Ricochet: Extraction Point, Page 2

  Travis backhanded her cheek again, this time, so hard that Quinn’s ears were ringing and her vision went fuzzy.

  He snarled in frustration, using the hem of his denim shirt to wipe off his face. Quinn stared up at him, her eyelids drooping, and a trickle of blood running down her chin. She took a good look at what she had done over a year ago to his previously handsome appearance and smirked.

  “Looking good, Trav.” Giddy and nearly delirious from exhaustion and endorphins, Quinn giggled.

  He roared with rage. The last thing she saw before blacking out was his hands spreading open to clench around her throat.

  Chapter 2

  “Come on, Clint! It’s been hours already!” Rick barked from his seat in Mission Control, Tucker on one side, Clint on the other. Sweat had soaked through another one of Rick’s shirts, a physical reminder of the extreme anxiety he was experiencing. Fuck, he would have to go to the locker room to change again.

  Clint swiveled his chair to face his friend. “Rick, keep it together, man. There’s dozens of hotels around the airport, hundreds if you count the entire metro Atlanta area. We’re all working on it.” The big man eyed his distressed friend cautiously before returning to his computer screen. Rick’s fuse was so short he was wired to blow at any moment.

  “Jesus Christ. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Rick roared, yanking off his Bluetooth headset and hurling it across the room. “That sick asshole has probably already—” he forced down a sob. The thought of Quinn at the mercy of a man so horribly cruel that she left without money or a means of support made him physically ill. How anyone could harm such a gentle, tiny thing like Quinn? Rick ground his teeth against the nausea. “We’re never going to find her like this!”

  He was just about to leave to get sick in the restroom— again— when Tucker’s excited shout made him jump.

  “I got something!”

  Rick scrambled over to Tucker’s workstation, grabbing the back of the man’s chair. “What? What do you have?” Hope shot through him, his heart clenching in his chest.

  “Here,” he pointed at one of the computer screens, “the sedan getting on Georgia 400 at Lenox Road.” Tucker twisted his head around to face Rick. “Headed north.”

  “North?” Clint asked, his brow furrowed. “So not towards the airport. We’ve been looking in the wrong direction? All this fucking time!” Clint’s voice began to rise in anger.

  Rick rubbed his eyes, the brief moment of hope shattered. Fear bled its way back in, coating every surface of his body, inside and out. Hardy could be headed anywhere—fuck —he could be in North Carolina or Tennessee by now.

  “So what next?” he asked Tucker.

  “Now, we check every camera we can find going north on 400 to see where he got off.” Tucker’s fingers flew over his keypad. The images on various screens flicking by at warp speed.

  Rick pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Are there anymore traffic cameras up that way?”

  “Not until the junction with 285,” Tucker said unemotionally. Then he grinned, his wide, mischievous, I’m going to break the law now grin. “Not publically accessible cameras, that is.”

  Clint smiled, thumping Tucker on the back proudly. He turned to Rick. “We’re gonna get her, Ricochet. Just have faith.”

  “Yeah,” Rick scowled, “faith.” That wasn’t something Rick had a lot of. Today, he needed to find some, and fast.

  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.

  The four men stood silent, each one considering the various possibilities.

  “Well,” Clint said, “there are two large-ish cities, Roswell and Alpharetta, then— not much. Just suburbs then the lake.”

  “Lake?” Tucker asked. “Maybe he has a boat?”

  “How the fuck would he get a boat here from Texas, Tucker?” Rick snapped. He was itching for a fight, egging the man on so he could get one.

  “Hey, fuck you Rick!” Tucker twisted in his seat, pointing angrily at his teammate. “Maybe he fucking rented one! Do you want me to immediately discredit the possibility or do you want me to be thorough?”

  “You’re pissing me off, Tucker! Don’t lecture me on being thorough!” Rick took a step towards the other man, who responded by getting out of his chair, tossing his glasses on the desk, and raising his fists in front of him.

  “Whoa!” Clint jumped between the two men, Xavier ready to help separate them if needed. “Let’s chill the fuck out, okay?” His gaze flicked back and forth from Rick to Tucker. “It’s tense in here, this whole fucked up situation is tense. But you’re not going to help Quinn if you’re at each other’s throats!”

  Rick grumbled under his breath, knowing Clint was right.

  “Got it, Rick?” Clint stared at his friend, almost nose to nose in the small room.

  Rick exhaled, his shoulders dropping. He hated this feeling of uselessness. “Fine. Check for boats. I’m going to search Quinn’s apartment while you do that. I can’t sit here and do nothing.” The twitchiness and agitation had Rick wanting to scratch his own skin off. He was always slightly restless, but with the stress of the situation, the very real potential for Quinn to die today, plus the fact that he drank way too much caffeine… Rick felt as if he might explode at any second. He was a foreigner trapped in his own body.

  Without another word, Rick spun on his heel and stormed out of the room.

  It was easy to break into Quinn’s tiny apartment above the gym for the second time that day. Rick frowned, it was too easy. Making a mental note to get a better lock, he closed the door quietly behind him. Rick stood still for a moment. The reality that Quinn was gone finally hit him. It was already well past dinnertime and they still weren’t anywhere close to finding her. It was sinking in that there was a very good chance that she wouldn’t return.

  Hang on doll. Just hang on a little longer.

  I don’t give up. Almost a decade in the Marines, dozens of covert operations, and I’ve never left a man behind or left a mission incomplete. I will get her back.

  Fuck! Easier said than done. He’d never had a mission like this, one in which his own future, his own personal happiness, was dependent on the outcome. His body shook and his knees nearly collapsed beneath him. Rick struggled to hold in the sobs that were causing his chest and eyes to burn like fire.

  Man the fuck up, Rick. Quinn is depending on you to keep her alive.

  Teetering on the edge of either falling apart or finding his girl, Rick fell into Marine mode, shoving away his grief and getting to work.

  Chapter 3

  Quinn opened her eyes to a dark room, the only light coming from the thin sliver of moon outside the window. Her head felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. A constant throbbing was squeezing it like a vice. She couldn’t see out of one eye and knew with almost absolute certainty that her left cheekbone was fractured. Quinn ran her tongue over her dry, swollen lips, flinching when she touched the areas that were split open.

  With great effort, she pushed herself to a semi-sitting position, shocked to find that she was back upstairs on her childhood bed and her hands were untied. Quinn glanced around the room, ignoring the sharp pain that the action caused in her one good eye. She was surprised to see a glass of water and a damp washcloth on the side table.

  Quinn scanned the rest of the room, knowing that Travis must be hiding out nearby, waiting to do something cruel. Why would he leave these things for her? Kindness was not one of her ex-husband’s best traits. In fact, it wasn’t a trait even remotely in his universe.

  Desperate to feel clean, Quinn took the cloth, gently rubbing the blood off of her face and hands the best she could. It hurt so much she could hardly stand the pressure of the soft fabric on her skin.

  The loud rumbling of a car starting in the driveway caused Quinn to pull all the way upright much too quickly. A hazy darkness clouded her vision for a moment, the urge to be sick rushing into her head. She stilled, waiting for the nausea to pass. Quinn could hear the car pull out of the driveway, the sound getting farther from the house with each passing second.

  Did he actually leave?

  Quinn’s heart fluttered in her chest. Could she escape? Maybe he thought she’d be unconscious longer than she was and he got careless. Maybe he ran out of food and had no choice but to go get some. Why would he leave her unbound?

  She didn’t know and she didn’t care. She didn’t even know if it was midnight or almost morning. Even though the thought of moving made her sore muscles clench painfully in anticipation of the agony that was sure to follow, she took a deep breath to steel herself. Crying out at the fire that ripped through her damaged body, Quinn pushed through the torture and sat up on the bed.

  It was too much. Quinn knew she had to hurry, but the effort just from sitting already had her panting heavily, which made her ribs feel like a hot poker was gouging into her side. Gritting her teeth, she went to swing her legs off the side of the bed.

  Hope…

  That damn traitorous bitch. She got me again.

  Quinn should know better by now than to let hope in, but she did, every single time. And once again, hope failed her.

  The rattle and clank of metal should have been enough to tell Quinn what Travis had done, but she needed to see it. Needed proof that her husband was as sadistic of a bastard as she remembered. Twisting around so her one good eye could focus in on her right ankle, Quinn got her proof. There, around her swollen, purple-tinged skin was one end of Travis’ handcuffs. The other end locked tight around the heavy metal frame of her antique bed.

  There was no point in screaming. The nearest neighbors were nowhere near close enough to hear. Quinn wasn’t one to give up, but she couldn’t come up
with the strength to scream even if anyone actually could hear.

  Over two years with Travis and she plotted her escape every single day, no matter what he did to her or how many dark days bled together. But right now, in this moment, Quinn didn’t have any fight left in her. He won. Game over.

  When Travis came back he would kill her, of that she had no doubt. Maybe not today or even tomorrow, Travis always did like to draw out his punishments. But she knew… there was no way she would ever make it another two years. Quinn would find a way to push him so he would finish this long before then. Soon it would all be over. She’d rather die than spend her life with her husband.

  Sinking into the soft pillows, her tender, bruised flesh throbbing, Quinn cried.

  A few hours after midnight on Monday morning, sixteen hours since Quinn went missing, Mack called a meeting in the conference room. The tired soldiers took their seats, a somber look on each man’s face.

  “Alright, as you know, we’ve determined that Travis Hardy kidnapped Quinn from the parking garage of an Atlanta lawyer’s office. Tucker tracked the car to north of the city.” Mack stopped and frowned, “Where’s Rick?”

  “I’m here.” The door opened, revealing a shockingly scruffy-looking Rick Brennan. He took a seat, placing a thick stack of papers in front of him.

  “What’s that?” Mack pointed at the pile.

  Rick rubbed at his eyes. After staring at computer screens and small print documents for hours on end, his eyes were on fire, burning from being open too long.

  “Some stuff I got from Quinn’s apartment. It may not be relevant, but I grabbed what looked important so we could go through it.”

  Mack paused, staring at Rick for a brief moment before continuing. He shrugged off the feeling that Mack was seeing right through him. Mack knew that Quinn was more than a friend and coworker to Rick. Hell, he was pretty sure that everyone here knew that just by the way he was acting. It wasn’t as if he told anyone directly, except Clint and Mara, and they only knew because of Mara’s close friendship with Quinn. Everyone else figured it out on their own. They were highly trained in intelligence gathering after all. Reading people was a very big part of that skill.