Nanny for the SEALs by Cassie Cole

6

Heather

I woke in darkness.

The first thing I noticed was my head. It ached horribly, like all the hangovers of my life had come back to haunt me. Pain throbbed in my temple with every heartbeat.

It was humid in here. I was sweating. I opened my eyes, then blinked. Nothing changed. I shifted my head and felt something move. There was a bag over my head. That’s why I couldn’t see. It was also why it felt humid—because my breath was steaming up my face.

I groaned as I tried to remember what happened. I was leaving Mr. Howard’s class. Then something else happened. It was right on the edge of my memory, but when I tried to grab onto it, the memory faded away like mist.

There was a muffled sound nearby, and then suddenly the bag was yanked off my head. The relative brightness slammed into me like a dump truck, heightening the migraine. It felt like a screwdriver was being twisted into my brain.

I blinked, and my eyes began to focus.

I was sitting in a chair in a big, empty warehouse. It smelled like rust and mildew. Three men stood in front of me. They wore camo clothes, like they were getting ready to hunt deer. Except they also wore ski masks to cover their faces: green, blue, and pink masks. And instead of hunting rifles slung across their backs, they each wore a pistol on their hip.

My last memory slammed into place with morbid certainty.

I had been grabbed on my way back from class.

These men had kidnapped me.

The part of my brain responsible for panic came alive and gave me a big ol’ dose of adrenaline. Everyone has a fight or flight response, and unlike last night, this time flight won.

I screamed and jumped to my feet. The chair I was sitting in came with me, because apparently my hands were cuffed to it, but I didn’t really care at that point. I picked a direction and began sprinting as fast as my feet could carry me.

“HELP!” I screamed, voice echoing in the warehouse. “SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

I made it about twenty feet before they grabbed me. I tried to fight, kicking out with my legs, but there was only so much resistance a handcuffed woman could put up. One of the men—the one with the pink mask—shoved a wad of cloth into my mouth.

“Thought she would be groggier,” Mr. Pink said. He pronounced it like groggy-yah. That tickled part of my brain, but I was too busy thrashing to acknowledge it.

“It was not supposed to wear off that quickly,” the man in the blue mask—Mr. Blue—said.

They dragged me back to the original spot, in the corner of the warehouse, next to a black metal suitcase. Mr. Pink used two zip-ties to bind my ankles to the legs of the chair.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

Mr. Green stood in front of me. The ski mask hole where his mouth should be opened and a deep voice said, “We want to ask you some questions. This will go easiest, and quickest, if you cooperate.”

Mr. Green removed the cloth from my mouth. As soon as it was gone, I took a deep breath and screamed at the top of my lungs.

“LICK MY CUNT, YOU PANSY-ASSED FUCKERS.”

The wad immediately went back in my mouth.

To my left, Mr. Pink laughed. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart.” He pronounced it, sweethaht. Then he looked at Mr. Green and added, “Told you she was feisty.”

Mr. Green sighed. “We don’t want to hurt you. That’s the truth. We just want to ask you some questions. Can you play nice?”

Chest heaving, I nodded slowly. Mr. Green removed the wad of cloth from my mouth again.

“EAT SHIT YOU CUNTBUCKET COCKSUCKERS.”

Mr. Green shoved the gag back in my mouth.

“Cuntbucket,” Mr. Pink repeated while laughing. “I gotta remember that one. That’s good.”

Mr Green looked at him and put a finger to his lips.

“It would be easiest to just kill her,” Mr. Blue said quietly.

Ice ran up my spine. I knew I was in danger—obviously—but hearing him say those words out loud, so casually, like he was suggesting a restaurant for dinner…

Mr. Green crouched in front of me. His eyes were dark pools within the green ski mask. “Screaming won’t help. Nobody’s around for miles. You’ll just make your voice hoarse. So this is your last chance.”

Breathing through my nose was difficult considering my body was trying to hyperventilate, so I nodded. Mr. Green removed the cloth. Everyone paused, waiting to see if I would make a scene.

When I didn’t, Mr. Blue handed Mr. Green something. A bottle of water. The plastic crackled as he removed the top and held it toward me.

My every instinct told me to bite his finger. My dad had taught me that biting off a human finger required the same amount of force as biting a carrot, and right about then I wanted to put the theory to the test. But my throat was so dry it burned when I breathed. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until that moment.

He poured the water into my mouth and I gulped eagerly, swallowing every drop until it ran down my chin. The guy was strangely gentle with me, and whatever cologne he was wearing smelled good. It made me tingle while he cupped my chin and poured the remainder of the water into my parched mouth. Despite the situation, my body came alive as I inhaled his scent.

Shut up, vagina. I’m kind of busy right now.

Mr. Green tossed the empty water bottle aside. My mind was starting to feel less cloudy than before.

Okay, so I had been kidnapped. But why? I was just an aspiring actor. I waited tables. My family didn’t have money—my dad was a retired Marine, and lived off his pension. Kidnapping me made zero sense. It’s not like I was someone famous like…

Amirah Pratt.

I had been confused for her last night. These guys must think I’m her. That was the only explanation that made sense.

“You’re making a mistake,” I said. Speaking was much easier after drinking water. “I’m not Amirah Pratt. I just look like her.”

As soon as I said so, I regretted it. If they thought I was Amirah Pratt, they were probably trying to ransom me. Once they learned I was a nobody, they might just kill me—like Mr. Blue had suggested.

But the three men looked at each other and laughed.

“We know who you are, Heather,” Mr. Green said.

“Although we can see why someone might confuse you with her,” Mr. Pink added dryly.

Oh. So much for that theory.

Mr. Green looked down at me. “You’re Heather Hart, originally from Tyler, Texas. You’ve lived in Los Angeles for three years. We know all about you and your background. What we don’t know is who you work for. Tell us that, and we’ll let you go.”

I blinked in confusion. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I work for Outback Steakhouse,” I said slowly. “The one on South Harbor Boulevard, by Disney.”

Mr. Pink shook his head and looked away. I couldn’t tell thanks to the mask, but it looked like Mr. Green was scowling at me.

“We know that’s your cover. Who do you really work for?”

“What do you mean? That’s the only job I have.”

“Don’t play dumb with us,” Mr. Green said.

“Then don’t ask dumb questions!” I shot back. “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to tell you. I work for Outback Steakhouse.”

“You only work there three or four nights a week,” Mr. Green said.

“Because they keep me under thirty hours a week,” I replied acidly. “That way they don’t have to give me benefits. But I can’t get a second job because my shift varies from week to week. It’s bullshit.”

“That is bullshit,” Mr. Pink agreed. Mr. Green gave him a glare.

“There, I answered your question,” I said. “Can I go, now?”

Mr. Green’s fist tightened. “You can go when you tell me who you really work for.”

I responded slowly and enunciated every word as if I was speaking to someone who was hard of hearing. “Out-back Steak-house. Bloo-min’ On-ion. Do you speak English?”

Mr. Green sighed and pinched his nose through the ski mask. “I liked you better when you were calling me names.”

“I can go back to that, cuntbucket.”

He held up the wad of cloth. “And I can go back to this.”

I quickly shut my mouth.

“Who do you work for?” he asked, less patiently this time. “Is it Pegasus, or Heimdall?”

“Dude, I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“They’re companies. Do you work for them?”

“No,” I said with a groan. “I do not work for Pegasus Steakhouse, or Heimdall Steakhouse.”

“They’re not… ugh. You’re making this difficult.”

“See?” Mr. Pink said. “She doesn’t fucken know anything. We should throw her back in the car and bounce.”

“I told you to stop talking,” Mr. Green hissed.

Something in the way Mr. Pink spoke jogged a memory. Something he said earlier, and just now. The way he pronounced it cah instead of car.

Boston. He was from Boston.

The memories collected and built up speed in my mind, like a snowball rolling downhill.

“Oh shit!” I blurted out. “You are the guys from last night. The ones in the suite I broke into.” I looked at Mr. Green. “You’re Rogan Holt!”