| Mystery and Crime Fiction posted March 23, 2017 |
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What happens when the President's daughter is kidnapped?
Gone
by RodG
"She's gone? You're telling me the President's daughter is gone?"
"Yes, sir."
"How could you let this happen?"
"I didn't . . . let it--"
"You did, Bronson. You surely did!"
I lay near the smoldering limo, bleeding profusely from two wounds. Three other Secret Service agents sprawled nearby. Ray DeSantis glared only at me.
"Who? Do you know who?" he demanded.
"No . . . sir."
"Tell me everything you know. Now!"
"I--I saw--"
Blood gushed out of my mouth as the sun snapped off.
* * *
Hours, maybe days, later I awoke in a narrow bed in a windowless room. Lots of tubes stuck out of me, monitors watched and listened. But it wasn't a hospital. Too quiet and that unmistakable smell of antiseptics was lacking. I was a patient. A prisoner, too?
The pain was subdued. Medication or drugs? My head wasn't spinning, but I couldn't think. A dull bulb glimmered above me. I tried to focus on it. Couldn't.
The door opened. DeSantis entered, walked straight to my bed, and stared at me.
"You're awake. Good." He pulled a small recorder from his pocket. "Let's hear your story, Bronson."
"You got her back?"
"No. Now talk."
I tried, but my thoughts were like writhing snakes, spitting, hissing.
Suddenly his fingernails dug into my forearm.
"Dart!" he shouted.
DART! An acronym drilled into us during training. How to respond in an emergency if the mind wouldn't cooperate. Dredge. Attain. Recall. Talk.
I squeezed shut my eyes and willed the brain shadows to part to the most recent memories could emerge. Dredge! Slowly they came.
"Two clicks out of Camp David . . . Explosion in road . . . Our car spun off the road . . . Gunfire blew out our windows, hit driver. Rolled out . . . Shot in leg. Two masked men with assault rifles came at me . . . I--I shot one. Hit again . . . fell . . ."
His nails bit deeper.
"Did you see the girl?'
Dredge, damn it! Recall!
"They--they dragged her . . . into the woods."
DeSantis whispered, "Was she alive?"
A jungle of new shadows. Then a glimpse of her head bobbing. Her face . . . her eyes . . . open . . . mouth pleading.
"Yes," I moaned.
The nails ceased digging, but when I opened my eyes, DeSantis was gone.
Jarred awake, I stared at the bulb and . . . recalled.
Christina, sixteen, had spent the weekend at Camp David with her mother, the President's ex-wife. In the rear seat, Agent Riggles and I bookended her on the ride home Sunday evening.
The ambush . . . the firefight . . . the snatch. All blurred events. My orders: Protect your charge at ALL costs--i.e.--use your body as a shield. I hadn't. I'd also been trained to react instinctively if attacked. I had.
You . . . lost . . . her . . . Bronson.
My career. Gone. But what about her?
Never had I doubted my competence to do my job. I obeyed orders, didn't question decisions, and never asked "What if--?" Pondering politics was not part of my job description.
Now, as I lay there, I asked a thousand questions. Answers were not forthcoming.
Kidnapped! writing prompt entry
"She's gone? You're telling me the President's daughter is gone?"
"Yes, sir."
"How could you let this happen?"
"I didn't . . . let it--"
"You did, Bronson. You surely did!"
I lay near the smoldering limo, bleeding profusely from two wounds. Three other Secret Service agents sprawled nearby. Ray DeSantis glared only at me.
"Who? Do you know who?" he demanded.
"No . . . sir."
"Tell me everything you know. Now!"
"I--I saw--"
Blood gushed out of my mouth as the sun snapped off.
* * *
Hours, maybe days, later I awoke in a narrow bed in a windowless room. Lots of tubes stuck out of me, monitors watched and listened. But it wasn't a hospital. Too quiet and that unmistakable smell of antiseptics was lacking. I was a patient. A prisoner, too?
The pain was subdued. Medication or drugs? My head wasn't spinning, but I couldn't think. A dull bulb glimmered above me. I tried to focus on it. Couldn't.
The door opened. DeSantis entered, walked straight to my bed, and stared at me.
"You're awake. Good." He pulled a small recorder from his pocket. "Let's hear your story, Bronson."
"You got her back?"
"No. Now talk."
I tried, but my thoughts were like writhing snakes, spitting, hissing.
Suddenly his fingernails dug into my forearm.
"Dart!" he shouted.
DART! An acronym drilled into us during training. How to respond in an emergency if the mind wouldn't cooperate. Dredge. Attain. Recall. Talk.
I squeezed shut my eyes and willed the brain shadows to part to the most recent memories could emerge. Dredge! Slowly they came.
"Two clicks out of Camp David . . . Explosion in road . . . Our car spun off the road . . . Gunfire blew out our windows, hit driver. Rolled out . . . Shot in leg. Two masked men with assault rifles came at me . . . I--I shot one. Hit again . . . fell . . ."
His nails bit deeper.
"Did you see the girl?'
Dredge, damn it! Recall!
"They--they dragged her . . . into the woods."
DeSantis whispered, "Was she alive?"
A jungle of new shadows. Then a glimpse of her head bobbing. Her face . . . her eyes . . . open . . . mouth pleading.
"Yes," I moaned.
The nails ceased digging, but when I opened my eyes, DeSantis was gone.
Jarred awake, I stared at the bulb and . . . recalled.
Christina, sixteen, had spent the weekend at Camp David with her mother, the President's ex-wife. In the rear seat, Agent Riggles and I bookended her on the ride home Sunday evening.
The ambush . . . the firefight . . . the snatch. All blurred events. My orders: Protect your charge at ALL costs--i.e.--use your body as a shield. I hadn't. I'd also been trained to react instinctively if attacked. I had.
You . . . lost . . . her . . . Bronson.
My career. Gone. But what about her?
Never had I doubted my competence to do my job. I obeyed orders, didn't question decisions, and never asked "What if--?" Pondering politics was not part of my job description.
Now, as I lay there, I asked a thousand questions. Answers were not forthcoming.
"Yes, sir."
"How could you let this happen?"
"I didn't . . . let it--"
"You did, Bronson. You surely did!"
I lay near the smoldering limo, bleeding profusely from two wounds. Three other Secret Service agents sprawled nearby. Ray DeSantis glared only at me.
"Who? Do you know who?" he demanded.
"No . . . sir."
"Tell me everything you know. Now!"
"I--I saw--"
Blood gushed out of my mouth as the sun snapped off.
* * *
Hours, maybe days, later I awoke in a narrow bed in a windowless room. Lots of tubes stuck out of me, monitors watched and listened. But it wasn't a hospital. Too quiet and that unmistakable smell of antiseptics was lacking. I was a patient. A prisoner, too?
The pain was subdued. Medication or drugs? My head wasn't spinning, but I couldn't think. A dull bulb glimmered above me. I tried to focus on it. Couldn't.
The door opened. DeSantis entered, walked straight to my bed, and stared at me.
"You're awake. Good." He pulled a small recorder from his pocket. "Let's hear your story, Bronson."
"You got her back?"
"No. Now talk."
I tried, but my thoughts were like writhing snakes, spitting, hissing.
Suddenly his fingernails dug into my forearm.
"Dart!" he shouted.
DART! An acronym drilled into us during training. How to respond in an emergency if the mind wouldn't cooperate. Dredge. Attain. Recall. Talk.
I squeezed shut my eyes and willed the brain shadows to part to the most recent memories could emerge. Dredge! Slowly they came.
"Two clicks out of Camp David . . . Explosion in road . . . Our car spun off the road . . . Gunfire blew out our windows, hit driver. Rolled out . . . Shot in leg. Two masked men with assault rifles came at me . . . I--I shot one. Hit again . . . fell . . ."
His nails bit deeper.
"Did you see the girl?'
Dredge, damn it! Recall!
"They--they dragged her . . . into the woods."
DeSantis whispered, "Was she alive?"
A jungle of new shadows. Then a glimpse of her head bobbing. Her face . . . her eyes . . . open . . . mouth pleading.
"Yes," I moaned.
The nails ceased digging, but when I opened my eyes, DeSantis was gone.
Jarred awake, I stared at the bulb and . . . recalled.
Christina, sixteen, had spent the weekend at Camp David with her mother, the President's ex-wife. In the rear seat, Agent Riggles and I bookended her on the ride home Sunday evening.
The ambush . . . the firefight . . . the snatch. All blurred events. My orders: Protect your charge at ALL costs--i.e.--use your body as a shield. I hadn't. I'd also been trained to react instinctively if attacked. I had.
You . . . lost . . . her . . . Bronson.
My career. Gone. But what about her?
Never had I doubted my competence to do my job. I obeyed orders, didn't question decisions, and never asked "What if--?" Pondering politics was not part of my job description.
Now, as I lay there, I asked a thousand questions. Answers were not forthcoming.
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Writing Prompt You are challenged to write a story about a kidnapping. Maximum word count is 500 words. |
Secret Service badge is courtesy of Google images.
This might be the first chapter of a novel. Please tell me if you think it has possibilities and if I should continue.
Apple Pages--exactly 500 words.
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and 2 member cents. This might be the first chapter of a novel. Please tell me if you think it has possibilities and if I should continue.
Apple Pages--exactly 500 words.
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