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It’s an expectation, not a warning or command.
“And then?” I whisper.
“I’m going to lock you in my van and come back to clean up your fucking mess. Keep your mouth shut and be grateful you’re still breathing.”
An unsettling thought invades me; serial killers have vans. I decide to try begging on for size. Experiment with it. I turn enough that I can see his face. “Please don’t hurt me,” I whimper.
If Autumn could hear me now, she’d vomit.
He tilts his head as if he knows I’m full of shit. “Okay.”
I raise my eyebrows at him and his lips quirk.
He leads me out the back door and we walk in the shadows, our breaths heavy in the oppressive silence of the night, our footsteps barely a whisper. Two blocks down we get to the van. It’s seemingly innocuous parked next to a curb under a broken streetlight. He opens the back doors and picks me up like I’m a six-pack and places me inside, then forces me further into the interior as he climbs in behind me.
The van is spacious, but he fills it with his presence. It smells like it has been freshly laundered and despite the summer heat, it’s cool. Under the dim interior lights, I see monitoring equipment, screens, headphones, all sitting on a desk-like table that seems to be bolted to the wall.
“Who are you?” I say, my heart leaping at the idea that maybe he isn’t a serial killer. Maybe he’s a cop.
He doesn’t respond as he sets me in a corner, forcing me down on my belly. The soft, thick foam under me causes my stomach to drop. He probably is a serial killer. He bends my legs at the knees and binds my ankles with the remaining electrical cord, then attaches it to my wrists, tightening it enough to make me grunt in pain. Then he pulls it tighter.
“I think you’re good at getting out of tight spots, and I’d like you to stick around a while so we can talk.” His soft sinister voice makes my pulse jump. As he tests the knots, ignoring my protesting squeak, I tell myself to settle down.
He’s right. I can get out of most situations, but I may have met my match tonight.
He sits back on his heels and admires his handiwork, then pulls my balaclava off my head. “Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
I roll awkwardly onto my side so I can watch him as he moves around the van. He flicks a switch on his control panel and slides earbuds into his ears. Then he picks up a small rectangular kit and a backpack.
He turns to me again, taps on one of the earphones. “It’s going to take a couple of hours to clean the house.”
My heart falls at his words. “You’re kidding, right? You’ll be there for hours cleaning up the bodies.”
He holds my eyes until I drop mine. “I don’t give a shit about the bodies.” He checks the time on the flashing panel and frowns. “Should be back by 3:00 AM.”
The lights fade, then he’s gone, and I’m tied up like a pretzel alone in the dark.
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“Fuck,” Riley grumbled, twisting to make sure she was correct. Nope, she didn't have the right tool.
It was late at night and all the guys had gone home so she couldn’t call out to one of the other mechanics and ask them to hand it to her. Damn. With an aggrieved sigh, she pushed herself out from under the car. Shoving her long ponytail out of the way, she crawled toward the toolbox and rifled through until she found what she was looking for. Loud, thumping music filled the garage from where her iPhone was plugged into its port on top of one of the tool benches.
Turning back toward the ‘69 Camaro, Riley adjusted her lamp and prepared to slide back under. This baby was a thing of beauty. It called to her from the moment it entered her shop, which is why she was still working on it at 2:00am. If she did it up right she’d be able to turn a pretty profit on this little sweetheart and take Cilia on vacation. They desperately needed some bonding time.
The music switched off and a deep voice reverberated through the darkness of the garage. “I’m looking for Mr. Bancroft.”
Riley froze for a few precious seconds before her head snapped up, judging the distance between a shadowed man and the gun in her toolbox. He stepped forward into the circle of her light, closing the distance between them. Riley’s heart slammed against her ribs as his face became visible and she recognized the most ruthless man in the city. Soloman Hart, mafia kingpin, was standing in her garage, staring down at her with cold intent. He now stood directly between her and her gun. Not that she thought it would do any good against a man like him.
Riley felt incredibly small and grimy next to his large, well-dressed frame. She sat crouched on the concrete beneath him, wearing her usual tank top and grimy, oil-stained overalls with the top left to hang down. Her shiny, dark brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and she wore no make-up.
He seemed to be looking her over, taking in every inch of her with interest. Her eyes narrowed in return. She was used to guys staring. She was a thirty-year-old female mechanic, working in a garage full of men. She looked younger than she was and knew she was attractive. Definitely fantasy material for some guys. Which is why she tended to work in the office and on cars in the back, well away from the clients. Very few people knew who actually owned the garage.
“How did you get in here?” she demanded, pushing herself up and standing to her full height, which was still several inches shorter than him. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at him. She had a damn good security system or she wouldn’t have been alone in the shop blaring music in the middle of the night.
