HOSTAGE

Chapter 1

Consciousness slowly returned, and Horatio became aware of the cold damp concrete floor beneath him. It was pitch dark. He drew a couple of deep breaths - it would be all too easy for panic to set in…

He tried to move, and realised that his hands were tied behind his back, but, oddly, his ankles were free. Not that he could move. Yet. It seemed bitterly cold, and he shivered convulsively, feeling the cold floor against bare skin… arms and legs bare…. not his body…

Very gradually, some sensation crept back. A splitting migraine-like headache. And agony in his shoulders, where his hands had been tied back. For how long, he wondered. It was still pitch black, and very quiet and still. Indoors, somewhere… Night-time? Or simply no vents to the outside? He suspected both.

He tried to move his hands, and couldn't feel them. Numb from the cable-ties - he thought that was what had been used - round his wrists. Weakly, he pushed himself to his knees, gasping as the pain shot through his head… And tried to remember.

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It had been a hard day at work, and late by the time he got onto the beach. But a run always calmed him down, unwound him, so he was able to eat and sleep. Short run, this evening… The sun was already low, the tourists heading home. Still hot, and humid… He got back to his favorite spot, opposite his condo, and sat down on the sand, taking a drink of water, running his hand through his sweat-soaked hair, lifting it from his scalp to cool off… Relaxing… He pulled his keys out of his belt pouch… Ought to get back…

He didn't hear the man approach.

"Horatio Caine?"

He looked up, but the man had the setting sun behind him and was only a silhouette. "Who wants to know?"

He was playing for time, all his instincts immediately on high alert. He had little on his side. His badge and weapons were locked away in his bedroom safe. The belt he wore carried only his water bottle, some small change… and his cell. He closed his hand tightly round his keys.

The man laughed - not a friendly sound. "Just being polite - I know who you are. Stand up." A slight accent… maybe Scandinavian..?

Horatio stood. Not because he had been ordered to, but because he felt too vulnerable with the stranger towering over him. Even with both of them standing, the man still topped his own height by three or four inches. Then he saw the gun. "So you'll shoot me here? A public beach in Miami? Think you'll get away with that?" It sounded far calmer than he felt.

"And you think anyone will take any notice of a gunshot? Come running to your aid? Come on, Lieutenant, you know the public better than that…"

He didn't really want the banter, but he was weighing up his options. In truth, not many. He could lunge at the man's face - his keys could do some damage… But the gun would almost certainly be fired - and it was pointing straight at his belly… It might not kill him… Same if he punched the man, or kneed him in the groin… He didn't recognise him - a tall well-built blond Caucasian - hired thug probably…

"What do you want with me?"

"Me? Nothing at all. Just sent to fetch you… Walk." He grabbed his shoulder, spun him round, and Horatio felt the gun muzzle up against his spine… which certainly would kill him. "Walk. Now."

Horatio began to do as he was told. His mind was racing. All he could hope for now was that he could get a message out. He still had his phone… But even as he thought it, his captor seemed to have the same thought. He tore the belt off him, and felt in the pouches, finding the phone straight away.

"Sorry, Lieutenant - I can't let you keep this."

"I didn't think you would." He hoped the man would discard it, even if he smashed it. At least it might be a clue if anyone came looking for him. But he put it in his pocket. And the gun muzzle was jabbed harder into his back. Horatio pretended to stumble and managed to drop his keys into a patch of rough grass. Small clue, but it was all he had.

He was frogmarched to a waiting SUV. The engine was running, another man, dark-haired, in the driving-seat. He saw only the back of his head, but didn't recognise him either. He was pushed into the back seat, the blond man beside him, the door slammed and the vehicle moved off. His hands were pulled behind him and some form of handcuffs fastened tight.

All the windows were tinted, and the light was fading, but Horatio knew Miami well. There was nothing he could do now but memorise the route.

He never saw the syringe coming, until the needle pierced his bare arm. He turned to look at his captor, found the gun in his face, and his vision faded abruptly to black.

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His memory was coming back. His evening run. A gun held on him… He knew he'd been drugged, though he had no idea what with. With difficulty, he got to his feet, unsteady, almost falling, but staggering until his shoulder hit a solid wall. He leant against it, trying to get his balance. The pain in his head was bad enough to make him retch, but he sensed he hadn't been beaten, hadn't been hit on the head. That it was a reaction to whatever he'd been dosed with. Which meant it would pass…

With his hands tied behind him, he turned his back to the wall, and began to feel his way round his prison. It was still pitch black. If there had been a trace of light, he thought his night vision would have picked it up by now. There wasn't.

The lack of sensory input was something that could easily lead to full-blown panic. Even he, used to danger, and fraught situations, could feel a trace of it. He had to consciously fight it down. Concentrate…

Slowly, he edged his way along the wall, alert to anything protruding, expecting his shins to hit something unseen. God, it was cold… He wished he had on something more than shorts and a sleeveless shirt… He reached a corner, and started feeling the next section of wall. He immediately stumbled over an object that clanged metallically against the concrete. He squatted down, still with his back turned and felt around… A bucket… A wan smile touched his face - presumably it was for hygienic purposes… and he did need a pee. It was a major undertaking to ease his shorts down, from the back, position the bucket with his feet, and hope he aimed straight. Even more major to get his shorts back up again, but he felt better for it.

He really needed to release his hands, but, so far, hadn't found any means of doing it. He resumed his careful, back to the wall, exploration. The cell was small, about six feet by eight feet, he estimated. And it had a bed, or, at least, a wide shelf at about thigh height. No mattress, but what seemed to be a flimsy blanket. Better than the floor… There was also what felt like a small table and a folding metal chair.

Squatting down again, he felt round the chair's legs, round the hinges. As he had hoped, there were sharp pieces of metal on the cheap furniture. He eased his wrists against a sharp edge and began to work at the plastic tie. It was incredibly difficult to work behind his back, with his hands numb. He couldn't even feel if he was cutting himself, but at least the effort was warming him up. It seemed to take hours, not that he knew. He realised his watch was gone, and he couldn't have read it anyway. His shoulders hurt like hell, to the point where he thought he'd have to stop. Then suddenly, he felt a slight give in the ties, and the next second, his wrists were free.

He eased his arms forward, gasping at the protest from his shoulders, then sobbing aloud as the blood rushed back to his hands. He stumbled to where he thought the bed was, found it, and sat down, his hands shoved under his armpits, while he waited for the pain to stop. It eased, and he felt the warm wetness of blood. He wiped his hands on his shirt, then raised first one, then the other, to his mouth, finding several cuts, and sucking the blood from them. He didn't think they were bad, and, in any case, it seemed so much easier to think with his arms in the right place.

Except there seemed nothing to think about. He had no idea who had taken him. Or why. Or where he was. He was still half-drugged. Sore, in pain… He lay down on the hard wooden shelf, pulled the meager blanket round himself, and closed his eyes.