That was all I was going to get.
When I heard the lock again, I moved quickly. I smeared a little of the blood from my fingers at the corner of my mouth and under one eye, then slumped awkwardly in the chair and lowered my head as if I was trying very hard not to faint.
He came in carrying the tray and stopped when he saw me.
I let my breathing turn shallow and uneven, swallowed hard, and lifted my head just enough to look ill rather than theatrical.
“I’m sick,” I said.
He looked unimpressed.
I forced a weak breath and glanced at the sandwich. “Tuna,” I muttered. “I think…histamine poisoning. It can kill you.”
I had no idea whether he knew enough English or enough medicine to believe me, but the possibility of a dead captive must have been enough, because with a low curse he pulled his phone out and frowned down at it.
That was when I saw the hotspot symbol.
My laptop was already open on the table, useless without Wi-Fi and nearly out of battery, but desperation had made me ridiculous enough to cling to things that belonged more in television than real life. I had no idea whether a failed attempt to connect could send any kind of signal out, no idea whether anyone was even looking for me closely enough to catch such a thing, but hope had become a very strange and stubborn force by then, and absurd as it was, I had to try.
I dragged the laptop closer with one hand, found the connection, and typed in a password I already knew had almost no chance of being right.
He looked down at his phone.
I used the distraction immediately. I pushed myself up as if I was about to collapse into him, one hand stretched out for balance, and the second he shifted instinctively to avoid me, I ran.
I ran as fast as I could, heart hammering against my ribs so hard it hurt, and for one wild, glorious moment I thought it might actually work.
Then I burst through the open doorway and found myself in the main room of a warehouse.
Half a dozen men looked up at once.
A soccer match played on a small television fixed crookedly to the wall. Two men sat at a card table with guns lying openly between the ashtray and a pile of bills. Another was smoking by a window streaked with dirt. The whole room smelled of sweat, stale coffee, and something metallic that made my stomach turn.
The man behind me shouted something in Albanian I didn’t understand but was certain was not meant kindly, and before I could pivot or change direction or do anything useful at all, he caught me and slapped me so hard my head snapped to the side and blood flooded my mouth.
The room tilted.
Then I heard another voice, younger, louder, cutting through the noise.
One of the men had stood up. He was leaner than the others, younger too, maybe late twenties, light-haired and sharp-faced, something oddly familiar in his eyes that made my skin prick for reasons I couldn’t yet name. He barked something back at the man who had hit me, fast and angry, and even without understanding the words I could tell at once that he was not speaking to me.
He was reprimanding him.
Protecting me?
The younger man crossed the room and crouched just enough to bring himself level with me. His English, when he spoke, was perfect, with no accent at all.
“You’re feistier than he said.”
I pressed my tongue to the inside of my cheek and tasted blood. “Who said?”
He smiled then, and there was something wrong about the expression. Too calm. Too entertained.
Instead of answering, he caught me by the arm and hauled me upright with a roughness just short of cruelty.
“Here,” he said, steering me toward the back of the room. “You stay with us now.”
Before I could twist free, he shoved me down onto an old, beaten sofa against the far wall.
