"Hold your hands together. Lace your fingers," Lesher instructs. I comply, and soon enough the force of his grip is replaced by the bite of plastic zip ties. He yanks them until he is satisfied, just shy of cutting off my circulation. He's done this before, I realize fearfully. Probably many times before. How many banks has this man robbed? How many women has he taken in completely? In my imaginings, the devastation this evil angel has wrought across the country is incalculable. Maybe I'm exaggerating his infamy, but I'm not imagining that I’m the one tied up like a damsel by cartoon villain.
"We're leaving now, and we're taking you as a hostage." Lesher stands before me now, his pale eyes fixed upon my face. He doesn't blink, and I begin to feel winded from the sheer unrelenting power of his gaze. Maybe he really did tie my bonds tighter than I first thought.
"Don't you love it when plans align?" he continues, mouth flexing into a coldly pleasant smile that succeeds in eclipsing his eyes from view, finally breaking his spell over me. Unfortunately, any cleverness I may have had doesn't return as easily as my good sense.
"No," I state bluntly. I wish I could have done something bolder, like spit directly into his face. Now, too late for me to wrangle my courage, I watch as his frigid expression breaks in the wake of a surprised laugh. His voice is deep, but his laugh is even deeper, and as smooth as chocolate. I feel a flush come over me that only half has to do with being the butt of whatever joke he is privately enjoying.
The next instant I am off the ground. Lesher loops an arm around my waist and hauls me up over his shoulder easily—more easily than Marcus, who is currently doing the same with the full duffle bag.
My face turns beet-red at the manhandling. I'm certain my curves through the pencil skirt must be outlined for all the room to see. Now is definitely not the time for modesty, but I can't help but be conscious of how close certain parts of my body are being forced to Lesher's face.
"You don't have to do this." I panic as my captor carries me to the open door. "Wait! I—I have no assurance you won't hurt them!"
"You have my assurance." Lesher gestures with his free hand for Marcus to precede us out. The masked man sighs, as if he's a child who has just had a toy taken from him, but he complies and exits first. I feel instantaneous relief that he is no longer waving his gun around inside the vault with my coworkers.
Lesher pivots and presses the abort button on the keypad. The last I see of Frank and Christian is their pale, terrified faces as the door swings closed behind us.
When women lament about finding men who are ready to sweep them off their feet, I'm a hundred percent certain this isn't what they have in mind.
CHAPTER 4
LESHER
I honestly didn't think this part of the plan would be so fun.
Maybe "fun" isn't the right word for it. Hostages are tricky. When they aren't pissing themselves in fear, they're almost always mouthing off to distract attention from an escape attempt. Hostages are intractable, unpredictable factors in any plan.
But taking a hostage was a part of the setup from the beginning. It was Marcus who, in the heat of the moment, tried to diverge from the original plan. I had almost completely forgotten the need for a hostage until I listened to Nancy talk him down, and then the solution to all our problems became crystal clear.
Unfortunately, that involved giving Nancy a very big problem of her own.
The woman has no way of knowing that I don't intend her harm. I haven't given her any promises on that front, and she hasn't asked for any—then again, that might have something to do with the fact that her face is currently jostling upside down in the crevice of my back.
"Let go of me!" she finally protests. I assume she perceives that we've left the bank behind and gone outside; daylight breaks across us, oiling the black leather of my coat and pooling in its crevices. I ignore her, and turn to signal the men in masks filtering out quickly behind us. I know firsthand that the security cams are down, but it won't be long before they're restored—probably about as long as it will take for the boys in blue to get here, which I estimate offhand to be about ten minutes.
"Get back to the warehouse," I order as the men clamor inside the panel van. "No distractions or detours. And you cretins better drive the fucking speed limit."
"What about her?" Marcus nods pointedly to Nancy. She's gone as limp as a sack of potatoes over my shoulder, which signals to me that she's calculating what her next move will be. I can practically hear the gears grinding away in that pretty little head of hers.
"Marcus," I say patiently, "I really hope your questioning me isn't becoming a trend…because it's starting to seem like it's becoming a fucking trend."
If he thinks I'm about to forget what happened back inside the vault, then he's in for a very rude wakeup call once we get back to base. As if sensing this, his eyes narrow at me; then again, it might just be the glare from the sun stinging him more than my thinly-veiled threat. Whatever the reason for the look, he complies and stays silent. The men slam the doors to the van closed and engage the ignition as I carry Nancy with me across the parking lot.
"No." I hear it when the panic enters her voice once more. "No way."
"I thought we already established that the leather jacket wasn't just for show?" I respond mildly as I ferry her over to my bike. From somewhere around my tailbone, I hear her swallow audibly.
"I've never…I've…are you sure that thing is safe?" she asks. "It looks like it's missing pieces."
I've had the bike for almost five years now, and carried out a lot of dubious runs on it; it's enabled me to dodge the law at every turn. If I'm in a position to be worried about anything coming off a bank robbery, it’s not the safety of my ride. I lower Nancy down until she's stabilized herself once more, but make sure to place myself between her and freedom.
"It's an Ural sans sidecar," I reply. "Which means you'll be riding on back."
"How am I supposed to ride anything with my hands tied?" She holds her wrists up, which is all the better for me. I mount the bike and yank her up behind me; she cries out in surprise at how easily I manage it. Her arms are up and over my head before she even realizes it, and I soon have her lodged securely behind me on the bike—with her hands still tied. She clenches them around my waist, and I grin.
"Comfortable?" It's a rhetorical question.
"Go to hell," she breathes, but the fearful edge in her voice takes all the power out of the invitation.
I rev the throttle and clap my mirrored aviators down over my eyes.
"Anything else you'd like to say?"
There should probably be rules against baiting the hostage; granted, it's not something I've ever enjoyed enough to pursue before.
"Yeah," Nancy says as the engine roars to life. "Yeah, I've got a lot to say, very loudly, to everyone we pass! Do you really think you can get away with this? Kidnapping an innocent woman and taking her against her will?"
"You can scream all you want," I say. "No one's gonna hear you."
Any protest she might have felt like lodging against my claim is lost the moment we take off, like two bats out of the gates of Hell, forced together by circumstance and unable to let go of each other—in her case, very literally. I feel the bound arms wrapped around my waist squeeze instinctively, and I flex my abdominals in a similarly instinctive response. It's not that she's a woman, I tell myself. As her captor, I need her to understand my physical strength. I need to minimize any future ideas of escape.
I feel a warm pressure between my shoulder blades, and realize the woman has buried her face in my back. I had already guessed she would make for an unwilling, frightened passenger, but I don't know why this gesture now should take me by surprise.
It has nothing to do with me, I reason as I hang a tight corner and jolt past the parking lot's ineffectual stop sign. She's just forgotten what to be more afraid of.
"What is this?" I feel the shape of the words muttered into my back more than I actually hear them. "The symbol for your gang
?"
She must be face-to-face with the grinning skull insignia patched onto the back of my jacket. I don't turn from our speedy flight down the backroad to confirm this.
"Something like that."
"Well, I think it looks ridiculous. And cliché."
"Well, I agree," I respond. "And if your aim is to try and pick a fight with me right now, Nancy, you're failing miserably. I'm in complete control of our situation. You should be begging me for release."
"What are you going to do?" she challenges suddenly. "Throw me off the back? You need me, in case you've forgotten. That doesn't count for nothing Mr. Lesher."
"The need for you ends when the ride's over, sweetheart," I shout over my shoulder. The wind is picking up now with our speed, and I want to make myself heard, plain as day. I want us both to understand exactly what sort of standing she has. "Don't press your luck!"
"What luck?" I hear her mutter to herself, but we're roaring down the road much too fast now for the conversation to continue.
It's for the best. I shouldn't keep encouraging this sort of thing between us just because I don't see the point of not baiting her. She may be my prisoner now, but there's no denying she's amused me from the start. But the time for amusement has passed, even if it could be easily argued it should have never existed at all. The business I had at Grand National Credit Union is concluded, and the outcome exactly as I intended. The success of the mission definitely didn't depend in any way on how much I was enjoying myself.
Nancy falls silent behind me. I think I've finally managed to shut her down, at least for the moment, until I feel the hands locked together around my waist slowly starting to descend between my legs towards my nuts. I feel a moment's surprise at her boldness, before I ultimately realize what she intends. She wants to try and hit me where it hurts before the bike gains too much speed out on the open road. She's willing to risk my crashing, and serious injury to us both, over remaining captive.
I snatch her roving hands and shove them roughly between my legs, helping her find the finish line and abruptly bringing her little escape plan to a satisfactory end.
"Hey!" she exclaims. "What the—"
"You don't need to wait for someone to give you a road map," I say. "You want a feel, Nancy? Go for it. And by all means, give it a little more pressure."
"Stop. Stop!" The panic enters her voice once more, but I don't stop. I press the cupped palm of her hands down into the heat between my legs, forcing her to feel the shape of what she mistakenly identified as a weakness.
This, of course, provokes a tingling, molten feeling to ignite in my own stomach. I try half-heartedly to ignore it, but there's no denying how Nancy's touch, inadvertent as it may be, floods me with a warmth that threatens to heat to lust. A lesson needs to be learned here, but it's proving all too easy to forget what that lesson might be…or exactly who is teaching whom.
"Please. Stop," she begs me, and I release my grip on her all at once. I hadn't intended to give up that easily, but something about her heartbreaking plea proves impossible to ignore. If I was a better man, I might even feel sorry for pushing things this far.
"We gonna keep our hands to ourselves from now on?" I ask as I take the bike seamlessly around another corner. I feel her nod, and feel her lean with me uncertainly as we go. Her unintentional cooperation aboard the Ural is better than none, and I already feel us riding better together for it.
Not that this is a situation that will ever be repeated between us. The plan still stands, although I've purposefully glossed over the details of Nancy's release. If she still thinks she'll be disembarking and running to freedom as soon as we reach headquarters, she's even more naïve than that pristine blouse of hers lets on.
She'll continue to play her part, like it or not; just as I will, and just like the expendable men who find themselves temporarily in my employ. This dark episode in both our lives isn't anywhere near concluded, and I don't intend to release her until I get what I want.
Her bound hands hover just above my groin, reluctant to make the same mistake twice. The crotch of my riding pants feels tighter than usual, and I'm finding it more difficult to concentrate on the plan I've conceived and memorized for almost as long as I've made my career by riding.
No, I don't intend to release Nancy until I get what I want. I'm just not sure what all that entails.
But I'm willing to find out.
CHAPTER 5
NANCY
I'm not sure this day can turn out to be any more mortifying than it already is.
I'm not even sure if mortifying is the best word to use to describe my situation at present. Is it really so next-level embarrassing to be kidnapped and whisked off on the back of a speeding motorcycle by a complete psychopath? It's not as if it was within my power to stop him, and God—and my manager—knows I tried my best to avoid that fate. After all, these men have guns, and obvious homicidal intent. What choice did I really have at the end of the day?
Maybe I'm in shock. Yes, that definitely has to be it. It explains more than one inappropriate feeling I'm having in regards to my situation.
Because the reality of Lesher's muscular back, his broad shoulders, and the sleek lines of the hard and immobile alien waist residing between my legs, and the inescapability—in more ways than one!—of my arms wrapped around said waist, only increases my awareness and discomfort of how close we are.
No…not discomfort. There's another word for what I'm feeling, maybe several, but I staunchly refuse to acknowledge them now. I remind myself that I'm in shock, that nothing I'm experiencing is conventional or makes sense in this unimaginable context. It's better not to try and force a definition. It's also better not to pay too much attention to the way my tight skirt rucks up around my thighs, and the way I can perceive my cotton underwear coming up against the small of Lesher's back. My stockings may be ripped and beyond repair at this point, but at least they are acting as a shield between me and the man who has forced my compliance.
By the time we arrive at our intended destination, the sky is streaked quartz-pink with the impending arrival of sunset. The bike slows beneath us, and I crane as far back as I can to take in every detail of my surroundings. Who knows how valuable knowing the terrain might be in the coming hours, even if escape from Lesher and his gang seems momentarily beyond my reach.
Nothing is impossible, I remind myself. Not for daring bank teller Nancy Cardigan, willing to sacrifice everything for the safety of her patrons. My mental pep talk sounds ridiculous, even to me, so I decide to shut it down for now and find encouragement in the fact that I'm still alive and not blindfolded.
Then again, if Lesher isn't worried about me surveying in his gang's headquarters, what does that mean for me?
Lesher rolls us up outside a seemingly abandoned warehouse. The building stands several stories tall over a gravel parking lot choked with weeds. No…that still isn't good enough. I squint my eyes as I gaze up at its derelict façade, and count three rows of windows broken up into seven columns. The warehouse is three stories, then, with multiple rooms, the exact number of which remains incalculable considering I can't see around the sides of the building.
I'm frustrated with the limits to my sleuthing, but I suppose my knowledge of the structure is about to change. There are no other buildings in sight, much less any indication of easy access to a main road…which means this is our stop.
Lesher and I both have to deal with some unexpected awkwardness when it comes to dismounting the bike. We try to rise as one, but this proves less easy for me, considering the restrictive material of my skirt, and the fact that, oh, I've never had to struggle my way off such a death machine in my life. When his second attempt to rise out of the seat proves more violent, I snatch hold of his waist with all I'm worth and allow myself to be pulled to my feet.
"Let go of me," he commands.
"I can't!" I exclaim. "My hands are in zip ties, remember?" Unbelievable that he would try to order me around when I can't so mu
ch as pull my own skirt back down!
"Lift your arms up over my head, then. I thought you were a bright girl, Nancy. Remind me how this is hard?"
"You're too tall," I protest as my face turns a deep, frustrated burgundy. I've had about as much of his condescension as I can take, but realize I'm in no position to call him out on it. I doubt a man like Lesher would feel chastised anyway by someone he considers half the time to be little Nancy. "You need to bend down."
"I'm turning around," he decides, and in the next instant, he pivots in my arms to face me. Now I'm certain the blush overtakes my expression completely. I avoid making eye contact, and try my best to avoid noticing the male chest now placed within an inch of my nose. Anyone viewing this at a distance might mistake me for actually hugging the man I'd rather be running screaming from. I must look like I'm practically begging to be kissed.
This thought makes me momentarily thankful for the seclusion of our location. The odds of anyone seeing us are slim to none…then again, those are also the odds of my being found by someone passing by. Not good.
Lesher locks his hands behind his head and waits patiently, until I finally remember what I'm supposed to be doing. I quickly inch my arms up his sides and over his head until we are both free—or at least somewhat less a prisoner, in my case.
"Move," he says. I turn and start for the warehouse. Lesher has yet to hold a gun on me personally, but his tone of voice is enough to ensure my complete obedience for now. No wonder a group of such hostile-looking men are clamoring all over themselves to follow him.
Just how hostile looking these men really are becomes apparent to me as we enter the main room of the warehouse. I squint in the naked, glaring light—a stark change from the unlit corridor we entered through. Steel beams cross and re-cross high overhead; the ceiling seems miles away.
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