"I've found him. Michael Malone Bradley. Special Forces, Airborne division. Green Beret, like me. He's living with his wife north of Fort Carson. Poor saps been having a rough go of it. Lost thirty percent of his hearing in one ear. One ear, Miranda, and he's expected to regain at least half of that function back, and they still don't want him."

Miranda looked over her husband's shoulder at the folder. She figured one of the 'plausible deniability' outlets Ken was giving her was where he had gotten his information. How the hell did he have a personnel file on this man. She skimmed, looking at the available information. "Ken, he's married."

"Uh-huh," he replied, like nothing would deter him from his prize. "Tina, I think. She's a military nurse, that could come in handy, too."

Miranda kept reading. "Ken, there's a kid."

"Yeah, I know."

"Ken, what are we going to do with a kid?"

"Dunno, haven't quite figured that out yet. But he's fourteen. Do you know what I was doing at fourteen?"

Miranda shook her head, unsure if she wanted the answer to that question.

"Well, I was practically an adult. So, we just need to keep him busy and out of the limelight for a couple of years. It will be fine."

In the end, there was nothing that was going to dissuade Ken from his plan of attack. He also hadn't fully shared what that plan was with Miranda. She knew he had been disappearing for a good portion of the day, heading up to one of the old outcropping buildings down the dirt road of the property that was a good fifteen minutes away on one of the ATVs. There had also been several deliveries from military supply companies. Two weeks later, he was heading for Colorado. He also hadn't told Miranda that his plan was to grab both the man and his wife, and worry about convincing them of his idea, later. If he had, Miranda probably would have smacked him senseless that she did not agree to kidnapping.

Ken had timed things so that the couple's son, Matthew, was away at an extended overnight summer camp. He'd be gone for over three weeks. Tina Bradley had spent money that she didn't have to send him, seeing the signs that her husband was entering a downward spiral of depression and self-loathing from his injury and being forced out of the only career he knew. The drinking was sure to follow.

Ken had managed to steal a van from a business off a nearby lot. His days of hot wiring were currently coming in handy. As it was Saturday afternoon, he had at least a thirty-six-hour window before the van would even be missed. All he had to do was wait for Malone, as he decided he wanted to call him, to drink himself into a drunken stupor, grab his wife and get the needle with the sedative his unscrupulous contact had gotten him into her before she knew what was happening, get them both into the van, keep them sedated long enough to make the drive back and he'd be home free. He had left the Bronco at the airport in Jackson and hitch hiked his way into Colorado. All the supplies he needed were in the backpack he carried with him. At the moment, he looked like a drifter, not the husband of one of Maryland's and now Wyoming's elite. Part of him felt at home back in his old shoes.

Tina had struggled, but fortunately her attempt was brief as Ken had gotten the sedative jabbed into her arm a second before she became aware of his presence. He had lined the back of the van in full plastic sheeting and placed her in full locked metal shackles, bolted to the van. He had made sure to not touch anything without wearing thick leather gloves. It was a damn good thing he wasn't a serial killer. He probably would have made a good one. The hardest part had been getting Mr. Bradley's sorry passed out ass into the van. The man was big, easily having a couple of inches on him and several pounds of more muscle. Ken locked him up like his wife, put blackout hoods over both of them and placed IV catheters with extension sets into a vein for each of them. He could now knock either one of them back out again without having to touch them and with the push of a plunger.

Hours later, Michael Bradley came to, barely able to move, unable to see, with one of the worst headaches of his life. What the fuck was going on? Where was he? Where was his wife?

Tina jolted awake with a start. Taking a gasping breath, she sat bolt upright. Panic started to set in. She remembered the presence of a man behind her, big, strong, and dangerous. She had just been going to try again to get the bottle out of her husband's hand when she realized that he had passed out. As she was turning around, there was a sudden pinch to her upper arm. She recognized it immediately as a needle. She had made a pitiful attempt to fight her attacker off. She hadn't even gotten a look at his face, as he had subdued her swiftly and effectively from behind, and whatever he had injected into her had worked too quickly.

Recognizing the signs of panic, she made the effort to concentrate on her breathing. At the moment the only thing she had going for her was her medical training. She closed her eyes and took enough steady, slow breaths that she thought she could open her eyes again to get her bearings. She let out one more breath and opened her eyes, aiming for a clinical, and not an emotional inspection, of whatever situation she found herself in.

She was in a bathroom. A very nice bathroom. Sitting on a mattress, with a metal shackle locked around one ankle that was bolted to the bottom of the wall next to the shower. Oh fuck. She looked herself over for injuries. A couple of light bruises in places but nothing more. There was a bandaid on the back of her hand. It appeared likely she had had an IV catheter placed. A mild headache, no other pain. What had she been doped with? Fighting over her panic, she dropped a hand to her vulva. She wasn't sore. She didn't feel like anything had happened down there. Yet. Please, God, let it stay that way. Ok, she wasn't raped. She wasn't beaten. Why the hell was she here? Where was her husband? What the hell was going on? They had nothing of value. As it was, she had skipped a rent payment to get her child to camp. She didn't know what else to do. She had enough psychiatric training to recognize that her husband was about to spiral. She didn't want Matthew around to see it.

She thought about yelling for help, but really what good would that do? She was a smart woman. Whoever had locked her in here obviously had money. There was probably no one around for miles. Ok, time to take stock of anything that could get her out of here.

She stood and looked around the room. She still had on the cotton nightgown she was wearing at their little rented house in Colorado. She sniffed her armpit. She didn't smell, so not much time had passed. Her capturer had left her a small pillow, a thin blanket, a plastic cup, a tube of toothpaste, toilet paper, a squirt bottle of all-in-one shampoo and soap, a thin towel, and a box of sanitary pads. Ok, so apparently, he was thoughtful? This was just getting crazier. There was also nothing sharp and very limited choices of anything she could hurt him or herself with. So thoughtful and not stupid. Damn.

She used the toilet and got a drink of water. Then she noticed the small stack of books next to the mattress. Not a good sign. She was probably going to be here for a while.

Michael cringed, willing himself to fall back asleep, or pass out, or die, or something. God, his head. The last thing he remembered was Tina trying again to take the bottle from him. He didn't typically have a problem with alcohol. He had just hit such a fucking low. The military docs had told him that more than likely, most of hearing would return. Most, but not all. Apparently, that wasn't good enough for him to be considered 'safe' enough to return to the field. He didn't know what else he was going to do. He needed to support his family. Military and his training was the only way he knew how to function.

He had some vague recognition of coming to at what felt like hours ago, also being uncomfortably unable to move or see, but then things had seemed like they were in motion. It had only lasted moments and then something heavy had dragged him back under. Now he felt stationary, but still incapacitated. He fought through the haze and the pain, trying to get his bearings. He took a breath and felt cloth against his lips. He could breathe through it, but something was definitely over his face. He went to move a hand up to brush it off, and his hand wouldn't lift. He tried to feel around, tried to move his limbs, and couldn't shift anything more than a few inches. That's when his body came to enough awareness to feel the unyielding pressure of metal bands surrounding not just wrists, but ankles. Fuck! Where was he? What the hell was going on? He hadn't been on an op in some forsaken land, so why was he somehow now being held captive? Panic reared its ugly head just below the surface, but he slammed it down. He was trained for this. He'd figure it out.