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It’s just me and the driver in here, and I can’t even see him from this angle, but I have to assume that it’s the same guy who stormed Silas’s house. The timing is entirely too coincidental to be anything other than a coordinated attack. And I have to assume that he’s taking me somewhere far, far away to use me as bait or leverage over my men.
A hysterical sort of thought bubbles up my throat and I have to force myself to swallow over the rough boulder of fear lodged there. If this abductor’s goal is to get something from Silas, he picked the wrong man. Silas’s emotions are unpredictable and tumultuous. A tempestuous sea with fierce waves crashing against the shore one moment, and then calm and placid the next.
I imagine Silas receiving the ransom note for me and sort of sighing, like he can’t believe he’s being asked to do such a thing.
But no. That's not entirely accurate, is it? my subconscious taunts, plying me with flashes of our time together like some fucked-up video montage.
I close my eyes tight, squeezing them hard enough to see black spots dance across my vision.
Regardless of what Silas would or wouldn't do, I know Lincoln wouldn't let me rot. Neither would Nova. And even in Silas's self-proclaimed black heart, he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did nothing.
But that doesn't mean he'll give this guy whatever he's asking for. Not if it means sacrificing everyone else.
I’m getting ahead of myself, letting my fears wrap their sharp talons around every thought that flies through my head. The twist and distort every what-if, leaving me momentarily paralyzed with dread. It’s a dangerous game, and it does nothing to actually help me.
I exhale and relax the clenched muscles in my face. I do my best to ignore the throbbing on the side of my face and center myself. I give myself five seconds. Five seconds to check in with my senses.
One: The gentle vibration of the car on the road. Which means we’re on a paved road and not some backwoods makeshift gravel road. That’s good.
Two: The almost cloying new-car scent. Not the actual smell from a newly manufactured car, but the kind they stamp into tree-shaped air fresheners. The kind that used vehicles and rental cars are famous for. Okay, so it’s possible he doesn’t own this car. I don’t know how that helps me or if it even does.
Three: The jazz song has changed but his whistling hasn’t. It’s the same thirty seconds of music over and over again. There’s something familiar about it, but I don’t immediately recognize from where. I file that information away for later.
Four: It’s still daylight. So hopefully that means I haven’t been out too long. Though judging by my lack of restraints, it’s also possible that I’ve been out for an entire day. The thought is sobering and frightening, so I shove it away for now.
Five: The back of my throat feels itchy like the time Cora and I ran through an alfalfa field and my eyes started watering and itching so bad, Nana Jo had to take me to the hospital.
I exhale once more, keeping my breathing even and opening my eyes. I only turn my head, careful not to move any other part of my body in case he's watching me through the rearview mirror. There's nothing underneath the seats I can use, no length of rope or plastic bags or knife. A small blessing, really.
I used to joke that I needed to cut back on my true crime shows, but honestly, if it helps save my life today, I’ll never stop watching.
My eyes scanned the backseat pockets until they landed on a noticeable bump protruding from the driver’s seat. There’s something tucked inside of here, and that stupid little seed of hope takes root once more.
My heart kicks against my ribcage and my palms grow slick as I slowly raise my right hand until my fingertips graze the top of the pocket.
Oh fuck me, I’m too far away. Sweat blooms across the back of my neck, despite the cool air blasting from the vent right in front of me. Okay, I can do this. I can.
Each second clicks down like one of those old grandfather clocks, reverberating through my body as I slowly shift my weight and push up onto my elbow. My trembling fingers slip into the seat-back pocket, and I stretch further, my shoulder muscles protesting at the strain.
At the very bottom of the pocket, I grasp my salvation. Extracting it as slowly as I can, praying that he doesn't feel the movement through the seat. Bright pink fabric spills out of my palm as I settle back against the floor.
It's women's underwear.
But not just any underwear.
Seamless high-cut cheeky panties in the color sugar pink. Confusion cloaks me like a weighted blanket, heavy and unyielding. My lashes flutter as I blink too fast, my mind racing to come up with a reason why one of my favorite pairs of panties are in the seat pocket of this car.
It could be a coincidence, I reason with myself with a shallow nod. One of those things where all the stars aligned and the impossible was made possible. These aren't necessarily mine. Just a random pair. I’m sure there are thousands of women who have the same ones in their drawers at home. Yeah, let’s just think of it as a strange coincidence.
But more importantly, how am I going to use a scrap of cotton as a weapon?
My mind tumbles over itself, thoughts cycling too quickly for me to fully grasp. Until only one remains. It’s incredibly risky and the success rate is undoubtedly low. Panic encircles my throat, squeezing until only a thin stream of air remains.
Make it count, Nana Jo murmurs inside my head.
I let her encouragement and love wash over me, filling in the canyon of fear. The moderate success of my harebrained plan hinges on the element of surprise. And I only have one shot at that. So I better take Nana Jo’s advice and make it count.
I let out a long, slow exhale and feel my cheeks puff up with the effort. I ignore the logical part of my brain that reminds me that I’m in a moving vehicle and any attempt to use a weapon on the person who’s driving is reckless.
