by Rachel Rust
My phone was knocked away by a hand that came from behind me. I barely had time to react before arms wrapped around me, and a hand slapped over my mouth.
I screamed into the hand, but no sound came out. I kicked and pushed against the arms restraining me, but it did no good. I was too weak, the arms around me too strong.
I was spun around and shoved forward, through the side door of a large, black van. Brandon hopped into the vehicle after me and slammed the door closed. I screamed and kicked, flailing my body around as much as possible.
“Got a feisty one,” a gruff voice said behind me as I wriggled to free myself from his grip. Brandon threw a roll of duct tape, and the gruff man caught it with his free hand.
“Shut her up,” Brandon said.
“My pleasure.”
In order to tear off the tape, the gruff man let go of my mouth.
I screamed as loud as I could. Then I launched forward, reaching for the handle of the van’s sliding door, not caring that we were moving. A few broken bones were better than whatever waited for me with these men. But Brandon must have anticipated my move and grabbed my wrist before I could get the handle. He shoved me, and I fell onto my back. He moved over top of me, holding my arms together as the gruff man taped my wrists together. I kicked and screamed at Brandon. He slapped me across the face.
The familiar sting on my cheek brought me back to the night Eddie and I had been taped up in the basement of the drug house, where I had been smacked around like a piñata in order to get information for The Barber.
I kicked at Brandon again, but this time he grabbed my ankles and wrapped them with duct tape. Next came my mouth. The gray tape stuck to my lips with ease, as if it enjoyed shutting me up. Without free movement of my feet or hands, and with my voice cut off and my breathing compromised by tape, fear set in.
I was tied up in a van. No one knew where I was. Work thought I had gone home. My dad and Josh didn’t know my work schedule and probably would assume I was at the mall all day. No one was expecting me anywhere. It would be several hours before anyone realized I was missing.
The tires of the van moved fast. The expansion cracks of the road underneath came at a near-constant rate.
I was disappearing down a highway.
Chapter Seven
There weren’t any windows in the back of the van, but the sunlight through the windshield dipped low in the sky, and was getting more orange in color, which meant quite a bit of time had passed since I had been thrown into the vehicle. The location of the sun also told me that we were headed west. And west of Rapid City was the state of Wyoming. They were taking me across state lines.
I lay on my side, avoiding eye contact with the gruff guy seated on the floor a few feet from me. He leaned back onto the sliding door, with his gaze on me. Brandon had moved into the passenger seat. I couldn’t see the driver, but it was a man. I heard his voice a few times as he and Brandon muttered a few things about the drive and a meet-up spot. We were running ahead of schedule, apparently. Lucky us.
There were four exits from the van. The driver’s and passenger side doors were not escape options, considering the driver and Brandon were seated right next to them. The large sliding side door was also not an option, unless I managed to open it and tackle the gruff guy, taking him out the door with me.
That left the back doors. But escape at that moment was futile. The gruff guy kept a vigilant watch on me, and he had his fingers around the grip of a black handgun that rested on his lap.
Even if I managed to bypass the men and the bullets, we were on a highway going at high speeds. The concrete itself would kill me.
My mind raced through escape options that might be viable once the van stopped.
But before I could pin down any logical plans, the van slowed. We turned off the highway and began down a bumpier road at a lower speed. Brandon and the driver quietly discussed the route, with a few finger points here and there. After several more miles, Brandon made a phone call. On his end it was mostly affirmative grunts.
He ended the call and told the driver, “Go left here.”
The van turned and then bounced down a rough road. Out the windshield, thick trees passed by slowly. Then the van came to a gentle stop. The gruff man slid open the door and hopped out. The late-afternoon sun blinded my eyes, and I didn’t see the hands coming for me until they wrapped around my ankles, pulling me from the van. I screamed against the tape and kicked my bound legs, but it did no good. The muscles dragging me out of the van were too strong to stop. My arm, side, and cheek scraped against the rough carpet as I was ripped from the interior of the van.
Brandon grabbed me and then swung me around and threw me over his shoulder. I strained against the tape, kicking and flailing my body around on his shoulder. His hand landed with a loud crack on my ass.
My eyes widened. He spanked me! The son of a bitch spanked me! I thrashed around even more.
“Take the girl,” he said handing me off to another man, this one taller and more muscular.
We stepped into a building which smelled of musty lumber. The muscular man dumped me on the concrete floor in the middle, near a metal pole. The air was thick with humidity, and stagnant as though the building hadn’t been opened to the outside in years.
From his pocket, Brandon whipped out a small knife and cut the tape around my wrists. I brought my hands together in front of me, rubbing where the tape had been. The skin was raw and red.
“Don’t get used to it,” Brandon said. He grabbed my arms and dragged me back a foot until my back hit the metal pole. Despite my vain attempts to pull my arms from his grasp, he was far stronger than me and managed to re-tape my wrists behind me, around the pole.
“There,” he said, ripping the tape off my mouth without any warning. The searing pain of the tape peeling from my lips countered the relief of finally being able to suck in a deep breath. “Now you can fight all you want. You aren’t going anywhere, sweetheart.”
“Fuck you!” I yelled, my lips numb. “What the hell am I doing here?”
“You’re a wanted girl, Natalie Mancini,” Brandon said. “You were brought here on special orders from my boss … who you’ll be meeting shortly.”
I glared at him. “I’m not meeting anyone. Screw your boss.”
Brandon and the muscular man looked at each other and laughed. Brandon nodded to me. “Do it.”
The muscular man reached into his back pocket and produced a thin cloth. A light-blue pillowcase, which he pulled down over my head. The material blocked out the scenery, but the light managed to show through and I could make out dark forms moving around, and I could hear everything. The shuffling of feet, muttering of close conversation, car doors slamming, and shouted conversations outside.
No one spoke to me, touched me, or mentioned me. Business of some kind was being carried out. Metal chairs were plunked down onto the floor. Some of the guys grunted from exhaustion as they took a seat, and then proceeded to make crude jokes about one another, laughing and groaning. Aluminum cans opened. Minutes later came a string of belching.
But still no one said anything to me. The softened sunlight through the pillowcase drifted away as time went on, replaced by weak yellow interior lights. Out of exhaustion, I leaned my head back on the pole behind me. My head was covered, my hands were taped, my legs were taped, and I was bound to a metal pole. Vulnerability was my new reality. No matter the fear and survival that was inside me, reality was all around. I was stuck. Outnumbered. And no one knew where I was.
Tears wanted to come out. I wanted to cry. I wanted to pity myself and scream and lash out with whatever body part I could still use. But I didn’t because I knew that wouldn’t help. I needed to stay alert. I needed to listen and pay attention if I wanted to get out alive. If only the men would’ve talked about anything useful. All they had done so far was make fun of each other and ask for more beer. It didn’t seem to be a very sophisticated operation so far.
After several more
minutes, someone told the others to clean up after themselves. Beer cans clinks together. A few landed on the floor in the cleanup effort.
“Get out,” a stern voice demanded, crystal clear, above all others. It was Brandon’s voice and his words were followed by hurried movements, disappearing, presumably outside. The building went quiet.
Outside, a car door closed, and Brandon said, “In here, Sir.”
Feet made their way to me across the grit-covered concrete floor. They weren’t the heavy shuffling feet I had heard all evening from the beer guzzlers. These steps were light and quick. Determined, headed for me, with business in mind.
Cologne filled my nose as a body neared. It blocked out most of the interior lighting from my vision as it knelt in front of me.
“Finally, we meet, Miss Mancini,” a man said. His voice was gravelly, with an Eastern European accent. Maybe Russian. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a very long time.”
A chill ran down my spine. What did he mean he had been waiting for a very long time? Waiting to meet me? “Who are you?” I asked, my throat dry from hours of silence.
A hand landed on my leg and I jerked it back.
The man laughed. “I do not think she likes me.” The thickness of his accent was strong, dripping off each deliberate syllable.
“She’s a little bitch,” Brandon said.
“Now, now,” the man said. “No need for name calling.” He patted my leg again, but I couldn’t pull back any farther. “She is scared, and she is a fighter. Nothing wrong with that.”
“What do you want with me?” I asked.
“Well,” the man said with a heavy sigh. “You and your FBI friend have made quite a mess for me. You see, I had been expecting a large delivery from a man you know as The Barber … a shipment, we shall call it. And after he was apprehended by your FBI friend, the merchandise did not arrive, and I found myself out quite a bit of money.”
I stayed quiet, unsure what words would be helpful or harmful in that moment. I should’ve known that The Barber hadn’t been working alone. After I had helped Eddie arrest him, his sudden absence in the criminal underworld of trafficking had apparently sent out a ripple. And now one big wave was crouched down right in front of me.
The man ran a hand up my arm, breaking my skin out into goosebumps despite the muggy air. “But you are going to help me get some of my money back. A man is going to come visit you real soon.” His hand grabbed my chin, raising my head up. I couldn’t see him through the pillowcase, but I felt the heat of his breath against my face. “And when he comes for you, you are going to be a good girl, yes?” He paused, as though waiting for an affirmation from me that I was going to be a willing player in his sick little game.
“I’m no one’s girl.”
He jerked my face up higher. “You are and you’re going to be a good girl because this man has paid a lot of money for you.”
And with those words, my worst fears were confirmed. I had been sold. Whoever this man was with the thick accent and his fingers grasped onto my chin, I was nothing more than a commodity to him. I had taken away his ‘business’ when Eddie and I had busted The Barber. And now I was pay back. My body was pay back.
“Fuck you,” I said. “Who are you?”
“I am no one.” The haughtiness in his voice said he believed otherwise.
“What’s your name?”
“That does not concern you.”
“You were partners with The Barber, weren’t you?”
He laughed. “No, no. That man was not my partner. He merely worked for me.” He paused, letting go of my chin. “I had a partner once. It did not work out well.”
I waited for more of the story, but it never came. By saying he had a partner, it meant only one thing: His partner was dead. Probably by this man’s hand.
“Who’s coming for me?” I asked. “What’s his name?”
He patted my leg again. “All you need to know is that this man has paid a lot of money and is expecting cooperation from you. And if you will not cooperate, he will have medicinal means to make you cooperate.”
Through my fear, anger flared within me. “You won’t get away with this.”
“I do not see anyone coming to stop me.”
My head shook. “Maybe you’ll sell me, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll get more girls after me, but you won’t get away with it forever. They’re going to stop you, just like they stopped The Barber.”
Danger and evil may have lurked in all locations, but so did good people. I had to believe it. There were good people who fought and risked their own lives to save others. Good people like Eddie.
The man laughed from his belly. “Oh dear girl, you really have too much confidence in your friend and his little FBI buddies. And you clearly have no idea what you are up against. The Barber was not my partner, and definitely not my equal. He was nothing more than a little worker bee, doing my bidding, easy to squash if need be—a sacrifice to be made in order to keep the larger operation functioning. My operation.”
I scoffed. “Your operation? So you’re the queen bee? Please. You’re flesh and blood. You can be squashed too. Hell, my dad kills tiny pieces of shit like you with bug spray.”
The man stood up and sighed. After a long pause, he said, “You are right. She is a little bitch.” His shoes skidded on the gritty floor, and walked away. “I am done here. Call me after the exchange is final.”
Brandon agreed and their footsteps disappeared. A car started up. A car door closed. Tires compressed and grinded against the gravel road and then vanished.
I was left alone. But it was only a matter of time before the next man came for me—to collect his property.
Chapter Eight
It wasn’t more than a half hour later when another set of tires came up the gravel road outside. My heart raced, unable to continue forced calm any longer. It was happening. Someone was here for me. I was to be collected and used like a trinket in a toy shop.
No one had come to rescue me. Not the police, not the FBI, not Eddie. Because no one knew where I was.
I wasn’t sure what time it was, but several hours had passed since the mall parking lot. My dad and Josh had to have known by now that I was missing. Tears sprung from my eyes and gushed down my cheeks, as I wondered what they were thinking. Troubled by their fear, and afraid of the hopelessness sinking in, I tried to remember my last words to my dad, but I couldn’t think of them. No doubt they had probably not been very loving or patient. And most likely they had been accompanied by an eye roll behind his back.
“This way,” Brandon said to someone. Shoes shuffled my way. These steps meant business, though they didn’t have the calm, cologne-laden finesse of the accented man’s visit. These brusque footsteps were there to collect—nothing more.
A hand yanked the pillowcase off my head, taking strands of my hair with it. My eyes adjusted to the surprisingly bright interior light of the building. Four naked bulbs hung from the ceiling. There was a table and folding chairs in the middle of the building, and a garbage can next to it, presumably full of beer cans.
Brandon smiled down at me, pillowcase in-hand. Next to him stood a tall Asian man with a square jaw. Dressed in black dress pants and a button-down gray shirt, he was young—maybe early thirties at the most—and not what I had expected. His hair was perfectly parted to the side, heavily sprayed to stay put. A pretty boy.
I had expected an older guy. Someone who looked nastier. Someone not so … normal-looking. But I had learned two weeks ago not to assume too much about people. Anyone could be anyone—regardless of how they looked or what they said. Bad. Good. Friend. Enemy. Trust no one should’ve been my new motto.
Brandon dropped the pillowcase and produced a roll of tape from his back pocket. He ripped a piece off.
My head shook frantically. “No, you don’t have to. I won’t scream, don’t—”
A six-inch strip of tape slapped across my mouth, cutting off my words.
Another man,
this one skinny and pale with wire-rimmed glasses, walked up to Brandon and showed him the screen of his tablet. Brandon nodded in understanding, and then said to the pretty boy, “The wire went through. She’s all yours.”
“Bring her out front.”
Brandon walked behind me and cut the tape between my wrists. As he moved to grab me, I punched him in the nose. His head bobbed back, eyes wide. Pretty Boy laughed. Brandon glared at him, and then grabbed my arms and whispered, “I’d advise you keep your attitude to a minimum with this new guy. He’s probably not as nice as I am.”
Tape wrapped tight around my wrists, sinking into the already-tender skin. But at least this time my taped hands were in front of me, which was a relief for my aching shoulders. Brandon grabbed me under the arms and hoisted me up over his shoulder again. I winced at his forceful grip.
Outside, a sleek black sedan waited. Pretty Boy slid into the passenger seat without another word. A short, broad man exited the driver’s seat. He was white, but with a strained red face, as though the tie he was wearing was too tight, restricting his blood flow. He popped the trunk.
At the sight of the blackened trunk interior, I thrashed my body in all directions and Brandon could barely contain me. But I kept squirming because it would’ve been better to be dropped to the gravel and knocked unconscious than be wide awake in a dark, tight space for who knows how long. I wasn’t claustrophobic, but it was clear that I was about to have my comfort of tight spaces put to the test.
Not to mention the sheer fear running through me at the thought that I was being transported to yet another location. The more I was moved, the less likely it was that I would be found. Trails went cold. Even if the authorities found this place—wherever it was—I would be gone. Maybe there’d be a slight trail to the next place, but would they find me there before I’d be moved again?
Brandon threw me into the trunk and I landed hard on my shoulder, sending a rush of pain down my arm and up into my neck. The trunk shut, and things went dark. I disappeared into blackness.
