 Clint squeezed his eyes shut but couldn’t stop the few tears that trickled down his cheeks. He pressed his lips together and kept his eyes closed, repeating in his head that until he saw proof otherwise, Griff and their dogs were unharmed. He took a few deep breaths and opened his eyes, looking out the window. “Where are we going? Where are we now?” They’d just passed a mile marker on I-90 West, but Clint didn’t know the highway well enough to get much information from that. He and Griff had driven to the Black Hills in South Dakota and taken I-90, but he’d certainly not had any reason to memorize things like mile markers and landmarks. All he could say for sure was he wasn’t in Ohio any longer. The view would have been pleasant if he weren’t in his current predicament. The sky was deep blue, and it looked like early evening. On either side of the highway, fields of corn and wheat swayed in a lazy breeze. Finally Clint saw a sign announcing an upcoming town and the letters MN after the town’s name. There were the customary billboards advertising fast food restaurants, gas, and lodging at the next exit. In the side mirror, he could see the vehicle he was in: an old minivan with a bad paint job. “Unless you want me to piss all over your van, we need to stop.” Clint hated sounding so dramatic, but his bladder ached constantly now. Every little bump they sped over had him cringing, and the last thing he wanted to do was embarrass himself by losing control. He doubly hated resorting to begging. “Please.” Expression softening, Dylan glanced sideways at him. That gave Clint an idea. Griff’s voice saying cooperate echoed through his head. “I know how much you want to take care of me. I’ve always appreciated that about you. So, bathroom break and something to drink, okay?” Clint said quietly. “I’m sure you meant something you’ve always loved about me,” Dylan said. Clint looked down and nodded. “That’s what I meant. Sorry.” He closed his eyes tightly, then concentrated on not holding his breath when Dylan’s hand slid along his thigh once again. “I guess we can find a place to stop for a rest,” Dylan said. Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly and quietly, Clint struggled to compose himself and collect his thoughts. Dylan’s writing might have tanked after his second book was released—something that, looking back, Clint should have seen as a clue to the man’s mental state. What didn’t tank was Dylan’s ability to plan and research. He’d asked Clint plenty of questions, and they’d compared notes about police procedures over the last few years. It was likely he remembered Clint attended conventions such as GovSec with Griff. He’d also been asking about caving, extensive questions with the explanation he wanted to use the sport in a book. What Dylan, or any of his other friends, probably didn’t know was that Clint sat through seminars and talked to lots of security professionals. When Griff gave presentations, Clint had helped him, as well as others he worked with, to put information packets together and proofread their talks. Many times, Clint had heard discussions about hostage situations. He took some comfort in the fact he likely knew more than the average person about surviving something like this. Knowing details given out in a seminar and turning that knowledge into practical application, however, were two entirely different things. Jewel Cave is available in eBook, paperback, through Kindle Unlimited and in French and Spanish.      Comments are closed.
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