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I felt dizzy, carsick, because I couldn’t see. We were going fast, surely out of the city by now, probably passing by the cemeteries and warehouses that surrounded it. On a bright, sunny day, maybe one of the cars around us could have seen me in there with tape over my mouth and tears streaming from under my blindfold, but I could hear the storm and rain had intensified. In the brittle silence, the windshield wipers and my sniffling were the only sound.
“Sit still,” said the man in English. “We’re going to see someone. Stop crying, girl. Everything will be okay.”
I believed that like I believed in leprechauns sliding down rainbows, but for the moment, I had to preserve my strength. I heard him rooting through my bag, holding it on the seat beside me. Was he taking my money? My phone? Maybe this was only a robbery. They could take what they wanted, as long as they let me go.
I made a pleading sound, helpless and blind. I felt a tissue wipe my face and the snot that was dribbling out of my nose. A moment later, I heard the window roll down on his side and the crack of something hitting the pavement. I was ninety-nine percent sure it was my phone.
Oh, Jesus. I had to calm down. If I got congested from crying, breathing would become too difficult. Or…maybe I should pretend I couldn’t breathe, in hopes they took off the tape. Then I could scream loud enough to get someone’s attention.
From a car traveling down a freeway? Really, Chere? Even if I managed a few good screams, they’d just slap on more tape again.
No, better to be quiet and still, and wait, and be ready for any opportunity to escape. I sat back as well as I could with my wrists cuffed behind me, trying to relieve the pressure on my arms. Now and again the men exchanged a few foreign words, but for a half-hour, an hour, we traveled in silence. Just road noise, the occasional blinker as the driver changed lanes.
What’s going on? Where are you taking me? It was infuriating that I couldn’t speak when I had more questions than I’d ever had in my life.
But do you want to know the answers to those questions?
A few more tears squeezed out, but I forced myself to stop. By now, Price would know something was wrong. They’d find my phone on the side of the road. It would give them some clue to which way we’d traveled. They hadn’t drugged me—yet—which was a good thing. More chance of escape…
But how could I escape with my hands bound, wearing a blindfold?
My racing thoughts were interrupted by some gruff words. “We’re almost there.”
Where? I began to struggle again, since I couldn’t speak, but he said “Stop it” in a sharp tone and I obeyed.
The car slowed and seemed to leave the freeway. It stopped. Turned. Drove again. I tried to remember each turn, each stop, in case I was able to get away, so I could find my way back to cars and people and the freeway, because who knew where the hell I was? But I was too tired to really remember. Adrenaline and fear had worn me down. If I had any sense of direction, I might have at least known whether we were north of the city, or south, east or west, but I realized I knew nothing.
The car slowed further, crept down a road that curved often. I couldn’t tell if we were still on pavement or on some dirt road. I imagined them taking me out into the deep, rainy woods to shoot me. I pictured myself falling down in the mud with a bullet in my brain. No, no, no, this had to be a kidnapping. I had money. Price had money. They needed me alive to get that money. Didn’t they?
I thought again of my plan to pretend I couldn’t breathe, to at least get the tape off my mouth, but I heard a garage door going up and figured it would be useless to scream now. We drove in, stopped. The garage door came down again. My hearing was sharp, too sharp, without my sight. I could hear the man beside me breathing, and the driver scratching his head, or was it his scraggly goatee?
They exchanged more words I couldn’t understand. I was unbuckled and dragged from the car with a guy on each side.
“Don’t bother to struggle,” said the driver, sounding bemused. “You won’t get out of here.”
I hate you. I wished I could say it to them. I hate you, I hate you.
I thought of trying to kick them—my heels were sharp—or trying to pull away, but I’d probably just run straight into a wall or something. I hated this feeling of helplessness and desperation. I walked over carpet, then onto concrete…no, it was tile. A door closed, locked. The men started to talk again; their voices echoed, making me think of a cell.
While one of them held me, the other started to unbutton my dress. I did fight then. I strained my arms back and kicked. My shoes came off and I almost twisted my ankle, but I accomplished nothing aside from a few grunts on their part.
They took off the cuffs to yank my dress over my head, each of them grasping a wrist before I could rake my nails over them. I was wearing the skimpiest pink lace bra and panties underneath, dressed up for Price and our date. I needed to cover myself, to protect myself, but I couldn’t. I was pushed back onto a bed. No, no, don’t…
As I fought, my arms were pulled over my head and out, and fastened into unforgiving cuffs. They were Velcro straps, or plastic, some material that didn’t give at all. I could still kick, and I did, but they backed away. One of them said something that sounded mocking, and the other one laughed, then they walked away from me, chatting in their guttural language. From a distance, I heard a door open, then close and lock.
I kicked the bed, pulling at the cuffs until my arms hurt, then I ran out of breath and lay still. I’d thought they were going to rape me. They hadn’t, thank God. I still wore my bra and panties, though in my dark, mute prison, I felt naked. I went from furious kicking to dead stillness, my ears straining to hear any sound at all.
Nothing.
No cars outside, no voices. No music, no air, no water through pipes. Was I in a prison? A basement? It was cool, but not cold. There was definitely an echo, I’d heard it when they were talking. Why was I here? Why was I bound to a bed in this silent cell?
I thought again of Price’s exasperated warnings about abduction and sex trafficking the night I’d stayed out at Andrew’s party. I’d never been careful enough, never had a sense of self-preservation, even when I’d worked as a fucking escort. The irony, that I’d left that risky life behind and now, now I’d been thrown into a car and taken away. Was Price getting a ransom note now? Or was I only here to be raped and murdered by those two guys, or some other shadowy foreign figure or figures?
Maybe both?
I racked my brain for who might be behind this. I had a lot of wealthy customers in my jewelry business, from all over the world. I remembered one politician, from Qatar, who was rumored to keep a modern-day harem. Was this sex trafficking? Was I bound for a harem? But my abductors’ accent sounded Slavic.
Russian mafia? Did one of my customers have mafia ties?
