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Autobiography	By : tartausucre Category: 1 through F > Firewall Views: 1918 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Firewall is the property of Warner Bros. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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"Get up."
Margaux groaned softly and opened her eyes a little. Only the vaguest hint of day filtered around the curtain -- not enough to light the room -- but she recognised the voice well enough to know that it was Bill who was standing over her.
She pulled her skirt back down over her legs and sat up to look at the clock. 04:13.
"We're going. Pack something warm."
He dropped a black kit bag in her lap and went back downstairs.

*
"Did you wipe everything down?"
Margaux caught the snatch of conversation from the kitchen as she descended the stairs.
"Obviously."
Bill noticed her standing nervously in the hall and beckoned her towards him. "You're ready. Good."
He held out his hand for the bag, and she handed it over. Immediately he threw it on the dining room table and unzipped it. She blushed angrily and looked at the floor -- the first thing he had taken out was her underwear. His gloved fists overflowed with jewel-coloured lace.
"Bit fruity given the circumstances, but fine."
"I don't have anything else."
He ignored her. "Coat. Good. Jeans. Cardigan. Alright."
He took out her washbag and rifled through the contents.
"There are a lot of sharp implements in here, Margaux. Do you expect me to let you keep these?"
She was silent. He took out the razor, tweezers, and the steel pore tools in their clear plastic case, and put the washbag back.
"You can have the rest, but I'm keeping these. Rob, bring the car around."
He put the objects in his jacket pocket and went through to the drawing room, leaving Margaux to angrily stuff her things back into the bag.

*
Bill took the keys from her handbag and unlocked the front door. The little knitted sheep keyring dangling from his black leather glove was like the poster for a horror film. Laying his fingers on the door handle, he turned to look at her.
"You know what happens if you try to run now, don't you?"
"I'm not going to run."
"Good."
He watched her slipping on her shoes with an intensity that made her skin prickle, then opened the door.
Outside, a white transit van idled with the rear door open.
"Get in."
She did, sitting on the bare floor with her back against the plywood siding. He threw the bag in after her and slammed the door, leaving her in almost total darkness.
A few minutes passed. Through the thin board that separated her from the front seats, she could hear the soft murmur of the two men's voices. Eventually, she heard the engine revving, and they started to move.

*
She couldn't have guessed how long they had been driving.
She lay on the floor with her head on the kitbag, listening to the unintelligible hum of the radio. She was sure they stopped a few times -- for petrol, probably -- but mostly the hours melded into one eternal moment of rattling, growling darkness.
Margaux was asleep when the door rattled open on its runners. She opened her eyes to a square of overcast daylight in the doorway, Robert standing expectantly in a coat with the hood pulled up as rain poured from the sky.
"Come on, get out."
Less than ten feet from the van was the front door of a single-storey stone cottage. She stepped out into the rain and rushed to the open door. Even that short distance in this weather was enough to soak every scrap of her clothing, and as she walked into the large, low-ceilinged kitchen, Bill smirked at her.
Robert followed with Margaux's bag in hand and shut the door behind them, throwing the keys on the kitchen table.
"You should dry off." Bill looked at the now-bedraggled image she presented and stood up, walking towards her. "But not yet."
In two more steps he was looking down at her. Abruptly he grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her roughly against the wall. He grasped the neckline of her top, and tore the thin fabric until the purple lace of her bra showed.
Margaux's delicate fingers closed around his wrist, trying to prevent the further destruction of all that stood between her and baring her flesh to these strangers, and without warning his free hand snapped upwards, striking her across one cheek.
She looked up at him in fear and bewilderment as he gripped her jaw and studied her face dispassionately.
"That won't do."
He drew back his hand and hit her again: this time so hard that she fell sideways, and felt blood start to well over her bottom lip.
"Better. Where's the video camera?"
"The bag by the stove."
Robert had watched all of this from his seat at the table. He noted the tears that had begun to stain Margaux's cheeks with cold satisfaction before he got up to retrieve the aforementioned camera. Once he had it in hand, along with a long-legged tripod, he looked at Bill expectantly.
"The biggest blank wall is in the bedroom. Set it up on the desk."
Robert left the room, and Bill grabbed Margaux by her wrists, hauling her back to her feet. He took a roll of gaffer tape from the nearest bag and forced her over the table, pulling her arms behind her to tape her wrists together.
"What are you doing?"
"We're going to make a little film, Margaux. I thought that much was obvious."
"Don't hurt me... please..." The request came out in a quivering murmur.
"Margaux, Margaux..." He pulled her upright and marched her through a door at the rear of the kitchen, leading her down a narrow hallway until they reached the last door. Inside was a single bed with a metal frame, a wooden desk, and Robert.
"I told you -- no one is going to hurt you, as long as everyone does what they're supposed to."
Robert moved into the far corner of the tiny room to allow Bill to walk Margaux in and sit her on the bed, directly in front of the camera. With the two men standing out of shot, Bill reached over and switched the camera on.
A red LED lit up and and began to blink.
The blood on Margaux's lip had begun to trickle down, and had reached the point where soft pink flesh gave way to pale peach skin.
"Read this."
Robert held a sheet of paper beneath the camera lens, and Margaux began to read, trying to ignore Bill's cold, predatory gaze.
"W-we have Margaux Butler in our custody. Have ten--"
"There's no danger in this."
"What?"
Bill leaned against the doorframe and looked at Margaux's shaking form. Was she trembling, or shivering, or both?
"We need to scare them."
He strode into shot -- visible from the waist down on the tiny preview screen -- and grabbed Margaux by her hair, forcing her to look at the camera.
"As you can see, we have Margaux here with us." Her scalp was in agony, and she whimpered and closed her eyes. Bill yanked her hair again roughly. "Look at the camera, Margaux. They'll want to see those pretty eyes." He laid his other hand on her shoulder, and she noticed that he had removed his gloves. "Ten million pounds will do nicely. We'll contact you with further instructions. In the meantime, should you attempt to find and rescue Miss Butler, things will get very nasty indeed. Say goodbye, Margaux."

*
"I don't understand how you're going to pick up the money without getting arrested."
Margaux sat on a low stool by the stove, holding a tissue to her lip. She had changed out of her wet clothes into jeans, warm woollen socks and a cardigan, but her body still felt like it was submerged in ice water.
"You just let us worry about that." Bill didn't look up from the laptop.
He and Robert sat at the kitchen table. The camera was hooked to the USB port -- they were editing the ransom video, she supposed.
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms.
"How will you send them the video?"
"Robert will be driving to a suitably distant Post Office."
"So they can't trace the postmark?"
Bill turned his head and looked at her. "You seem very interested in all of this."
"I'm interested in everything." She went back to dabbing at her lip, checking the tissue periodically in hopes that the bleeding had stopped. "Besides, when I write about this I'll need details."
For a moment Bill's expression came dangerously close to a smile. He turned back to the computer screen.
"In a week your ex husband will receive the film on a disc, with instructions to contact everyone else in a position to pay. A week should give everyone enough time to start wondering where you are. The postmark will, as you said, be untraceable. Is that enough detail for you, Margaux?"
"I suppose. Telling me where we are might be nice."
"Don't push your luck, Margaux."
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Autobiography