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Turned out that was the wrong thing to do and certainly the wrong thing to say. He looked pleased. And when a man like him looked pleased, that was never a good thing.
“That will make this whole thing a lot easier. Let’s go.”
I pushed my untouched food away, and he motioned for the waiter. The poor guy was still so nervous that he was unable to write down the price of my drinks and food because his hands shook so much. I put him out of his misery and set money on the table. My brain had a mind of its own, adding numbers as soon as I saw them. I had every price on the menu memorized already.
“My bill is $3,350. That already includes a tip of 15 percent. I hope that’s enough.”
The restaurant was one of the few that only accepted Guyanese Dollars. I’d exchanged enough money to make sure I’d be okay for a while without access to a bank. Guyana gained independence from the United Kingdom in the sixties, and besides the British Pound, they usually accepted American Dollars.
The waiter stared at me, and so did the stranger. Instead of asking for my change—because being good with numbers also meant I never wasted money—the stranger manhandled me out of my chair. The firm grip on my arm was uncomfortable but not painful, my already sore body protesting at the treatment.
I looked around the restaurant, hoping someone would come to my aid. The other two patrons focused on their plates, not once looking in my direction. The stranger smelled of cigars and whiskey. I wondered if he had to abandon his drink in order to retrieve me. As soon as we were outside, he gripped my arm even tighter and forced me to follow him.
“I guess I’m supposed to tip 25 percent, then? Someone could have just told me.” My poor attempt at a joke earned me another sharp look. I tended to either ramble or make terrible jokes when I was nervous. Neither was a good option at the moment.
I looked around the now deserted street in desperation.Where the hell is everyone?There was no way I could pull myself free. The stranger’s hold was firm. And then there was the gun, of course.
Too scared to ask where he was taking me, I forced my feet to move. This was definitely not the time or place to fall apart.
A few minutes later, we stopped in front of the town hall, the biggest building in the small village. He nodded to two guys standing outside the big oak doors, machine guns held tightly in their hands. They didn’t even glance at me. I fought the urge to lose the contents of my bladder.
The doors opened, and he shoved me inside the building. There were more men with machine guns inside. Cold air hit me, and the sudden drop in temperature sent a shiver down my spine. He finally let me go, and I automatically put my arms around myself. Not that it provided much protection.
“Stay,” he barked at me before disappearing down the hall.
I calculated the distance to the doors and my chances of making it past the group of men that stood a few feet away. There was no way I would make it more than a few steps. Not only was I as slow as a turtle, but they also watched my every move. And they had guns.
“Esa es la chica.” My captor came back and pointed at me. Three more guys followed him. They were just as bulky, their expressions grim.
One of the men came forward until we were almost toe to toe. Too close. I took a step back, but his hand shot out and harshly grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. Golden eyes with green speckles greeted me. He resembled a lion, his steps light, his attention focused.
We were standing so close that I could make out every line on his face, down to the scar running over his eyebrow. His features were all sharp angles and high cheekbones. I had to blink to make sure my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. He belonged on the cover of a magazine, not in the middle of the army that was now surrounding us.
His gaze was unrelenting as he studied my face, his hand never leaving my jaw. I was uncomfortable under his scrutiny, and my breath stuttered in and out in harsh gasps.
“What’s your name?” he asked. His accent threw me for a loop. He was American.
“Ev-Everleigh,” I stuttered, knowing I had to do something if I wanted to get away unscathed. “I don’t know what you think I’ve done. I’m an accountant who’s visiting the country. If you let me go, I’ll never mention this again.”
He studied me some more and muttered, “Bad timing.” Then turned and called, “Santino.”
The guy that had taken me from the restaurant appeared next to him. They looked formidable standing shoulder to shoulder, having the broody smolder down to an art form.
They murmured to each other, the guy with the mesmerizing eyes never taking his attention from me. His intensity was making me squirm. I held my hands together, only to release them again a second later. I pulled on my shirt and stepped from foot to foot.
I didn’t want to die. I wanted to be back in San Diego with Archer, watching awful movies and eating even worse food. I wanted to go out with my best friend, Thea, and make questionable decisions. I wanted to argue with our neighbor, who kept stealing my packages then pretended it wasn’t him.
“Come,” the guy named Santino barked, snapping me away from my happy place.
I was going to die in this little South American country, and nobody would know what had happened to me. Nobody would look for Archer.
“What are you going to do with me? I have money. If you let me go, I’ll pay you.”
They ignored me, Santino once again dragging me alongside him. We exited through a back door, and he threw me in the back seat of a black Escalade. Apparently, they’d take me somewhere else to do the deed.
I noticed more cars lined up in the courtyard, all exactly the same. The other men followed us out of the big building and climbed in the other vehicles.
The door slammed next to me, sealing me inside. Sealing my fate.
