echoing her spiraling terror.
As they reached the ground floor, she caught a glimpse of the young woman, Heidi, emerging from what looked like the utility room. Heidi’s eyes, wide and startled, met Clara’s for a fleeting second, a flicker of something unreadable before Heidi’s gaze darted away, her shoulders hunching, as if she could simply wish Clara’s terrifying ordeal out of existence. Clara tried to call out, to beg for help, but Boone’s grip over her mouth was like iron, dragging her relentlessly towards the back door.
He shoved the door open with a resounding thud against the wall, revealing the raw, crisp air of dusk. He dragged her across a short expanse of gravel, past manicured flowerbeds, towards a detached outbuilding, its weathered wood a dull gray in the gathering darkness. A workshop, she realized as he kicked open the door with a bone-jarring slam.
Tools hung neatly on pegboards, their sharp edges glinting in the single bare bulb illuminating the space. He released his grip with one hand and pressed her hard against the cold, rough-hewn wall with his powerful body. Her head hit with a dull thud, sending a jolt of pain through her.