The Eighth Ransom

By Given Hoffman

When Trent Soris is kidnapped with seven others, he's the only one without a ransom. He must either escape or find a way to make himself important to their kidnappers, otherwise he may be the only one not going home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543944051

Book preview

Vermont

Chapter 1

Friday, 3:30 P.M. Eastern Standard Time

The cell phone rang exactly when she had said it would. Walter threw his suit jacket over his desk chair and scooped up the phone. Hello.

You received the photo? The woman’s heavy accent made her question sound like a statement.

He glanced to the picture on his computer screen. I got it. He barely recognized the gaunt, bruised face, but the eyes were unmistakable.

The resolve in the woman’s voice was clear. We will both get what we want.

Yes, we will. Walter seized the files on his desk. Your people are in place to collect all seven of them?

They will be in place, once I get all the information you promised me.

It will be sent tonight. Walter shifted the burner phone to glance through the files once more. There are two with home security, and the one with more than just a security system is never alone. You’re sure your people can handle him without any problems?

His security is as big a problem as the others’ parents, but yes, we will get him alone. You do your part. We will do ours.

He leaned forward. Fine. Just remember, you miss grabbing even one of them, you might as well dump the others in Texas and forget we ever talked. Because without all seven, I won’t risk it. You hear me?

Her accent thickened. Just send me what you promised.

Saturday, 4:53 A.M. Eastern Standard Time

Trent could hear the sirens through the bar’s broken front window. With gloved hands, he sprayed the last jagged letter of their message on the back wall. He nodded at his handiwork, then tossed the spray can. Riggs would think twice before messing with them again.

His friends overturned the place’s pool table in a splintering crash. The balls bounced over smashed liquor bottles and rushed past Trent’s feet. He snatched up the trailing eight ball and tightened his fist around it. Maybe breaking and entering would finally get his mother’s attention.

Sirens drew closer.

Trent split with his friends before the cops could arrive.

He waited until mid-morning to take the bus and then trudged the long, chilly walk from the bus stop to the three-story Vermont house his mom’s husband, Keith Devinmeyer, called historic. Trent called it what it was: old.

He slipped in the front door and sidestepped the hall’s loud floorboards. At the top of the stairs, his mother’s and Keith’s bedroom door stood open. The house was silent. He gritted his teeth. His mom and the guy’s four-year-old daughter were probably at the park—something she had never had time to do with him when he was that age.

His stomach growled.

Taking a left to avoid Keith’s office, Trent headed to the back of the house. He crossed the dining room and thrust into the kitchen with enough force to make the door whoosh in and out twice.

The cook jumped and frowned. She kept one eye on him while scouring the life from the copper skillet she gripped in a soapy hand.

The woman’s disdain for his visits only made his intrusions that much more entertaining. Trent tugged open the fridge.

He swiped a soda from Keith’s private stash and received a threatening glare from the cook. Smirking, he pilfered a slice of bread from the freshly cut loaf cooling on the granite countertop. He folded it around a chunk of butter and pushed back out the door before the woman could get her hands dry.

He was halfway up the first-story stairs when Keith’s voice drove over what had been a decent start to his Saturday. Trent?

He continued up the stairs, hoping the guy would assume he’d guessed wrong.

Trent.

Or not. Trent bit into the bread. Melted butter trickled out. Wiping the sleeve of his dark jacket across his mouth, he swiveled on the top step to face the Porsche who’d stolen his mother.

Where have you— Keith’s gaze caught on the soda.

Trent smiled and swallowed his mouthful of bread. I have homework to do.

Keith frowned at him. I’m sure you do, what with skipping your last class yesterday.

Trent drank a mouthful of the soda and then pushed his dishwater-blond hair out of his eyes and behind the metal stud in his ear. So? What of it?

You skipped school. Keith’s tone tightened. And your curfew is nine p.m.

Wait, curfew’s nine at night? Trent threw out a hand in mock realization. Here all this time, I thought it was nine in the morning.

To his disappointment, Keith steered around his comment. Where were you?

He lifted his chin. Hanging.

With those gang friends of yours?

As a matter of—

Do you care at all that your education is going down the drain?

Trent shrugged, placed the rest of the bread in his mouth, and slowly chewed. His grades weren’t great, but they were passing.

It’s been over six months since your mom and I got married.

The desperation in the man’s tone baffled Trent. So?

So you’ve had time to adjust. It’s time you accept reality and shape up.

He scoffed. You think I care about shaping up?

Your mother does.

Trent’s jaw tightened, and his sarcasm turned to ice. Oh, and you just know her so well.

She’s my wife and has been for over six months.

For a split second, Trent considered hurling the soda can at Keith’s head. Instead, determined to drive the man over an edge one way or another, he dug in the pocket of his jeans for cigarettes. Yeah, and unfortunately for you, marrying her was a package deal, and you got me too. He held up a cigarette. You don’t mind if I smoke inside, do you?

Keith’s gaze ground over him. "Like it or not, you are stuck in my house, Trent Soris. And you will abide by my rules."

Chugging the remaining soda, Trent sauntered down the stairs and thrust the empty can into Keith’s hand. What rules?

Chapter 2

Saturday, 5:47 P.M. Central Standard Time

W hat about a cute little turtle with a diploma on its back?

Ashley Rye dumped her armload of disposable plates, napkins, and utensils onto the checkout counter and glanced at her best friend. Macy squished the stuffed animal under her chin and blinked at her.

Ashley rolled her eyes. Right, and what am I going to do with him? Add him to my pile for college?

I thought you were still trying to figure out the college thing?

Ashley shifted. I am. She glanced back to the checkout girl, who stood bleeping items.

Macy put the stuffed animal back. Hey, no worries. You’ve got time.

She threw Macy a half-hearted smile. Thanks, but my graduation’s a month away. Time’s not really on my side. She slid her hand up and down her purse strap. Not when she had to make life-changing decisions in the next couple of weeks. She looked back to Macy. Remind me again why I want a graduation party.

Macy rubbed her fingers together and crossed her eyes. Money.

So it’s worth it because I at least get paid to be the center of attention?

Uncrossing her eyes, Macy shrugged. Something like that.

She sighed. Macy, everyone’s going to ask what major I’m choosing. I don’t want to tell every person at my graduation that I can’t decide what I want to do with my life.

It won’t be that bad.

It’ll be every bit that bad.

Macy laughed. You’ll live.

Receipt with you or in the bag?

Ashley shifted her focus back to the checkout girl. With me.

The checkout girl held out the receipt between two blue fingernails and sighed.

Thanks. Ashley smiled, but the girl glanced down at her watch. Ashley wondered how long the girl had been working at the store. Had she gone to college? What if she had, and she had still ended up working a job she didn’t like?

Ashley grabbed two of the shopping bags, and in the midst of feeling sorry for the cashier, her stomach knotted.

What if even after college she got stuck working someplace she disliked? She didn’t want to go to school to get a job she would live to regret. She wanted a career she could be proud of and passionate about that would make a difference in people’s lives. But what?

She wandered out of the store. Why do so many other people know what they want to do, but not me?

Earth to Ashley. Come in, please. Macy’s waving hand came into focus inches from her face.

Ashley jerked. Sorry, what were you saying?

Your mom, said Macy. She wanted you to come pick the colors for your party signs, remember?

Ashley tossed her auburn braid over her shoulder and blew her bangs off her forehead. Right. Turning toward the main hub of the mall, she shifted her two bags and shivered.

Macy frowned. How can you be cold? It’s like seventy-five degrees in here. Here, take a few more bags. Maybe the workout will warm you up.

Oh, thanks for the consideration.

Macy grinned and followed her around a couple with a stroller and toward the escalators. Hey, I heard your dad’s flying Mr. Parfiel to New York next week. Any chance we might be able to tag along for the day?

Ashley stepped onto the escalator and shook her head. Doubtful. It’s a three day business trip.

Oh, well, it was worth a try.

Ashley smiled at her friend. It had been a while since they’d flown anywhere with her father. Maybe she could talk him into taking her and Macy on a flight before her graduation.

Macy’s voice, half concerned and half annoyed, interrupted her thoughts. Why is that guy watching you?

What guy? Ashley followed her friend’s gaze.

The one buying coffee. He was staring right at you just a minute ago.

Ashley frowned. He was a blond stranger who looked like just a normal shopper waiting for his beverage, but then his eyes shifted directly to her. She jerked her gaze away and tugged Macy off the escalator. Let’s go find my mom.

Told you he was creepy, commented Macy as they hurried along one of the mall’s broad corridors.

Ashley nodded absently. Her mind was already wrapped back up in her graduation. She looped her arm through Macy’s. I have an idea. What if you and I combined our graduation parties? I wouldn’t have to be the center of attention, our moms wouldn’t have to make as much food, we wouldn’t have to worry about overlapping dates, and you said yourself your parents weren’t exited about cleaning out your garage. She evaluated Macy’s expression. What do you think?

Macy slowly nodded. You know, that might actually work. But let me ask my mom first, just in case she feels strongly about me having my own party.

I probably should ask my mom too. She and I are going to sit down and talk through the party’s logistics tomorrow afternoon. I’ll call you afterward and let you know what she says.

Macy grinned. Sounds good.

Chapter 3

Saturday, 10:12 P.M. Eastern Standard Time

The light was still on in Keith’s office when Trent got back from hanging with his friends for the day. He dodged the neighbor’s place and headed to the massive oak off the north side of Keith’s house. At five foot eight, much in life was within Trent’s reach, but the tree’s lowest branches were above the house’s first story eave.

Week two of living at the place, he’d solved this problem by adding a knotted rope to the tree. He gripped the dangling line and, placing his feet against the oak’s trunk, walked up its rutted bark.

Ducking spring leaves, he used branches for the rest of his climb to the house’s third story. He gripped a limb and balanced on another to ease out over the roof. He then swung down onto the rough shingles.

The motion sensor light above the neighbor’s back door flashed on. Their Chihuahua hit the end of its cable, yapping. Trent glared down at the small animal only to realize it wasn’t barking at him for once. Its nose pointed in the direction of the hedge-lined alley, where a white utilities van was parked.

Probably a squirrel or rat. Ignoring the dog, he crept around the incline to his window. To get the old-fashioned square open required prying, another reason he hated the house. He twisted through the opening, banging his knee as he did so. Swearing, he limped through the darkness to his dresser and turned on the small lamp.

You’ve been out late, said a voice from his bed.

Trent swiveled, knocking over the light.

Relieved it was not Keith but instead his mother’s thin form sitting on his bed, he set the lamp upright. So?

Tara Soris, now Devinmeyer, rose from his unmade bed. It’s past the curfew Keith set.

And I care because? As he said it, Trent noticed his sketchpad lying open beside where she had been sitting. It had been closed when he left. He circled the boxes he’d never unpacked and snatched away the pad, which contained his most current collection of pencil-sketched faces.

Trent, Keith is just trying to be a good father.

He slapped the drawing pad down on one of the boxes. Well, he can keep his fathering for his own spoiled, stuck-up four-year-old.

Trent Taylor Soris! Lillian is one of the sweetest little girls I know. His mother’s dark hair swept over her narrow shoulders, and her gray eyes, the same color as his, berated him. Can’t you at least try to see them the way I do?

His mother was beautiful and determined—both things he had once loved. He scornfully shook his head. Good luck.

Trent. Her warm fingers touched his face and swept his narrow jawline. He jerked away, body rigid. Her voice followed him pleadingly. Trent, just because I love Keith and Lillian doesn’t mean I love you less.

Swearing, he swept a pile of magazines off his dresser. They hit the floor in an angry mass of fluttering pages. He considered the lamp but didn’t want something breaking to bring Keith.

She sighed. Look, I know this isn’t easy for you, but it’s only for a little while. Your graduation’s not that far off. You could go on to college. Maybe an art school.

Right, and who would pay for that? Keith? No thanks.

Trent, don’t throw away school. You’ve got talent. Don’t waste it.

He stepped toward her. You lied to me for eighteen years, so excuse me if I don’t listen to a word you say.

She swallowed.

Yanking open the door, he nodded. Go back to your husband, and leave me be.

She frowned. I won’t—

What? Leave? Fine. He crossed his arms. Then tell me his name.

She straightened her shoulders. I’m not doing this with you again.

Trent slammed a fist down on the dresser and swore. Tell me his name! A familiar rush of heat accompanied his anger. The backs of his eyes burned. He thrust a finger toward her. You denied me contact for eighteen years. You owe me that much.

Trent, why do you think I left his name off your birth certificate? Don’t you understand that I would have wanted you to have a father? I had my reasons.

He rolled his words into a hard lump and, swearing, threw them at her. Either give me his name or get out!

She exhaled. Fine. Goodnight. She stepped through the doorway and turned. I lov—

Trent slammed the door and locked it.

Forcing himself to control his emotions, Trent waited, listening to the stairs creak with her descent. The moment she hit the last step, he swiveled and grabbed up his drawing pad. Clutching it, he ripped out its insides and shredded face after face. Once every page lay decimated at his feet, he hurled the pad’s empty shell at the door.

No matter how many faces he drew, he would never see the one he wanted.

Chapter 4

Saturday, 8:55 P.M. Central Standard Time

Who’s outside? From the car window, Ashley could see the glimmer of the outdoor garage light through the trees sheltering their two-story home. It had been nearly eight o’clock when they finished at the mall and closer to eight thirty by the time they dropped off Macy.

As they neared the house, Ashley watched fifteen-year-old Lawrence dribble past six-year-old Davy’s small form, dodge their father, and jump for the basketball hoop. It was a slam dunk. He hit the ground celebrating and then vacated the court as they pulled past.

Standing at the edge of the cement, Davy hung his head.

Ashley slid out of the minivan. Did Lawrence win again?

Youngest of the family, Davy had the same red hair, hazel eyes, and blanket of freckles across his nose and arms as she did. He nodded pathetically.

She messed his hair. Cheer up. Someday you’ll beat him at something, and then you can do the celebrating.

Davy’s head rose. You think?

She smiled. I know. Now you want to help us unload all the stuff we got?

Will you play a game with me later if I do?

Ashley ran a finger down his nose. All right, but you’d better be lots of help.

He raced to where their father was already retrieving shopping bags from the trunk, and Ashley joined them.

After playing a board game with Davy and her two sisters, Ashley pulled on a lightweight jacket and slipped outside. She took the path through the pines and maples toward Mr. Parfiel’s private airstrip.

On the other side of the trees, the wind hit her full force. Wishing she had worn a sweater under her jacket, she shivered as the gusts tugged strands of her hair loose and blew them across her face.

The strip stretched out before her, its middle swallowed in black asphalt. Reaching the center of the field, she stared up at the moon and stars. The vastness of the skies never failed to stir awe in her. She took a deep breath and wished that this—her family, her friends, her life—that none of it would ever change.

It was changing, though, and if she did not change with it, she would get left behind.

Shivering, she hugged herself. If only she could find a career she felt called to or wanted to do.

She had considered every major she could find, hoping something would appeal. But nothing had. She loved flying but did not want to be a pilot. She felt no call to missions. Nothing drew her. She didn’t know what else to consider, and staying static would be humiliating, especially with all her friends heading off to start their lives.

A good school had accepted her, and she would take generals her first year. Still, it felt like just delaying the inevitable.

She looked back at the sky. I want a purpose, God. Can’t you show me my purpose? The stars and moon glistened silently back at her. She sighed, her body trembling.

Someone approached her from behind.

She recognized the weight of the steps and the length of the strides. Sure enough, her father’s arm dropped about her shoulders.

Instantly warmer, she leaned against him. The U.S. Navy wings pinned to his flight jacket caught her hair. Though no longer active military, he still wore it proudly. He had made his career choices and was happy with them. Why couldn’t she find something she could be happy doing?

Her father spoke. Something’s bothering you. Spill it.

She frowned. How’d you know?

He laughed. Because you’ve been out here every night for a week. His fingers ran down her ribs. Now, spill.

Giggling, she arched her body away and grabbed his hands. Okay, okay. It’s just . . . She exhaled. It’s gonna sound stupid.

Her father tugged her close, his mustache brushing her forehead. Ash, if it’s bothering you, it’s not stupid.

You’re sure?

Yes. Arm about her shoulders, he started walking her toward the airstrip’s hangar.

She took a minute to gather her words. I know you and Mom have left it to me to decide what I want to do for college, and I’ve given it a lot of thought. But now . . . with graduating and all, I guess . . . She took a breath. I’m just . . . I’m scared I’ll end up choosing a major I won’t like.

He laughed.

She shied away. I told you it was stupid.

It’s not stupid. He tugged her back. It’s a normal question. You’re figuring out your life. Nervousness is a natural part of that. Just take it one step at a time. Keep in mind 1Thessalonians 5:16-18: ‘Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.’ God’s got a plan, Ash, one He’ll show you in His time. So pray He’ll show you when you need to know, and stop worrying. You’re going to do great.

She relaxed. Thanks. I love you.

He kissed her forehead. I love you too. Now, what say you we scope out the last hangar as a possible spot to host your graduation party?

Okay. Ashley glanced up toward the hangar’s lit windows. Is Fritz still trying to repair his Cessna?

Yeah, he’s been staying late the last couple of nights trying to get it finished. Her father swiped his keycard and held open the door for her.

She stepped inside the first of three hangars. The bright panel lights and the smell of fuel greeted her. Mid-hangar sat a Bell JetRanger, its smooth rotors extending overhead. The helicopter had a top speed of 139 miles per hour and fuel range of 430 miles. It was Mr. Parfiel’s favorite for short hops and sightseeing trips. His pride and joy, though, occupied the adjoining hangar.

Keeping up with her father, she ducked the Learjet 35’s sleek nose. Able to carry six to eight passengers and roughly 3,000 pounds of cargo, the jet required a two-person crew. It had a maximum speed of 530 miles per hour and fuel range of 3,000 miles. Valued close to $1.5 million, she was always amazed Mr. Parfiel allowed her and her siblings anywhere near it.

She followed her father through the hangar’s office. A humming full-size fridge, curling charts, and sprawling workbench crowded one wall while on the other a new radio filled the countertop under a monthly calendar. The smell of garlic and a large coffee stain in the carpet atop a previous grease spill were new additions.

As Mr. Parfiel’s primary pilots, Fritz Anderson and her father spent much of their time either in the air or at the airstrip. Because of this, Mr. Parfiel allowed them to keep their own toys in the last hangar.

Her father’s twenty-seven-foot white and red Cessna 172 Skyhawk gleamed in the overhead lights. Ashley loved the plane and the memories attached to it. As a little girl, she’d sat in his lap and learned what all the different instruments did. Growing older, she’d moved to the passenger seat. Soaring through clear skies, they talked about life and people, and occasionally he would even hand over the controls and let her fly.

Past her father’s plane was Fritz’s blue and white Cessna. Several panels and tools lay strewn about the hangar floor, while voices came from inside.

Pass me that wrench, will you? Even muffled, Fritz’s voice was unmistakable. Someone grunted in response, and Fritz continued, Anyway, I still can’t believe they actually convicted him of espionage. With his diplomatic immunity, I wasn’t sure he’d ever even be tried. Whatever information he was stealing must have been a heap of trouble for his own country to hand him over.

Ashley chuckled. Do they ever stop discussing politics?

Her father shook his head. I don’t think so.

Mr. Parfiel’s balding head popped out the plane’s door. Ah, I thought I heard someone. Sending a quick glance toward the back of the plane, he eased himself out.

Ashley smiled. You must have gotten tired of golf.

Mr. Parfiel snorted. Golf is a game for old men and people with too much time on their hands. I am clearly neither. He winked.

Fritz’s voice sounded from the back of the plane. I could use that panel now.

Mr. Parfiel rubbed a hand across his forehead and sighed.

Ashley’s father laughed. Fritz, call it a night. You’ve worn out your help.

Fritz Anderson came crawling out and unfolded himself. He glanced over and chuckled. So I see. Pulling a rag from his pants, he wiped his hands.

Ashley’s father glanced into the plane. How’s it coming?

Well, I found a mouse nest.

Her father frowned. Guess we should probably get some traps.

Why not get a cat? suggested Ashley. It’d probably do a better job.

Mr. Parfiel shrugged. It’s not like I can’t afford one. What do you two think?

It think it’d be fun to have an animal around the place, said Fritz. Isaac?

Ashley looked to her father. Yeah, Daddy, what about it? Davy’s always wanted a pet.

He threw out a hand. Why not?

Mr. Parfiel slapped his thigh. It’s settled then. I’ll go to the shelter on Wednesday. Davy can come along and help pick one out. He can even name it if he likes. He lifted a finger. Speaking of getting things, you, young lady, need to tell me what you want for your graduation.

Ashley forced her smile to stay in place. For the last five minutes, she had managed to forget the upcoming event.

Fritz glanced up from gathering his tools. That’s right, you’re graduating this year. That must be why I haven’t seen you around much.

She shrugged. I’ve been a little busy with homework. And contemplating all the choices she had yet to make.

Fritz chuckled. Well, hang in there, kiddo. You’re almost there.

Her father wrapped an arm around her waist. Yep, she’ll be the first one to graduate from Rye Homeschool Academy.

Mr. Parfiel smiled. She’s a credit to you and Samantha.

Heat rose in Ashley’s face and her stomach twisted. What if she disappointed them all?

Chapter 5

Sunday morning, Trent joined his two friends at their spot behind the bowling alley. Kiks paced, venting about some idiot who’d blown the power in their apartment complex, and Daton sat with a beer in hand, nursing a black eye from another of his old man’s beatings. Trent joined them, lighting up a cigarette.

They hung and talked for the morning, grabbed food at two, checked out new places to hang, and then hit a late movie. Afterward, Trent made his way back to Keith’s place, arriving forty minutes past curfew.

He slipped under the oak tree and felt in the dark for his rope. After several seconds of searching in vain, he swore.

Looking for something? Keith separated from the darkness. Or were you just pausing here before using the front door?

Trent leaned against the tree and slowly clapped. Congratulations. The computer genius finally found the backdoor to his home.

Keith’s tone tightened. Your rope is in my office. Come get it now. Or stay out here. Your choice.

Trent twisted his lips into a smile. After you.

Inside and in his office, Keith circled the desk holding his laptop and desktop computers. As a software designer, the man valued his electronics more than most things, evident by the passwords and security systems protecting them.

Keith pushed aside his leather desk chair. You think you can get away with ignoring my rules, Trent, but I guarantee you there will be consequences if you don’t at least start obeying the law.

Trent eyed the man. My rope is . . . where, exactly?

Keith’s gaze traveled his face. This morning’s paper had pictures of a bar broken into early Saturday morning.

Trent stilled briefly. So?

The police are looking for the artist who painted the back wall.

Trent attempted to maintain his arrogant expression, but his hands began to sweat. Your point?

If you remember, you did a number on my door. Keith nodded to the refinished wood. After staring at your handiwork for a week, I figured I could pick out your style anywhere. Keith opened one of his desk drawers. I confirmed my suspicions.

Trent’s heart felt as if it had suddenly squeezed sideways in his chest. His mom was the one who was supposed to put two and two together, not Keith.

Keith dipped his hand into the drawer.

Trent expected to see the eight ball from Riggs’ pool table. Instead the man pulled out one of his school notebooks. Keith flipped it open and threw it on the desk between them. You’re a good artist, but in stupidity you waste your talent.

Trent could feel his carotid artery begin to pulse like a twitch while heat encompassed his body. He didn’t need to look. He knew exactly which page Keith had found. Jagged bleeding letters covered the notebook paper. He shook hair out of his eyes. That’s my private property.

Keith’s tone hardened. Not when it’s in my house. Now let’s get something straight—

He swore at the man. "No, you get something straight. I don’t answer to you