Hostage Run Read online

  “No one’s passed the test yet,” said Miss Ferris flatly. “We’ve brought in two professional gamers, three Green Berets, and several Navy SEALs. Each one has been either torn to shreds by the demons or blown up by the bomb.”

  “Except one of the gamers—he committed suicide by jumping off the cliff,” Mars added. “But the point is: If they’d really been in the Realm, they’d have been dead. Worse than dead. What dies in there is trapped forever.”

  The Traveler unconsciously lifted his hand to touch the small metal cross he wore beneath his shirt. “Not forever,” he began to murmur—but Mars silenced him with a lifted hand, leaning forward to watch the 3-D images more closely.

  Rick was at the crisis point.

  The demon hordes were so close now, they filled Rick’s vision when he cast a frightened glance their way. It was hard to think with the sight of so many hideous red, twisted, fanged faces swarming at him. It looked like there were about a million of them. And those flying ones—the way their eye-rays burned the earth with white-hot fire; very bad news. The minute one of those babies touched him, he’d be smoke and ash.

  This wasn’t like the Realm. His life wasn’t really in danger, not in RL. But Mariel’s life very much was. If he flunked this test, they would not send him back into the MindWar. And if they sent someone else, there was no guarantee he would care enough to try to bring Mariel back with him.

  Rick had to solve this puzzle. He had to figure out a way.

  He looked at the bomb wedged into the earth. Its timer ticked steadily down. Forty-two seconds left. The demons swarmed toward him, filling the air with their shrieks. Rick felt sweat streaming out from under his hairline, streaking his cheeks like tears. For the life of him—for the life of Mariel—he could not figure out how to defuse this thing. Cut a circuit at random and he’d almost surely blow himself to kingdom come.

  He looked up again at the demon army, a wave of screaming evil. He couldn’t very well fight them off either.

  Some problems have no solution, he thought miserably. Some stories have no happy ending.

  He had only recently started praying again, and he didn’t find it easy. Deep in his heart, he was still angry at God for all that had been taken away from him: his football career, his scholarship, the strength of his legs. All the same, he breathed a quick prayer now: Please help me out here! I don’t know what to do. For Mariel.

  God didn’t answer—at least, Rick didn’t think he answered. But his own voice now spoke in his mind with a different tone.

  He thought: If the problem has so solution, solve a different problem. If the story has no happy ending, tell a different story.

  He gripped the small blade in his damp palm. He turned to face the oncoming demons. He felt his throat closing with fear. He had an idea—but man oh man, it was a dangerous idea.

  “Well, he’s brave at least,” Commander Mars muttered. “You have to give him that. The SEALs turned to fight, too.”

  “Yes,” droned Miss Ferris. “Just before the demons killed them.”

  “Watch,” said Rick’s dad. “My boy knows how to fight—but he knows how to think, too.”

  In fact, though, the professor sounded a lot more confident than he felt.

  Now, as Rick looked on, the leader of the demons gave a wild, high cry and broke from the pack. Racing forward, he swung a flaming mace above his head, a whiplash of fire, snapping out into the air in front of him. The flames were whirling in the direction of Rick’s face.

  Rick watched the Demon King come. He felt an old familiar rush of excitement go through him, the adrenaline of the football field. It washed away all fear, washed away anything but his ferocious will to win. There was no leg pain here. He could move as quickly as he used to when he was at his best. He bared his teeth with determination. His eyes blazed as they focused on the motion of the onrushing Demon King.

  The flaming mace whipped straight at his head. Closer. Closer. Then, just as it was about to snap out and strike him dead, Rick ducked quickly. He dropped to the ground. He rolled forward, under the spinning lash of fire. Then he leapt to his feet right in front of the Demon King and rammed his blade into the creature’s belly.

  The Demon King’s death shriek was deafening. Hot green blood gushed out of him and spilled over Rick’s forearm, burning like acid. Rick kept the dagger buried deep and used his other hand to grab the demon by the throat.

  At the same moment, a flying demon swooped down at him, shooting red beams from his eyes. Rick had seen him coming all along. He was counting on it, hoping for it.

  Holding the knife in the Demon King’s belly with one hand, gripping the Demon King’s throat with the other, he used his powerful arms to lift the evil being off the ground.

  The flying demon dive-bombed, its face a twisted red mask of terror. Its eyes flashed—then the heat beams shot out of them.

  Rick hoisted the Demon King’s body in the air and held it up above his head like a shield. The heat rays hit the Demon King—and good thing for King-Boy he was already dead, because he wouldn’t have liked it much when his body burst into flames.

  At that, Rick bent his knees, gave a deep growling shout, and hurled the flaming demon corpse at the winged attacker.

  The winged demon screeched and twisted to the side to avoid the fireball. His wings corkscrewed and lost their lift. He plummeted to the earth, smacking down so hard Rick felt the ground tremble beneath his feet.

  Or maybe that was the thunder of the onrushing demon army, who could say? They were mere yards away, seconds from sweeping over him, tearing him to pieces. The bomb in the earth was counting down its final seconds.

  Rick looked to the winged demon.

  Dazed for a moment, the creature was shaking the dust off itself like a dog shaking off water. Then it crouched, ready to spring into the air again. It lifted its red-hot eyes to the sky.

  It lifted off—and Rick grabbed it, wrapping his free hand around its leathery ankle as its huge wings flapped above him. Letting his sword hand dangle by his side, Rick let the flying demon pull him off the ground. He was surprised by the strength and speed of the thing. His weight didn’t seem to slow it down at all. It carried him high and then higher into the air. With a hoarse, puzzled scream, it twisted its neck and saw him. It clearly wanted to blast the unwanted burden off its leg with its fire rays. But it couldn’t get the angle, couldn’t take the shot without setting itself aflame. It had no choice but to carry Rick even higher, hoping to shake him off and drop him onto the sharp rocks below.

  Rick flew up and looked down. He saw the earth—and the horde of demons covering the earth—become smaller and smaller below him. As the flying demon carried him impossibly high into the sky, Rick watched the demons wash like a red tide over the surface of the cliff. Even the other flying demons were far beneath him now.

  Rick was counting down in his mind. Three—two—one . . . He reached zero and flashed a wicked grin.

  Bye-bye, Demon Guys, he thought.

  And just then—as if he’d given the command—the bomb went off below him. The sea of red creatures was engulfed in an even greater flood of fire. The flames spread swiftly over the entire plain. They boiled up from the earth to challenge the very vault of heaven. The sight was so spectacular that Rick crowed in triumph—even though he could feel the heat of the fire through his sneaker soles, even though he was dangling above certain death, his sweaty hand desperately gripping the flying demon’s leg.

  “That’s it,” said Mars. “Pull him out. He solved the puzzle. We’re sending him into the Realm ASAP.”

  Rick’s dad—the Traveler—turned to Mars quickly, blinking behind his spectacles in surprise.

  “But he hasn’t gotten out of the situation yet,” he said, gesturing to where his son’s 3-D image dangled precariously above the sea of fire. “He hasn’t proven he can survive!”

  Mars had already risen to his feet, was already following Miss Ferris along the row of seats toward the exit aisle.
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  “We don’t need him to survive,” the commander barked to the Traveler over his shoulder. “We just need him to win. He passed the test. He’s ready.”

  4. PRISONER OF WAR

  MOLLY OPENED HER eyes on darkness. Panic shot through her. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Images flashed in her muddy brain. Memories. The thugs in the workout room. The Troll. His gun. For a second, she actually wondered if she might be dead—dead and buried. Or even worse: buried but not dead, left to smother in a narrow coffin six feet beneath the earth. In terror and panic, she began to cry—which made it even harder to breathe. She was strangling on her own tears . . .

  She had to steady herself. Had to get control. By pure force of will, she made herself draw a long draught of air in through her nose. She was gagged—some kind of tape over her mouth—that’s why she couldn’t get enough air. But her nose was clear. She could breathe if she tried. If she quit crying and really tried.

  She did. She fought down her tears. She breathed. She stared into the darkness. Was she blindfolded? No. There was a faint—very faint—line of gray light just visible in front of her. She had a sense of motion, too. She could hear motion. Cars. Cars on a highway.

  Understanding washed over her like nausea. She was locked in the trunk of a car—that’s what it was. Her hands were bound behind her. She was gagged. The Troll had stunned her with some kind of electric jolt, then the Smiling Death Guy had injected her. She could still feel the aching pain in her neck. Her arms and back ached, too. She sensed that she had been unconscious for hours.

  Tears welled up in her eyes again, but she forced them back down. She had to keep breathing. Keep steady. At least she was alive. Start with that. And pray.

  Molly’s faith was a secret thing. Her father was an adamant atheist. He thought religion was unscientific. Molly could remember her dad and Rick’s dad having friendly arguments about the subject long into the night. Rick’s dad was just the opposite of hers. A devout Christian, he thought that science made no sense without God. “The odds that an accidental universe would accidentally create a creature like us who could understand it,” he argued, “well, it’s like a random wind blowing through a junkyard and accidentally assembling a jet plane.”

  Molly had never told her father that she agreed with Rick’s dad more than him. Her father had strong feelings about it, and she thought it might upset him. But it wasn’t Dr. Dial’s arguments that convinced her. The fact was: Ever since she was a little girl, she had known God was there. She had felt him with her. She had talked to him. She had felt him guiding her, and comforting her. Whenever her father explained his philosophy to her, she had always nodded respectfully. But in simple truth? It had never really occurred to her not to believe.

  Now she said a prayer in her mind. Asked God for help. Guidance. Then she went quiet inside, just breathing, just trying to feel God there, feel that he loved her, was with her, hated to see this happening to her. The prayer didn’t get her out of the jam (as her father would’ve been quick to point out), but it calmed her down and gave her strength. And that’s what she needed. Strength. Otherwise the tears and panic would take her over.

  Okay, better; she was calmer. She could think now. The panic was still urging her to thrash and fight: Have to get out, have to get out! But she could see that wouldn’t help any. When she tried to struggle against her bonds, there was no give at all. Her wrists were taped so tightly together she could hardly budge them. All the same, she began to work them back and forth what little she could, hoping she could get enough leverage eventually to slip free. Not much hope of that, though. What else could she do?

  Listen, she thought. Listen and look. Try to figure out where she was, where they were taking her. At least that way, if she got the chance to call for help, she’d be able to direct her rescuers.

  She breathed steadily through her nose. Lay very still, straining to listen, to hear anything she could. Yes: there were voices. The men in the car. They were talking. Laughing. Harsh masculine laughter. Probably discussing what they would do with her. She couldn’t hear the words. Part of her didn’t even want to.

  The car slowed and then the road got rougher. That meant they had left the highway and were traveling over side roads, Molly figured.

  The men’s laughter grew louder. Now one of them spoke so sharply, she actually understood him:

  “Hey! Listen to this!”

  Molly listened as hard as she could. There was a new noise. Music! And wait! Not just any music. That was Kellie Pickler singing “Don’t You Know You’re Beautiful?” Then more male laughter.

  Molly’s pulse sped up as she understood. No bunch of guys were getting down to Kellie Pickler. That wasn’t their music. It was hers. It was her running mix! They were fiddling with her phone, with her JogHard app!

  Which meant they had made a terrible mistake—terrible for them, that is. Good for her.

  They had taken her phone and left it on. The phone had a GPS in it. It could be tracked by law enforcement. As soon as people realized she was missing, as soon as her friends or her mom and dad called the police, the first thing the police would do would be to try to locate her phone. If her kidnappers would just keep it on until they reached their destination . . .

  But just as she thought that, the music was interrupted by the voice of JogHard.

  “You are at Highway 313 and Cooper Road!” JogHard announced. “You have run 157.4 miles west at a pace of 74.8 miles per hour!”

  The electronic voice was immediately followed by an angry male growl. Molly couldn’t make out the words, but she didn’t have to. JogHard had reminded these clownish thugs that keeping her phone was a dumb idea. Another moment and the music stopped altogether. They had probably shut the phone down or thrown it out the window. There was no more laughter after that.

  Too late, Molly thought. JogHard stored her workout info in the cloud so she could keep records of her exercise. If the police just knew to look for the app, they would find her.

  Highway 313 and Cooper Road. 157.4 miles to the west, she repeated in her mind. Remember that.

  They kept on driving. Not long—half an hour at most. Molly tried to keep track of the turns. Left, right, right again . . . It was difficult. She was still working her hands in her bonds. Not getting very far with that. Getting tired. Nauseous from the drug and the motion. Bathed in sweat. She needed to go to the bathroom, too. Still she tried to stay focused. Another turn. Left, right . . .

  Now the car began to slow.

  What happened next happened very fast. The car stopped with a jolt. Molly heard the car doors squeaking open, thunking shut. Men’s voices, muttering. Then the trunk popped—and the men were peering in at her where she lay bound and helpless.

  It was night, dark. Their faces were bathed in the hellish red of the taillights. She saw the man she’d busted in the nose. His lopsided honker and swollen eyes made him look grotesque, like a demon.

  Without a word, two of the men grabbed her by the arms and hauled her out into the night. Clean cold winter air washed over her: a relief after the suffocating trunk. Her legs, cramped in the tight space for so long, had fallen asleep. When the men set her on her feet, the pins and needles were paralyzing. She nearly folded; nearly collapsed.

  They didn’t give her a chance to fall, though. They frogmarched her across a short space of open ground. When she stumbled, they dragged her so that the toes of her running shoes scraped over the dirt. Molly looked around wildly, trying to see where she was, to get any clue that might help her locate herself. Confused, she took in everything. Night sky. Stars. Naked branches. Towering pines. There was a broad building up ahead, four stories tall. She couldn’t figure out what it was. Couldn’t make sense of its rambling shape.

  Then they were inside. Deeper darkness. A flashlight beam shot chaotically over chipped, dirty white walls. The men held her arms tight, their fingers digging painfully into her flesh. They growled at her, “Let’s go. Move it.” She stumb
led along in their grasp.

  It was all happening so quickly she couldn’t think. Where were they taking her? What were they going to do to her when they got there? There were no pleasant answers. Tears of fear flowed from her eyes, but she stayed silent, praying in her mind: Comfort my mother and father and brother. Give them strength. Give me strength. Help me. Nothing out loud. She wasn’t going to beg these lowlifes for mercy. She wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

  She tried to keep her feet under her as they hauled her upstairs. She cried out behind her gag as she stubbed her toe on a step, then banged her ankle. Up one flight. Around a corner. Down a dark hallway, the flashlight picking out broken light fixtures, more scarred walls.

  A door up ahead. The thug with the flashlight opened it. The other two—the two who had her by the arms—hurled her through.

  Molly staggered forward several steps. With her arms bound behind her, she couldn’t keep her balance. She stumbled and went down, twisting as she fell so that she landed on her shoulder. It was a hard fall. It jolted her. She felt the ache in her bones.

  It was even darker in here than out in the hall. The flashlight beam careened this way and that, picking out one thug’s face then another’s. She remembered them from the workout room. There was the Nose Guy and there was Thug One and there was Smiley McDeath and—Molly took a sharp breath—he was holding an ugly-looking combat knife, suitable for murder. The blade glinted in the flashlight’s beam.

  Is this it? Are they going to kill me? Comfort my family . . .

  Holding the knife, the smiling man crouched over her where she lay on the floor. Her mind went blank with fear. She stared through the dark at the thug’s thin, skeletal face. Caught in the outglow of the flashlight, it looked like a Halloween mask.

  He leaned in close to her. She expected to feel the blade of the knife drive into her body. The agony. The life pouring out of her. But the next moment, with a sharp, violent movement, Smiley McDeath cut the tape that bound her wrists. Her hands were free. Smiley grabbed the tape on her mouth and yanked. Burning pain shot over her face. Her lip started bleeding. But it felt good to take a full breath. She gasped greedily at the air.