Girl from Nowhere
Page 25
He leads me through a dank office and into a utility room. He unlocks a creaky door that opens into an alley behind the buildings.
“Danke.” I smile.
“Where are you going?” he calls out after me. But I don’t look back. I run through the alley, my boots gripping the ice, until I reach the main cobblestone road circling back to the plaza. Here I turn onto a narrow road off the grassy knoll in the center of town.
I pass a busy nightclub—Spass Nacht, the sign flashes in neon lights. A short line of people linger outside, awaiting ID checks from the burly bouncer in the doorway.
Veering left, I walk briskly in the direction of the train station.
Suddenly, the man in the Munich Football jacket steps out of the shadows.
Halting, I scan my surroundings. Idling at the end of the street, close enough to block my exit, but not close enough to reach me, is a dark Mercedes sedan. I can’t risk it. Munich Jacket is rapidly closing in. His heavy boots scrape the sidewalk.
Impulsively, I pivot. Turning around, I slip off my coat and tie the sleeves at my waist. As I near Spass Nacht, I take my sweater off and shove it into my backpack. I apply a coat of dark lipstick and muss my braid. I rummage through the zippered pouch of passports and pull out the first one I touch.
Concentrating on the bouncer’s eyes, I bypass a group of girls wearing sparkly earrings and approach the entrance. The scraping footsteps behind me falter—he won’t confront me here, not with all these people. Wearing only a tight white tank top and leggings, I place my hand casually on my hip and stare down the bouncer. After a few seconds, he looks in my direction. Offering an approving smile, he holds out his hand. “Ausweis?”
I show him my passport: Elsa Lündt, 19, Sweden.
He scans the passport and pulls the rope aside. As I step behind the curtain, I look over my shoulder—no sign of Munich Jacket.
I bump into a girl with long dark hair as she leaves the club, shouting into her phone.
“Achtung!” she snaps, brushing me aside.
Inside, techno music blares through the speakers. Cobalt and fuchsia beams of light flash overhead. It is hot. Dark. The whole building vibrates.
From behind a pillar, I watch the entrance. The bouncer pulls aside the curtain, tucks something discreetly into his pocket, and motions two bulky guys forward. I step back—
“Hey!” a voice says. I’ve bumped into an older boy who slinks his arm around my waist. “What’s your name?” he asks amiably, staring down at me.
“Elsa,” I murmur, watching the two men over his shoulder. I allow the boy to draw nearer. He’s unintentionally offered me a position of temporary camouflage.
I assess my options—where are my exits? Small European clubs in small European towns don’t follow strict modern building codes—there are no “safety” exits. And if these men are with Munich Jacket, then where is he? Guarding the back doors? I spot the Toilet sign, but it will be in the basement, likely without a window—it’s not worth trapping myself to find out.
As I watch the men, I find myself answering the boy’s questions: “… nineteen … from Göteborg … studying piano performance at the University of Vienna …”
The two men divide—the more heavyset one steps aside, hovering near the entrance; the bald one moves into the crowd.
Wiggling out from the boy’s arm, I smile and say, “I have to go.”
Feeling his hand drop from my waist, I slip between two people dancing together and move for the back doors.
It’s easy to navigate through a crowd—focus on the overall movement of the people, evaluating when someone will be moving right or left, forming “tunnels and bridges,” as my father calls them.
I’ve almost reached the exit when I duck beneath a dancer’s arm and emerge face-to-face with the bald man.
I hop aside before he grabs me. I spin on my heel and dive back into the crowd.
Keeping my head low, I make for the front entrance, hoping the heavyset man has moved elsewhere. I glance over my shoulder—the bald man is having difficulty maneuvering; he’s using his elbows to plow through the mass of dancing bodies.
I scan the room. The heavyset man is now angling toward the curtains, effectively cutting me off. I whirl around.
There has to be another way out.
Ahead of me, I spot my exit—it’s easier going up than down.
I pivot left and shimmy among the swirling, dancing bodies until I reach the stairs.
I twirl around the balustrade and run up the steps. Two floors of dancing. Three. On the fourth floor, I’m met by a steel door. I pull on the blue handle and push it open; it swings into the wall behind it—thud!
Closing the door behind me, I run to the edge of the roof and peer over. Below, people wait to be permitted into the club.
Down the street is a row of parked cars, including an idling Mercedes.
A bitter wind sweeps across the rooftop. I hastily put my sweater and coat back on as I run to the other side and look down. A man is pacing the alley, guarding the back exit.
Thud! The door to the fire escape opens.
Instinctively, I swing my legs in front of me and slide over the edge—two inches of window ledge is all that keeps me from falling four stories.
Holding my breath, I tighten my fingers in the grooves of the brick. The mortar is aged and cracked, creating crags to sink my fingers into. Nonetheless, I strain every muscle in my body to stay steady.
Above me, footsteps pound across the roof. A smoky voice rasps out in accented German, “She’s not up here!”
Another man answers, “I saw her run upstairs!”
“Are you certain it was her?”
I cling to the brick. The sinews in my fingertips burn with exertion. I push my soles onto the window ledge, anchoring my weight.
I hear muttering—a phone call perhaps—then the smoky voice says, “… recheck the other floors …”
Their footsteps retreat. The door shuts.
I stay put. What if it’s a trap? Are they waiting in the stairwell? Or on the third-floor landing? Others are guarding both ground floor exits …
I tilt my chin, examining the street below me. It’s my best option.
I take three long breaths and start my descent, feeling carefully for deep grooves in the mortar. With each movement, I fight to keep my balance. My arms shake. My fingertips scrape raw; the tender skin bleeds as I negotiate the brick wall.
Halfway down, I reach a wide window ledge. I turn carefully, backing against the wall of the building, and leap. I land on the lower roof of the adjacent building. I cross to the far side and jump over a narrow alley to another rooftop. I spot an iron fire-escape ladder. I scale it down to the last rung. It ends three meters above the walk.
I let go, landing nimbly on the sidewalk.
Easy, right?
In the distance, I hear the soft throbbing of the techno beat. I walk farther down the block, cut through an alley, turn the corner, and halt.
In front of me, leering appreciatively, as if he’s been expecting me, is the bald man.
I reverse, but two other men approach me from behind. They’ve stepped out of a dark alley to my left, and they’re not alone.
Between them is a girl with long, dark hair, and silver hoops in her ears. The girl who snapped Achtung! at me as she left the club.
Now, she stares at me, wide-eyed. Petrified.
Blood is coagulating around a cut in her eyebrow. Her bottom lip is swollen.
The man in the Munich Football jacket stands at her left, pushing an HK into her temple; the heavyset man twists her arms behind her back.
My FN 5-7 is in my backpack. Stupid move, Sophia. I can’t get to it, but my knife is in my boot. I reach down—
“Move and I kill her,” Munich Jacket says to me in German.
The heavyset man punches the girl in the stomach. She lurches forward, gasping. He pulls back to hit her again—
“Don’t!” I shout, holding up my hand
s.
“Hilfe,” the girl whimpers. Help.
Munich Jacket looks at the bald man prowling behind me. “Tell him we have her,” he orders. Then, to me, he calmly says, “We don’t want a scene.”
To my left is the dark alley; to my right is a row of dilapidated buildings. I have an exit. I can get out.
Click. Munich Jacket loads a bullet into the HK’s chamber. The girl struggles against his grip; her eyes flit between me and the men holding her. I know what it feels like—to have unfamiliar hands smothering you, holding you, touching you, terrifying you.
“Come with us and she lives,” Munich Jacket says. “I’m tired of chasing you.”
I glance down the alley. If I can reach my knife, I’m certain I can make it—
“Choose now.” Munich Jacket reaches forward, coils his hand around the girl’s throat, and squeezes. She moans, grasping desperately at his hands. Her fingernails claw his shirt. Her face goes red—
“Stop it!” I shout, looking between the girl and the alley.
He squeezes harder. The girl’s eyes bulge—
“I’ll come!” I gasp, focusing on Munich Jacket. “Let her go and I’ll come with you!”
Munich Jacket smiles malevolently. “I have your word?”
“Yes,” I answer.
Munich Jacket drops his hand and mutters something to the heavyset man, who releases the girl’s arms and shoves her so hard into the dark alley she stumbles to her knees.
Catching herself with the palms of her hands, the stunned girl flashes her eyes between me and Munich Jacket.
“Run!” I shout at her in German. “Get help!”
A meaty hand shoves me off-balance. Yanking my braid, he roughly pulls me back.
I watch the girl disappear into the shadows, then I elbow the man behind me in the gut and knock my head back into his jaw.
As I reach the handle of my knife, a Mercedes careens around the corner. Its tires skid into the curb before jerking to a stop. The door swings open. The heavyset man snatches my knife away and tosses it into the gutter.
Munich Jacket tightens his arms around my torso and pushes me toward the Mercedes. Arching my back, I lift my feet and kick against the doorframe with the soles of my boots.
“You broke your promise, Sophia,” he snarls into my ear.
Gasping and kicking, I claw at the arms encircling me. I bite the finger nearest me, drawing blood. I scream as loud as I can. But even if someone hears—even if the girl gets help—it won’t be in time.
Their combined weight overpowers me. Together they push me into the Mercedes, and Munich Jacket clambers in behind.
Inside, I scramble for the opposite door. Munich Jacket snatches my wrist and wrenches me back. He throws me facedown onto the seat. He pries my fingers from the door latch and binds my hands together with a cable zip tie. I wince at the pinching pain in my wrists. The Mercedes accelerates away.
The driver doesn’t stop for lights. Doesn’t stop for pedestrians or cyclists. The bald man in the front seat tells him where to turn.
Munich Jacket’s knees jam into my quads, pinning me down. He zip-ties my ankles.
“Get off me!” I snap.
Abruptly, Munich Jacket’s palm collides with the skin above my eyebrow and everything goes momentarily black. Stars flash behind my eyelids. I feel dizzy.
“Who sent you?” I ask Munich Jacket. Blood trickles down from my temple, seeping into my eye. I blink it out.
We ascend a curving road. Steep embankments rise up on either side and merge into a dense wooded forest.
I kick at the door as hard as I can. Furiously, I try to wriggle out of the tie. They aren’t going to do this again. Not to me. Not now. Not ever.
“I know what you’re planning to do, but my father will stop you,” I say in German. “Do you know what happened to the men who kidnapped me last time?”
The bald man in the passenger seat looks back at me like he wants to know.
“First, he broke their fingers. Then he peeled off their skin. Then—”
The car erupts in shouting. The driver pounds his fist on the dashboard. “Keep that girl quiet!” he orders Munich Jacket in heavily accented German.
I know that accent. I recognize that guttural r in the throat …
Munich Jacket hits me again. He pushes down hard on my back, smothering the air from my lungs.
Frustration defeats the rational, self-preserving side of me that says, “stay quiet.” “Who sent you?” I ask Munich Jacket in Chechen.
Munich Jacket puts his dirty lips against my ear. His damp breath is like slime on my skin. “Girls like you shouldn’t ask so many questions,” he says in broken English.
“You should meet Charlotte,” I mutter. Facedown, with my cheek smashed against the seat belt attachment—the metal gouges my jaw.
“Stop talking!” he sneers in my face. Drops of spit burst out of his mouth.
He lifts his arm, but as he makes to strike me a third time, I duck. With my hands tied together forming a solid mass, I hit his exposed neck with my knuckles.
He gasps for air. Recovering, he lunges toward me, using his entire weight to push.
My skull hits the window. I slump, going limp. Blood pools on the leather seat beneath my forehead. I inhale and hold, slowing my heart rate.
Momentarily, the car is quiet.
“Did you kill her?” the driver gasps. “Tell me you didn’t kill her!”
Play dead. Don’t run. Don’t fight back.
Munich Jacket frenetically puts his finger on my wrist, nowhere near my pulse.
“If you killed her, he will kill us!” shouts the driver, panicked.
“Stupid fahişe hurt me!” Munich Jacket yells. “He said she was dangerous but—”
I keep still, motionless, inert.
“She’s a little girl!” the driver hisses. “How dangerous can she be?”
I curl my knees into my chest, pivot to the left, and rocket my legs out from my body. My boot heels collide with the back of the driver’s head.
The Mercedes swerves violently. The tires skid across ice. I grasp the door handle with both hands.
The driver palms the wheel to the left to prevent us careening off the road, but the wheels lock.
In a thundering collision, the car plows through a guardrail, tumbles off the autobahn, and crashes at the bottom of an icy embankment.
CHAPTER 54
… Screeching … Stars … Throbbing …
The Mercedes is sideways.
The bald man in the passenger seat is definitely dead.
The driver is slumped against the wheel, possibly dead.
Beside me, Munich Jacket is starting to stir.
I take a piece of fractured glass and saw at the zip tie around my wrists, grinding the edge against the tiny grooves in the plastic until it snaps in half. With both hands free, I squirm out through the shattered sunroof window. I land on the ground with a thump.
“Fahişe!”
Spinning around, I see Munich Jacket watching me. He unbuckles his seat belt and drops onto his shoulder. Recovering, he reaches for the sunroof and exits clumsily through it. Making it to his feet, he lurches toward me.
I can’t move fast enough. With my ankles still bound, I crawl backward like a crippled spider.
Frantically, I stretch my fingers across the snow for a weapon—another piece of glass, metal, a pipe …
Munich Jacket reaches me in seconds. He punches my throat with his fist. I gasp for air. He puts his left knee on my thigh and pushes down hard on my chest. My elbows collapse under his weight. Straddling me, he puts his left hand on my neck and lifts his right to strike me again—
Abruptly, his whole body is jerked violently backward.
I blink. Munich Jacket is dangling eight inches off the ground, his toes scraping for earth. He is being held aloft by a figure who, in the misty gray light of dawn, is no more than a silhouette.
“You think you can hurt my daughter?” my fat
her growls viciously under his breath. Wearing neither a coat nor a hat, holding the man in the air by his collar, he looks like a Siberian tiger.
Munich Jacket spits in his face.
Unflinching, my father bends Munich Jacket’s forefinger so far in the wrong direction the bone snaps in two.
“Where are you meeting him?” my father snarls menacingly.
Munich Jacket howls.
My father breaks a second finger, sideways. “Every time you don’t answer, I’ll break a limb. Where. Are. You. Meeting. Him?”
When Munich Jacket still doesn’t answer, my father takes his wrist and bends it until it snaps and hangs limply against his forearm.
Munich Jacket falls to the ground, hunching over, clutching his wrist, and wailing.
My father unholsters his Heckler & Koch pistol and shoots Munich Jacket in the thigh. “Where?”
Hysterically, Munich Jacket starts to blubber words in Chechen. “He told me to drive east until I get more instructions. He told me I would be … rewarded …”
“Where?” my father asks. He fires another round into his leg.
“I don’t know,” the man whimpers.
With a swift swipe of his HK, my father breaks Munich Jacket’s skull.
My father reaches forward to pull me up, but a spray of red ink bursts from his skin, splattering us both.
Several cars shriek in our direction, firing at us.
He claps a hand to his bleeding neck and yells, “Cover!”
We dive to the ground beside the overturned Mercedes.
Bullets dent the hood of the car.
My legs are still tied together. My father holds a handkerchief up to his wound to stem the bleeding. “Here”—he motions to his boot. I remove his Kabar knife and cut the zip tie binding my ankles with a single swipe.
Bullets ricochet off the undercarriage, pinging against metal.
Inside the Mercedes, the driver is alive, coming to; until a bullet enters through the front windshield and plunges into his cheek.
Under a barrage of gunfire, I reach through the shattered window and fumble around the interior to reach my backpack.
Twenty meters away, the first car stops. Then a second, and a third.