Nanny for the SEALs by Cassie Cole

47

Heather

Cooper and I were close enough to the director to hear him speaking to the head of the pyrotechnics team. He warned the director that there would be a huge cloud of dust, just like the director wanted for the shots, and that it would blow away from our location.

But I was barely listening. I was running through the plan in my head. As soon as the demolition scene was over, it would be two o’clock and I would be walking over to the roadblock to sign more autographs. That’s when the attack would happen. I would be out in the open, surrounded by people, and totally vulnerable.

I realized I didn’t know what Amirah Pratt’s signature looked like. That was probably something I should have asked her when I was in the trailer. I would have to make up something. Probably start it with a legible A, and then a bunch of squiggles. Nobody really cared what the signature looked like, right?

Even though we were several blocks away, the explosion made my legs tremble. The stone collapsed, sending out a cloud of dust that was eerily reminiscent of those September 11 videos I had watched in history class.

I didn’t realize anything was wrong until the director started shouting about the direction of the wind.

Cooper spoke into his radio. “Me and Happy Holiday are standing by for instructions.”

“Oh! Is that my special code name?” I asked. “Like how Amirah Pratt is Apple Pie? That’s so cool! I’ve always wanted…”

I trailed off as the cloud of dust rolled over us. It didn’t look like much when it was coming, but now that we were in the middle of it, I could barely see my hand in front of me. I clenched my eyes shut and held my sleeve over my mouth.

“Visibility is decreased,” Cooper said. He was gripping my arm firmly. “Extricating Happy Holiday south to…”

He began coughing, but pulled me through the dust cloud. I opened my eyes a tiny sliver, hoping that my sunglasses would provide protection, but even that let in enough dust particles to immediately sting. I tripped over something on the ground—a power cable, I think—and Cooper lost his grip on me, but his fingers found me again moments later. I used my spare hand to wave in front of me, feeling for anything that we might suddenly slam into. Cooper was pulling me along faster and faster, and I knew we were going to run into something.

“Steps,” his voice commanded, muffled and raspy from the dust. A second later my foot felt a step going up, then another one. The steps to the trailer.

The door slammed closed. I took a testing breath and found it relatively clean. It also smelled delicious. Amirah Pratt—the real Amirah Pratt, not the Dollar General version that I was pretending to be—must have ordered food.

Tears ran from my eyes and helped clear the dust. Soon I was able to make out shapes, then my surroundings. The sunglasses had protected me from some of the dust.

I wasn’t in Amirah’s trailer. There was a flat-top grill in front of me, and a bag of corn tortillas open on the counter next to it. More objects came into view as I blinked: chopped tomatoes, shredded cheddar cheese, a tub of guacamole.

The food truck, I realized. I’m in the food truck.

“Cooper, this isn’t…”

I trailed off as I realized the man gripping my arm wasn’t Cooper. He was dressed like him in a full suit, but he had long, greasy hair that looked wet, but wasn’t. He was wearing a filtration mask over his face. He pulled it off, revealing red skin underneath and clear blue eyes.

His smile was foul, and it made my stomach crawl.

I opened my mouth to scream, but he was too quick. He plastered his palm over my lips, and my scream came out as a muffled moan.

“Amirah,” he breathed, his voice raspy like rocks scraping down a hill. “My beloved Amirah. Finally, we can be together.”

I screamed again, and his hand tightened over my mouth.

“It’s me, Oscar!” he said, as if I should know him. “Please don’t fight me. It will be so much easier if you let it happen.”

I didn’t let it happen. I screamed into his palm and thrashed in his grip, kicking at his shins, but it was no use.

Oscar shoved me into a chair next to the grill and tied my hands behind me. As my brain started to become un-stupid, I remembered why his eyes were important. The shooter at the hotel, the one who had aimed the gun at me in the stairwell, had yellow, bloodshot eyes. This man’s eyes were totally different. That meant there were multiple different goons working for Cardannon, just like Rogan had speculated.

“I know you work for Heimdall!” I shouted the moment he uncovered my mouth. “Everyone knows!”

Oscar frowned at me. “Heimdall? The guy from the Thor movies?”

“Don’t play stupid! You work for Jimmy Cardannon. Rogan is going to catch you!”

He shoved a cloth into my mouth, ending my monologue.

There were no windows back here, except for the fold-down window which would become the serving counter when it was open, but it wasn’t see-through.

Suddenly, the back door opened and a man jumped inside. I felt a surge of hope that it was one of my men coming to save me, but then I saw that it was someone I didn’t recognize. Unlike Oscar, this man held no foul smile, and fury raged in his eyes.

Eyes that were yellow and bloodshot.

It’s him.

“What are you wearing?” he growled in a British accent. No, not British—Australian, I think.

“It’s what she was wearing earlier,” Oscar said. “We saw her on the TV, Ernesto. Remember?”

“I don’t remember the shoes. Look at these.” The man with bloodshot eyes ripped off my heels and held them up to my face. “You’re better than this. I don’t know why you whore yourself out like all the other actresses.”

He tossed the shoes out the back of the truck and closed the door. The entire truck trembled as he jogged up to the driver’s seat, started the engine, and began to drive.

No, please no, I thought as the truck lurched around a corner.

I was too terrified to do anything but sit there as the truck drove along for a few minutes. Which was good, because I couldn’t do anything even if I wanted to. Oscar stood a few feet away, staring hungrily at me like I was the prize fish he had finally caught.

Eventually, the food truck slowed, rounded a corner, and then came to a screeching stop. The other man—Ernesto—came marching down the back of the truck toward us.

“What did she say earlier?” he demanded in his accent. Definitely Australian.

“She thinks we work for someone named Cardamom,” Oscar replied. “She claims someone named Rogan is going to catch us.”

“Rogan?” Ernesto laughed bitterly, bloodshot eyes raking over my body. “She’s been whoring around, just like I said. Haven’t you, whore?”

I couldn’t answer with the rag in my mouth.

“She doesn’t know what she’s been doing,” Oscar pleaded. “Let me have some time with her, Ernesto. We can convince her.”

“No we can’t,” Ernesto spat.

Oscar shook his head in panic. “Two hours! Give me two hours with Amirah and I can make her love me! She’ll see that nobody loves her the way I do!”

As they argued back and forth, I felt my stomach twist into a knot.

These men didn’t work for Heimdall. They were actual stalkers.

Everything was real.