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I scream like a banshee from the front steps all the way to their getaway vehicle. I realize I’ve lost the battle when I’m haphazardly thrown into the back of an empty cargo van and two men surround me. I hear my father’s booming voice laced with anger from the front doorway, but he and the bodyguards are too late. The metal doors on the back of the van slam shut with a force of finality, its sound ringing in my ears, and I believe those doors just forever sealed my fate.
I hear the tires squeal as the van takes off at top speed. The quick, forward momentum of the vehicle suddenly tosses everyone around in the back of the van, including me. I hear the men cursing as they clamber over each other, trying to get a foothold. The van speeds down the driveway, taking me away from my home and family. I don’t realize I’ve never stopped screaming until a man yells from the front seat to the back of the van, “Shut her the fuck up!”
The same familiar, hulking hand is smacked back over my mouth in an attempt to stop my tirade. Like a worm on a hot rock, I find myself wiggling and thrashing to beat the band of men. They have a hell of a time trying to contain me, and I know I kick one burly man in the nuts. I’m glad; I hope he becomes impotent.
I feel the giant hand losing its grip over my mouth as I continue to scream and thrash, and it creates the perfect opportunity for me to inflict pain on the man in hopes of an escape.
My teeth find themselves sinking into the flesh as I bite through skin and into knuckle. The harder the man struggles, the harder I bite, trapping him in the vices of my maniacal snare. I begin to feel warmth spreading over my lips; it’s blood, and I hope the bastard needs stitches.
“Son of a bitch!” The man above me howls into the night with pain like a wolf in the wild. “Get this fucking bitch off me! Get the damn needle now!”
I’m backhanded ruthlessly across my temple, but I refuse to let my mouth open, keeping my jaw clamped down. Another man comes into my periphery, attempting to help his partner. He straddles his big body over mine and begins to wrap his thick, huge hands all the way around my neck, cutting off precious air. I feel beads of sweat beginning to form along my hairline, and my breathing becomes ragged as I begin fighting for breath.
The man choking me squeezes even harder, sneering through his clenched teeth, “Let go, bitch!” Lifting my head by the death grip he has around my neck, he then slams the back of my head down against the hard metal floor of the van. Shit! I see stars as the pain courses through my head, and it only serves to make me clamp down harder. The man howls with an ungodly scream. My body overrides my brain; it needs air, and I quit flailing around and automatically begin clawing at the man who’s choking me.
My fingers find his thick biceps, and I begin digging my fingernails deep into his skin. Starting at the top of his shoulders, I scrape down the length of both of his arms. I feel his skin rippling and curling underneath my nails, drawing blood—gives new meaning to blood-red nails. “Goddamn it! Motherfucker, who’s got the fucking drug?” he screams, both burning pain and seething rage lacing his shout.
The back of my head gets slammed against the van’s flooring again. As my lungs begin to run out of their reserves, I start to wonder if I’m going to die this way. Before I can feel the terror of my imminent demise, I am blissfully spared the experience. I feel the prick of a needle passing through the barrier of my skin and almost immediately, my muscles begin to betray me. My jaw loosens its grip, and the man yanks his hand from the snare of my canines.
“Thank God! What the fuck took you so long, asshole?” he sneers vehemently.
I feel every last one of my faculties rapidly losing their resolve and ability to fight. The man hovering above me graciously backs off his death grip, allowing me to suck in a gasp of air. My lungs frantically claw and inhale for deep breaths to keep my heart beating. Everything is peacefully beginning to fade into a dark haze, and the last words I hear are, “’Bout fuckin’ time, you asshole. Boss ain’t gonna be happy ‘bout the merchandise being knocked around like that.”
Then everything goes black.
CHAPTER THREE
I can feel the state between my drug-induced sleep and just waking up. In the background, I faintly hear men quietly chatting. I can only hear bits and pieces of what’s being said. I’m fighting to arouse my body from its drugged mayhem. My mind is telling me to feign sleep so I can eavesdrop on what these men are saying, but the urge to touch the back of my head is too overwhelming. I hear myself groan as aching muscles protest against any movement. My head is throbbing with a pounding pressure attacking me from all sides. My head is a Georgia pecan, and it’s being crushed ruthlessly in a nutcracker.
