Papa felt the coil around his wrist, cutting into his skin. He had been plasti-tied and was lying on his side -- on a vibrating surface. He opened his eyes and stirred to a shaft of light that pulled him out into clarity.

A metallic taste lingered in his mouth. Blood or bile? The burning in his nostrils and throat told him something hot had ripped through his body. And there was a foul odor he smelled, coming from him. Papa tried to recall the last memory he had.

The car was waiting at the light -- when a loud bang ripped out the door. He tried unbuckling his belt to flee. Then nothing.

How long have I been out? His thoughts went to his wife and girls.

Calm. Think.

His thoughts jumped somersaults trying to figure out what his abductors wanted. Was it money? He barely made enough for a family of five, soon to be six. No one except Bonnie would pay a ransom if she could. He had no money, no valuables. Not true, he realized. He had one priceless secret -- arriving as an afterthought. His blood.

Focus.

The man squatting in front of him smelled of old sweat and an acrid odor associated with cordite. Hunter. Soldier. The odor was unmistakable to those who lived with the gun.

Papa blinked and squinted against the brightness, letting his eyes adjust. He was in a van -- the same one that had taken him. In front were two more men. Four altogether, a menagerie of villains gathered in this space, rough and stern-looking.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Papa managed, "Who are you people? What do you want from me?"

"You lay there and relax, Papa Smurf. It'll be over soon enough."

He didn't recognize the voice -- but it knew him. No mistaken identity there.

The van bounced along for a while as Papa listened to the sound of the road and the change to the vibrations. He heard rubber hitting metal gratings every half-second apart -- they were crossing a steel bridge he figured. And he could guess which one. They were crossing into Jersey, where he would disappear for good.

The nearest captor gestured at the water bottle in his hand.

This was the moment.

Papa nodded he wanted a drink. As the man neared, Papa lurched up and head-butted him, sending him crashing against the interior wall holding a gushing nose.

Papa rolled and got to his feet. With his hands still tied behind him, he hurled himself toward the back door and threw his shoulder into it. His two hundred pounds weight plus momentum burst the hinges, throwing him out the back. Crashing face-first onto the metal grating, Papa bounced and rolled several times as cars around him screeched to a halt, their proximity collision radar forcing the brakes to lock up and avoid running him over.

Battered, Papa raised his lacerated face and peered behind him. The van also stopped, and the side door banged open.

Get up!

In crushing pain, hands still tied, he willed himself up using his knees. They were going to zap him again and this time it would be permanent. There was only one chance of escape. He limped at first, then stumbled into an erratic run toward the side of the span. His feet gained traction, pumping faster into a wild sprint.

The walkway railing was chest high, so he threw his neck and back over the barrier like a high jumper, falling head-first. Though the trajectory was gradual, the free fall was remarkably long, and the water promised to be as hard as concrete.

Papa braced himself, gritted his teeth as he careened over. No use positioning his spine and neck in neutral. He would crash into the waters of the Delaware River. He'd hope to stay conscious after hitting the water and not drown.