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Everything is dark, and my body is sore, but I immediately try to find a way out. As I thump on the trunk door, I hear the car doors slam closed, then the car starts to move.
I start to kick the trunk. That does nothing but expel my energy, so I stop and try and feel around in the space to see if there is anything in here that I can use as a weapon, but I come up empty-handed.
I take off my heels and use them to hit the side of the trunk where I imagine the brake lights to be, but nothing moves. I make no indent whatsoever.
I feel wetness on my cheek, and I taste blood on my tongue. When Richard hit me, it must have broken the skin near my eye. I am trying not to panic. I need to stay calm and think. What would dad and Jake tell me to do?
I lay still a moment, thinking of both of them, and I know their advice would be the same. Don't give up, keep fighting. So, I do.
I continue to feel around the trunk, surely something will be here. Surely, I can find something to help me, because I need to get out of here. I need to get out alive.
37
Jake
We should have landed by now, but as with the entire day today, nothing is going to plan. We have been circling over D.C. for an hour, waiting for approval from air control to land, but due to the stormy weather, there is a backlog of arrivals, and we need to wait.
Getting frustrated at the delay, I step up to the cockpit to speak to the pilot, and after a few quick decisions and approval from ground control, we deviate from our original landing at Ronald Reagan Airport and divert to Washington Executive Airpark, which is about a thirty-minute drive, south of D.C. Not ideal, because it means more travel time before I get to Belle, but who knows how long we will be circling in the air for. We have a full tank of gas and a plane load of only four passengers and two crew, so they can keep us up in the air for a long time.
The plane jerks and bumps through the clouds, and even though we are all seasoned travelers, it is a rough descent. Looking out the window, it is dark; the cloud cover is thick and grey, and the rain is pouring down. The weather is in perfect sync with my mood, because I am fucking miserable and about to explode.
Finally, we touch down. All of us boys are eager to get off this plane and get things underway on the ground. We are all on edge, our energy is electric, our veins pumping blood around our bodies at a faster pace than ever before. We are all well-aware that this is our best shot of getting these assholes, and we need to make it count.
Our transit cars are still ten minutes away, as our local team is still making their way from our previous landing location. We unbuckle our seatbelts, stand, and stretch. Shaun is on his phone, no doubt checking in on his family and letting them know we are here in one piece. Marco is doing the same; he is worried about Frankie, and I don’t blame him. What went down in New York this afternoon is crazy, and I know that Dante will call me soon for support as things progress. A call I am not looking forward to.
As the pilot taxis the plane to our final parking spot, we are already standing, gathering our things. Stephen is on edge, as he has been for the entire fight. He is ready to bolt out the door and to go and find these bastards that have eluded us for the past year.
I can see we are not the only ones who had the alternative airport arrival, because looking out the window, I notice there are many private planes here. Most look parked for the night, but as our plane comes to a stop and the engines shut off, I notice one plane that has their lights on with people rushing around, I assume because of the weather.
As the pilot begins to unlock the door, I look out the small window again, and I freeze. My heart beats out of my chest, blood pumping in my ears.
“Fuck! It is them!” I yell to the boys, and they all scramble to look out the window, wondering what I am yelling about. The pilot unlatches the door and steps back, sensing that things are not as they should be.
I see John, the fat overweight human trafficking scumbag, who still looks as slimy as he did a year ago. He is on the tarmac, in the rain, yelling at a pilot in uniform who is standing next to him. They are seemingly having a disagreement as the rain pelts down around them.
I then see his partner, Byron, walk swiftly down the stairs of their plane, then over to them, clearly wanting them to hurry.
“Fuck this,” Stephen says, and he pushes our plane door open and rushes down the stairs. The boys and I follow closely behind him. There is no time to formulate a plan, there is no time to call in support, the four of us are merely rushing and acting on instinct, not wanting them to escape from us again, and we will do anything to ensure that we get them.
We are all armed, but with no vests on, anything could happen.
I rush immediately after Stephen, ready to jump in front of him if I need to. Marco and Shaun are right behind us. The rain and wind thrash at us as we run across the tarmac, and the wind blocks any noise of our approach, so we take them by surprise.
We are on them before they realize we are there. Stephen immediately tackles Byron to the ground and hits him with venom. I rush and grab John, who lets out a pathetic yelp, and with one punch, he is on the ground, his large body slapping the wet asphalt that can be heard over the blowing wind. I look over and see Marco trying to assist Stephen, although there isn’t much to do because Byron’s body is now a limp, bloody mess.
But Stephen isn’t stopping, such is his extreme anger toward the man who took Molly, he is obviously pushing every emotion out of his body and into his fists as he continues to hit Byron in the face, stomach and anywhere else he can.
I pass Shaun the cable ties to tie John up, and I go to pull Stephen off the nearly dying man.
“Enough!” I yell above the rain. Shaun throws Marco the cable ties, and not that he needs to be restrained, but Marco ties up Byron's hands and feet anyway. We are all soaked from the rain, and as Shaun drags John across and leaves him near Byron, us boys look over these two sad sacks of shit and keep an eye on them.
Stephen is breathing heavily, his knuckles red and swollen, and splats of blood decorate his face. The pilot made a mad dash into the terminal building, no doubt to call the police, which is ideal, and I call Agent Jai to give him the update. Him and his team are now on their way.
The four of us stand there in shock at what just happened. This is what we came here for. This was the prize. Now, as I stare down at these two pathetic men who lay crumbled on the wet tarmac, with the wind and rain whipping around us, I wonder how they managed to escape from us the first time.
“What the fuck is going on!” I hear behind me, and I spin swiftly, eyeballing Dickhead Douche. My blood runs cold.
He is the connection to Belle.
