For one stupid second she thought of slamming the door, calculating the amount of time it would take to deadbolt it, but he already had his boot wedged inside.
“Move,” he growled.
She moved.
Fear made everything sharper—the whine of the wind blowing across the front of the motel. The pounding of her heart in her ears.
He stuck the gun in her ribs with a growl. “Don’t fight me or I’ll kill you right here.”
Her heart thundered faster and she managed a jerky nod.
He marched her across the parking lot. Her hands were still free, and she lifted one behind her back, folding her thumb across the palm, tucking her fingers down—the alleged universal sign for help she’d seen once in an online video.
She prayed someone in this place might see and recognize the sign.
Nobody stopped them.
A couple in winter coats stepped out of room eight carrying a bag of takeout and barely glanced her way.
“Don’t scream either.” He pressed the hard steel of the gun into her back.
Panic—hot and useless—flashed through her. No one was going to save her.
He hustled her to a low, ugly utility vehicle half spattered with muddy slush. It had four tracks instead of tires, built for navigating deep snow.
He shoved her into the front seat.
No. She wasn’t leaving without a fight.
She opened her mouth to scream, but pain slammed across her face and she tasted blood. Too stunned by the blow to react quickly, she was helpless when he caught her wrists and jerked them behind her back.
Plastic bit into her skin as he zip-tied them tight.
She twisted and tried to issue another scream but only got out a low croak, which he silenced again with another backhand. The couple in room eight heard nothing, and Jolie’s hopes of being rescued dropped even more.
He tightened the ties another notch until pain shot up both arms.
When he climbed behind the wheel and started the vehicle, she sucked in breaths through her nose and forced herself to think about anything but the blood dripping down her chin.
Oh god. Her phone was on the bed at the motel.
No way to track her. No way for Archer—or anyone on the Sierra team—to locate her.
The realization hit with a force that made her gag.
“Puke on me and you’ll be missing those pretty white teeth,” her captor growled.
Her heart battered her ribs.
Think!
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, lethal-looking syringe.
Every muscle in her body locked.
He swung it toward her neck.
She looked at his face, memorizing it for a police lineup. If she ever got out of this alive.
