by Denise Wells
I log into the FBI database from home and start pulling up files on some guys who are rumored to have disappeared after we weren’t able to prosecute. And am not surprised, after my conversation with Viktor, to learn that eighty percent of them are missing and or deceased. She’s good at what she does.
Which shouldn’t surprise me.
She doesn’t get caught. She’s got a federal agent in her pocket. Unlimited financial reserves. The perfect alibi. Does the entire fucking world know about this?
I want to hit something. Preferably Mack. I can’t reconcile how angry I am at him right now. There’s no telling how long he’s been keeping this from me. Which just makes me wonder what else he’s kept from me too.
Mother fucker.
Before I have a chance to change my mind, I call Viktor Limonov to tell him I’m in. If he can get the FBI to cover for me, I have nothing to lose. I’m disheartened by the Feds right about now anyway. For the very reason that someone like Limonov can get to them and impact their decisions. That’s not the organization I signed on with.
The organization I signed on with is on the right side of the law at all times. They make plays that are legitimate and above board, and don’t allow foreign powerhouses with too much money and not enough brains to decide agents’ careers. And higher-ups aren’t influenced by outside sources.
Shit. Maybe it’s always been like this and I’m the stupid one.
2
Quinn
I stick my cell phone, compact, lipstick, and eye drops in my clutch and head out the door. My Lyft should be here any minute and I already have multiple destinations requested just in case I don’t get it right the first time.
I look back at my little apartment above the garage one last time, in case I don’t see it again for a while. If I had a dog, this is where it would sit in the window and wag its tail as a way of saying goodbye. Oh, except if I had a dog, I’d need someone to feed and walk it in case I’m not back right away. Since I’m the only person I know who does that for other people, a dog is a bad idea. So, instead, I’ll just say goodbye to the apartment.
The car pulls up and I get in the back.
“Quinn?” the driver asks.
“That’s me. Can we go to stop number one first? Depending on what happens there, we may not need to go anywhere else, but I’ll still pay you for the whole trip.”
“Is good.”
I settle back into the seat and play with the hem of my dress, wrapping it around my finger one way, then the other, going over my plan one more time in my head.
It will work.
It’s got to.
There is no other choice left.
I’m going to find the guys David was working with and let myself be kidnapped.
Then, I’ll wait for Reed to come and rescue me.
Even though it’s my idea to get kidnapped, and I thought I was prepared for it, the actual act still catches me entirely off guard when it happens. In the movies when a girl is kidnapped she has all this time to struggle and scream—to fight back and scratch her attackers so she has evidence under her nails. In real life, it’s nothing like that.
At least it wasn’t for me. So much so I didn’t even have to implement my plan. And before you say anything, I do now realize how dumb my idea is. Or was. And how dangerous it is to go searching out human traffickers all trussed up like a five-course meal in front of a table of starving heathens.
Because in reality, all I had to do was get in the backseat of the car I thought was my Lyft. The bad guys did the rest. I was already on their radar; they had already planned to take me. At least that’s how it seemed when the driver turned to face me at a red light, pointed a gun at my head, and demanded my phone.
Which he promptly tossed out the window as he accelerated onto the freeway. The only other thing he’s said this entire thirty-minute ride so far is that if my friend Daria is smart, she’ll know how to find me. I already know Daria is smart, what I don’t know is how she’ll be able to find me when I don’t have my phone.
What I also can’t figure out is how the bad guys knew I’d ordered a ride to begin with. Not that it matters, I suppose. Really, that’s the least of my worries. Because now that it’s happened, I realize how utterly asinine it is to want to be kidnapped. Never mind dressing up for the occasion.
My god, no wonder Daria doesn’t think I can be a Dirty Darling. I’m an idiot. A crazy idiot. No one in their right mind decides to be kidnapped. Regardless of the fact they were already planning to take me, I’d had the intention of being taken. So, the fault lies with me first. And the bad guys second.
They’ve tinted the windows a deep black, so dark I’ve given up trying to figure out where we are going. Recognizing anything beyond the light that blurs outside them is pointless. I was so flustered after he pointed a gun at me I forgot to keep track of our stops and turns. And which freeway he may have gotten on.
While we’re talking about how stupid I am, I’ll go ahead and admit that it wasn’t until just a few seconds ago that it occurred to me to try to open the door to jump out. While on the freeway. Not the side streets. Or even a red light. But at a speed of seventy-five miles per hour.
Not that it matters, I’ve since realized that the door handles and window buttons are on child lock back here, so I have no way to escape anyway. Unless I could somehow climb over the back of the front seat without the big guy noticing. . .
Ugh. I can’t even finish that thought, it’s so dumb.
Speaking of the driver, I tried talking to him after he took my phone, but he only replied with a gruff, “If you want to live, you’ll stay quiet.”
He’s a big guy. Tall enough that his head grazes the roof of the car, and he needs to push the seat all the way back. I’ve never driven a car where I don’t have to have the seat locked in as close to the steering wheel as possible because my legs are short.
I look through my clutch just to make sure I have nothing to use as a weapon. But the most dangerous item aside from my eye drops is my lipstick. For a girl who routinely travels with pepper spray, I sure mucked it up on the night I planned to be abducted.
The driver pulls into an empty parking lot in an area I’m not familiar with. The only other car around is a white van, one of those creepy ones with a smush nose front and no windows on the sides aside from those in the front doors. The car stops abruptly, and the driver gets out, yelling at someone inside the van. I’m fairly sure he’s speaking in Russian if what I’ve heard from Daria over the years is any indication.
When he comes back and flings the door open, I realize he’s big everywhere. Not just tall, but huge barrel chest, arms like tree trunks, and thighs that bulge even through the cover of his slacks.
“Get out,” he demands, his accent strong.
I follow his instructions, albeit timidly, as I’m not sure what happens next. But it doesn’t matter because within a few seconds I feel a small prick at my neck, and everything goes black.
When I wake in the back of a van, I’m lying on my side with my hands secured behind my back and my feet duct-taped together. Even though I technically asked for this to happen, I’m still scared to death. Granted, I didn’t ask these guys specifically to kidnap me. And my request wasn’t verbal or anything, but I did put it out there and now look at me?
I’m a prisoner.
They stuffed a rag that smells like dirty socks in my mouth. And the raised ridges on the bare floor of the van are digging into my ribs and hipbone. The heat of the engine rises from below; the metal acting as the perfect conductor making it almost hot to the touch.
I try to take in my surroundings. But from my vantage point, it’s limited. The entire inside of the van is white, reminding me of the one my mom’s boyfriend had when I was a kid. It even has the same big engine cover between the two front seats. But my mom’s boyfriend had a built-in bed in the back of his, with storage underneath it. And carpeting throughout. I remember thinking carpeting and a bed in a van was th
e epitome of luxury.
The combination of the heat from the floor and what I think are gas fumes coming into the van from somewhere, are making me kind of loopy. I want to ask who these men are and where we are going, but I can’t remove the rag from my mouth.
When I was a kid, I’d snuck into the theater to see The Silence of the Lambs after buying a ticket for The Never Ending Story II. That movie helped to blossom my fear of everything in existence. It’s also the reason I started my list of rules for how to avoid catastrophic situations.
Rule #1 - Never help a guy wearing a cast move furniture from a van.
Netflix Junkie at your service. I know for a fact good things never come from helping men move anything in and out of an automobile. You will end up trapped in a deep hole and someone will use your skin for a jacket.
Every time.
What I need is to stay calm and think this through. I wanted this to happen. Wanted to be kidnapped so that Reed could come and rescue me. So, I just need to focus on the next step since the abduction has happened.
Nothing comes to mind.
It’s entirely possible I didn’t plot out any steps beyond being taken. Which, according to Daria, falls under the category of dumb shit I do without thinking it through. She says if I don’t like something, I ignore it and hope it goes away. That’s why I love movies so much, I don’t like dealing with real life.
If we use this as an example, I suppose she’d be right. But it doesn’t mean I can’t come up with a plan now.
The van takes a sharp corner and I roll from the van wall over to the double side doors with a bump.
Jesus, please don’t let these doors open.
Though, if they opened, I’d have a better chance of escaping.
Of course, I’d have to get untied first.
Shit.
If I could get untied, I’d be doing it now.
Okay, focus, Quinn. Think about the rules.
Rule #2 - Always leave a trail.
Blew that one already.
I didn’t tell anyone where I was going or what I was doing. I didn’t even get into the correct Lyft so there won’t be a digital trail of my trip. And even if I had, I’d be in this new car now so it wouldn’t matter.
Ohmigod!
What kind of fucking idiot wants to get herself kidnapped?
How stupid do I have to be to think I can just let someone abduct me and Reed will come to save me? I don’t even know where he is. And no one knows where I am. What made me think this plan was remotely plausible. Why am I so stupid?
My heart beats faster, my breath shallows, my vision blurs. I can feel a panic attack coming on. Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m not supposed to have panic attacks anymore. I take two different anti-anxiety meds every day just to make sure.
Breathe. Calm. Breathe. Calm.
Oh god, it’s not working.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I’ve got to get out of here! I can’t stay in the van.
It’s too small. The walls too close. The floor too hot.
Sweat drips from everywhere on my body at once. My eyes tear. My nose runs.
Did I just pee my pants?
I can’t breathe. I need to breathe.
No. No. No. I can’t stay here. I can’t.
Please let me breathe. Just one breath and I’ll be okay.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
I try to pivot my legs toward the doors so I can kick them open. But every turn and brake of the van just sends me sliding in a different direction across the ridged floor.
I still can’t catch my breath.
I’m going to suffocate inside a hot and sticky, windowless van with a dirty sock rag shoved in my mouth.
Breathe. Calm. Breathe. Calm.
Think, Quinn.
I need someone else to know that I’m here. Someone who can call the authorities.
I roll myself to my back with effort and try to stomp my heels on the metal floor. I can’t imagine anyone outside the van will hear me, especially with all the road noise. At the same time, it can’t hurt, right? Like when you’re trapped in a trunk and you bang on the lid even though you can’t see where you are?
Oh thank god, I’m not in a trunk.
Too late to be effective, I try counting the number of turns we take and in which direction. If for no other reason than to keep my mind occupied and off the fact that these guys will probably kill me soon. Between the twists and turns, the heat of the floor, the smell of gas fumes, it becomes too much and I lose count.
I have a feeling we are on a mountain road because it feels like we are on switchbacks, but I can’t be certain. Just one of the many things I’m feeling less certain of.
I want to go to sleep.
My mind is going fuzzy and I can barely keep my eyes open.
Did they put something on the rag to make me sleep?
Shit.
Now I won’t remember anything.
The next time I wake, I’m in a small windowless room with a bed. I am still taped the same way, but at least this time I am on a mattress instead of a van floor. And instead of being hot, it’s cold. Like, freezing. I try to roll over onto my side so I can at least look around the room a bit, but it is too hard to get my body to cooperate.
My muscles have all cramped because of being restrained. The tape has dug into my wrists and ankles from struggling against them, leaving them sore and bleeding. I hope they don’t scar. Or get infected.
Ugh.
Tears rush to my eyes and invitations to my pity party go out.
I cry because I have no idea where I am or why they have me. If I will live or die. And worst of all, I don’t know if anyone is planning to rescue me.
Let it out, Quinn.
Let it out and let it go.
I let myself cry for the count of 200, then collect myself and take a slow look around the room.
No windows, one door, wood floors, wainscoting up the lower half of the walls with a chair rail to separate it from the upper half of the wall. No ceiling fan, no vents, one light bulb hanging directly from the ceiling, a light switch by the door, and a surveillance camera in the corner at the ceiling. A bucket in one corner with a small bundle of toilet tissue next to it to show its intended use.
Funny since they bound my hands and ankles.
The door has a deadbolt that needs a key from both sides. And finally, the mattress I’m lying on. I have no idea how long I’ve been here, or how long I was unconscious.
With no way to actually measure time, I count to sixty-Mississippi so I can attempt to estimate the length of time I have been here. I thought I wanted this, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve put myself in a situation where I have zero control and I’m scared.
Return to the rules, Quinn. When all else fails, remember the rules.
Rule #3: Don’t fall asleep.
I’m not sure what sleeping will have to do with anything in these circumstances. I mean, I made most of these rules when I was a pre-teen. Regardless, I may not be on Elm Street with Freddie Krueger invading my dreams, but I know enough that if I fall asleep, I’ll definitely lose out on any chance to escape.
Not that it really matters. Even if I could escape, where would I go, and how would I get there?
I don’t even know where I am.
3
Daria
“Wait for my signal.” I look through the shattered glass. There are more men in the audience than I would have expected. I’m not sure how we missed them arriving, or maybe that was just me. I recognize a few men there: some Russian, some American. Two politicians, one high-ranking police officer. They make me sick, promising to protect and serve, all the while kidnapping and raping. I don’t now who most of the other men are until I see one I know well.
My stomach drops, bile rises in my throat.
It’s impossible.
There’s no way.
How can this be happening?
My head spins as I try to think of a reas
on why.
Ohmigod. I’m going to be sick.
I stumble down the stairs, whispering rapidly through the comms as I go. “Don’t do anything. Repeat. Do nothing. Fall back. Reconvene at the cars. NOW! GO!”
I run back to the starting point, making sure I don’t hear any errant gunshots as I do, getting there just as the girls do.
“What the hell, boss? We could have taken a lot of them. Probably saved those girls. I was pumped and ready.”
“I know,” I sigh. “Me too. But we couldn’t go in.”
“Want to tell us why?” Alyssa asks.
No! Fuck.
“Because my father was one of the buyers in there.”
The girls and I meet back up at the bar. Entering through the back and quietly making our way up to the Darlings’ office before the employees I’ve got working the bar see us.
We each take our preferred seat at the round conference table I have in the middle of the room.
“Want to tell us what that was all about?” Al demands before sitting. She’s probably the only one I’ll allow to speak to me that way. Not because I’m afraid of her, but because I respect her. Not that I don’t respect my other girls, I do. But Alyssa is scary smart. She’s the only person I know who can make a person disappear virtually. As in all traces of their identity suddenly gone.
I can make a person disappear literally, but there will always be proof they were alive at some point. Alyssa can make it so that the only thing left is whatever paper or photographic proof their poor mother has at home in a box marked childhood drawings. And that’s after she makes them disappear literally, just as efficiently as I do.
Like I said, scary smart.
“My father was bidding.” I sit heavily in my chair. Not caring if it makes me look tired or exasperated. I am. Both.
“Your father? As in Viktor Limonov?” Roxie asks.