I need my family.
I am bruised from being inside the hard trunk. Most of it is a fairly straight drive, but I’m getting jerked around every now and then as the car swerves about sharply.
I can hear the men talking; it sounds like they are deliberately driving rough to shake me about in the trunk, as Boxer would say, ‘For shits and giggles.’
I heard Cigar Man laughing loudly and hooting when he heard me sliding around inside the trunk. I think he’s paying me back for puking on him.
I haven’t phoned Miss C back. The phone has slipped out of my shaking hands more than once, and I feared their spontaneous, reckless driving would cause the phone to be smashed against the inside of the trunk. It took time to locate the phone in the dark and get it back into my boot, where I hoped it would be safe. I needed to conserve the battery life, so I held off on calling her back.
I’ve only used it to check the time. It is a small comfort I carry around in my boot, knowing I’m being tracked. I don’t know why a man who wanted to kill me would now want to track me.
Is this a sick mind game of his, like his father enjoyed?
I had sex with the man who wanted to kill me.
He knew who I was and played a game of cat and mouse.
He must have had a hard time not laughing in my face when I told him my name was Sara.
I trusted him with my body.
I feel so dirty.
I dare to check the time on the phone again while the car is being driven law-abidingly, and I can see I’ve made it through the night. The sun would be rising.
I’m so thirsty, but at the same time, my bladder is swollen and painful. I doubt a request for a restroom break would be accepted.
On a positive note, I’m still alive and able to fight for my life. I won’t go down easily. I just wish these shakes would stop and the blistering ache that has taken up residence in my head would go away.
I’m half-dozing when the car eventually comes to an abrupt halt, sending me knocking into the wall of the trunk, making me feel all kinds of sick again. Maybe I can throw up on Cigar Man one more time.
I position my legs to hopefully avoid them noticing the flat bump in my boot, just before the sunlight pours in on me, Cigar Man smiling at me through it. My hands instinctively go to shade my eyes as they adjust to the early morning light.
“Morning, sweetheart. I see you are still kicking. It’s time to rise and shine and get ready to go on a plane—far, far away, never to be seen again.” He’s sing-songing to me like I am a child.
My heart starts racing as he leans toward me, a sharp knife in his hand. I panic and my survival instinct takes over, and I’m wriggling as far back from that knife as I can get, which is pointless, because he lunges forward and grabs hold of my bound hands. “Now don’t do something you’ll regret, because this knife may just accidentally slip and cut you.”
I hold still, and he enjoys my fear before slicing away at the zip ties until they snap apart, and then he gives me a similar speech, grabbing a hold of my legs roughly. My heart’s beating erratically, terrified the phone will be discovered as he slices through those binds.
He yanks me forward painfully without warning, my body stiff and hurting as he gets a hold of me, hauling me out of the trunk. He dumps me on my feet, where I almost topple over because my limbs don’t want to cooperate, and I am feeling so dreadful. If he didn’t have a tight hold of my good arm, I would have face-planted.
He gives me a sharp shake. “Fuck sake. Stand up, bitch,” he hisses in my ear. He’s obviously never been shot, kidnapped, bound, and shoved in a trunk before.
I try. I honestly do. I don’t want him touching me any more than he needs to, but these legs of mine aren’t cooperating. They have decided to turn to jelly. I’ve got nothing in my tank giving me strength to stand up. Can’t he understand that? Couple that with the shakes and sweats, and I am a sorry-ass mess about to topple over if unaided.
Just as I’m released and fear the ground is going to hurt a lot when I hit it, a woman comes into view. I can’t see her clearly until she is right next to me. She has sad eyes, as she mutters to herself, “What have they done to you?” She ducks her shoulder under my good arm, propping me up against her. “Honey, let me help you.” She doesn’t even hesitate to come into contact with my filthy, smelly body. I must look like a grotesque mess, and her clean clothes will be rubbing up against me.
I grasp onto her kindness like a safety line, however frail it is. “Thank… you.” My teeth chatter as I let her take most of my weight. “I’m… sorry… I smell.”
“Honey, that is the least of your worries.” Her voice is gentle, her kindness giving me false hope.
The woman and I are roughly the same height, and I think she is around the same age as me. She is beautiful and dressed in a white blouse and tight skirt. I can’t help but inhale her long, dark brown hair as my head flops against her neck. It smells so fresh and clean.
She starts walking me away from the car. I raise my head a little, trying to absorb my surroundings. Anything I can tell Miss Catherine will be helpful. We are now in a big hangar, where a sleek white private jet waits and a tall, well-built man is walking toward us wearing a gray mask that covers half his face.
Why the hell is he wearing that? A giggle starts to bubble up because this just keeps getting more and more warped, but I stomp all over it, as laughing at him will only bring me more pain.
He stops the woman with a raised hand while assessing me. I do my best to look him in the eyes. I won’t show him I’m afraid.
“Is this her?” He sounds almost disgusted by my condition.
She nods beside me.
He’s looking me up and down while I return the favor, studying his appearance. He wears a suit jacket with a white business shirt underneath and jeans. His hair is brown and short, and he wears a longish beard. He has an accent, but his English is very good.
I kick my chin up at him. I might look like a pathetic mess, but these people have no right to take me.
“She stinks.” His voice is much deeper than I would have thought.
Give the man a prize.
“She’s not getting on the plane, smelling like that for the flight.” He wants me to feel intimidated, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. None of this is my fault.
I try to stand a little taller and sway hard to the left, forcing the girl to pull me closer, making me wince from the pain.
I direct my anger at this man. “You have no fucking right to take me anywhere. My friends will come for me.” My threat is a pathetic croak.
He ignores me.
He radios for clothes to be brought off the plane and speaks to the girl. “Once you have the clothes, take her to the office, change her, and clean her up as much as you can.”
She nods again. He walks past us, heading toward the two who brought me here, probably to give them their cash. She obediently walks me to the bottom of the stairs of the private jet, where an armed man descends, his gun casually slung over his broad shoulder. He is also wearing a mask, but this one is black. He meets us, carrying a small pile of clothes. Even though half his face is covered, I can still see part of a ragged scar extending from the bottom of the mask over his cheek. Our eyes meet, and his radiate evil as they pierce me to my core.
He jars my limp arm forward, shoving the pile of clothes into it. I grit my teeth, hissing through them from the sudden movement, my shoulder unable to move without blinding pain throbbing from my bullet wound.
He puts his finger to the side of my head like it is a gun. “Do as the girl says…” His finger moves. “Or pow! There goes your fucked up head.” My aid’s body stiffens and starts to quiver. She tries to hide her response by pulling me slightly away from this bastard in the pretense of getting a better hold of me. Then he marches back up the stairs.