Ratiocination

Ratiocination
1. the process of exact thinking: a reasoning
2. a reasoned train of thought

It was the sound of a television that signaled her transition back into consciousness. Some man was yelling at a woman, calmly threatening her…in German. The dialogue stopped. Only the sound of a leaky faucet echoed within the space.

A slight gust of air felt cold against her wet forehead, causing her to wince. Her head felt like… like someone had used her head for batting practicing; it throbbed to the point that unrelated body parts ached.

She grit her teeth, stifling a moan, resisting her instinct to escape or her need to vomit. Short, long inhalations slowed her heart rate and calmed her stomach, but did nothing for her mind. She needed to escape, but first she needed to know where she was located. The surface was soft against her skin, yielding to the shape of her body like a cold womb.

The dialogue started again.

Slight movements confirmed her suspicions. Cold metal restrained her wrists. Her head was one problem, not knowing her whereabouts was another. The handcuffs threatened her sanity, but it was the slight aroma of gasoline that was nauseating.

“Do you promise to let me go,” the woman asked.

“Of course.”

The distinct sound of handcuffs was followed by the impact of a heavy hand across a face.

The woman screamed. The man erupted with menacing laughter.

Heavy footsteps shuffled toward her.

Melanie’s pulse soared. She stiffened her body, trying to fake unconsciousness, but prepared for another painful blow.

Every breath was heavy, halted even. The pungent aroma of gasoline filled her nostrils. He was over her, chuckling quietly.

A swift yank brought her out of the fetal position. The coolness of stone seeped through her thin linen shirt. His grip stifled her circulation and a pull separated her head from stiffened sheets, stoking a fire across her tender brow.

Melanie sucked in the thick, cool air, refusing to cry out from the pain.

Tiny hairs brushed against her cheeks. He was untying her blindfold.

Except for the TV in the far corner, the only light available came from a small lamp on the wooden nightstand. An aged copy of Mein Kempf lay open, pages marked and weathered.

Melanie further pressed herself against the wall, keeping her eyes on the man. His lips curled at the corners as he carefully ran the tips of his fingers across her forehead, as if looking at a small wounded bird. He pressed firmly against the gash at her hairline. Melanie grimaced, leaning away from him.

He smiled more broadly, displaying perfect teeth. His black hair fell slightly across his eyes as he traced his bloody finger down her collar. The smell of gasoline threatened to envelope her, rivaling fear.

The man cocked his head to the side, as if examining her. The smile broadened, highlighting a swath of freckles across his nose. His green eyes were clear with bloodlust. He wanted to kill her.

It was her first day of vacation, but today had been her usual. She’d started the morning off with a run in the neighborhood. Everything had been normal, routine even. No suspicious cars. The normal bickering from the Newmans, the morning PDA from the Randalls—nothing was out of place.

Melanie could negotiate her way through any hostage situation—that’s what she was known for, that’s why the FBI had pursued her so heavily. But this was different. She couldn’t follow his ratiocination.

It was clear she was in a basement, partially underground. The exit remained to be seen. But the walls were covered with old newspapers, displaying headlines from Europe of Germany’s conquests. Next to them a red and white flag hung with its black broken cross, representing Germany’s wartime regime was boldly displayed. This man didn’t fit the profile for a some offshoot revival of the Third Reich.

“You must be hungry.” His words shocked her, more for the pronunciation of them than the tenderness with which he spoke them, as if he cared for her wellbeing. His teeth gleamed in the dim light. The accent was distinctly Columbian. She had worked extensively in Bogotá, negotiating the release of hostages for years.

“I can bring you something, but first we must fix your head,” he lifted his hand toward Melanie’s head, but paused, his hand hanging midair as if he was about to conduct a symphony. He was taunting her, testing her. She kept her eyes focused on him, refusing to search the room for a weapon.

“Do you not have words for an old friend, Agent Phillips? Not even a thank you?”

The smile… She knew that smile

“You don’t have to be scared,” he chuckled. “I don’t plan to dissect you right now.”

Melanie let the heavy silence rest in the space between them, as reality whispered louder than fear. This wasn’t a hostage situation; it was a kidnapping with retribution as the main motive and she would either escape and live or die in that small space.

His smile faded.

She silently weighed her options, giving away nothing. Death would be the easier of the two options. Living would see to it that he would never put anyone else in this situation.

He rose slowly keeping his eyes trained on her eyes.

One swift kick could knock him on his back and give her a 30-second lead, but that wouldn’t be enough without knowing the exit or if there were others outside.

“Let’s get you stitched up, shall we?”

That smile. She would erase that smile.