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Not like I could sleep right now, anyway.
I bank the idea for later and flip out the painting on my wall. My wall safe sits behind the painting, and I press my thumb to it to unlock the door. It pops open. Inside is a load of cash and a selection of handguns, and I grab my favorite—the Sig Sauer P226. It’s light enough not to weigh down my jacket, but heavy duty enough to make me feel better. It’s also the one I’m best with at the range.
I’ve never considered myself a gun nut or into the culture of it at all. They’re for protection, nothing more. Which means I also have a custom-made ankle holster for a pocket pistol. I prefer pocket pistols for ankle holsters because a pat down is more likely to not notice something that small, especially if it’s tucked into my boot.
Though it’s not the most comfortable thing I’ve ever worn, comfort is the last thing on my mind right now. I also grab the bear spray—it shoots farther than pepper spray and has the same effect on people as it does bears. I tuck the Sig into the internal pocket of my coat and the bear spray in the outer pocket, so if I get a pat down, they’ll feel the can and think that’s all there is.
I hope.
All of this preparation may be moot, though. If June is possibly in the line of fire, I won’t take that chance. She is everything in this. I won’t give them any reason to harm her any more than they already have. I’ll go peacefully, if I must. But if I can defend myself once she’s gone, I’ll do it.
I dump my gym bag onto my bed and go around my apartment, stuffing it with anything useful. Protein bars, bottles of water, cans of Red Bull, an extra scarf for June, a small first aid kit I keep in the bathroom, a telescoping baton, all the cash I have on hand, my passport—should I break into June’s place to get her passport?
In what world do I think a passport will be useful right now?
I shake my head at myself and dump the bag again. I’m freaking out, not thinking clearly. Okay. Breathe. What do I need right now? It’s then that my stomach growls, and that sensation fills me with a strange shame. How can I eat at a time like this? Has June eaten? Have they given her water? Fuck!
I rake my fingers through my hair and try to calm down. Repacking the bag, I keep everything but my passport. If they search me and find that, they’ll think I’m going to take off. Though that’s not a bad idea, if this situation is going to drag on—and I think it will—if I take off or if June does, I do not know how they will respond to that. Chase us down? Take my mother hostage? Hurt someone I care about?
The ball is in their court in all of this, and I can’t rattle them right now.
With my bag packed and on my shoulder, I glance back at my apartment. Wonder if I’ll see it again. Time’s wasting. I want to be at the drop before they are, so I can scope out possible exits and get a feel for the place. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Hell Gate Bridge before, but it’s appropriately named.
But if I’m going to Hell tonight, I’m taking them with me.
-
Chapter 42
JUNE
Chapter Forty-Four-June
“The blindfold again? Really?” I huff as I get no answer from the woman. She merely ties it over my eyes. She does a better job than the guys did. Can’t see a damn speck of light. Makes me wonder if this isn’t her first time with a blindfold. Or if she uses them in her bedroom for fun. She certainly knew to pull at the edges of it to guarantee my blindness. Bet she’s a top in the bedroom. Can’t be a mousy little thing if you’re a kidnapper.
It’s so much more comfortable to think about lurid details like that than to focus on the existential terror of being transported again.
When I was upstairs, Andre had fielded a few calls, speaking Italian the whole time, so I had no idea what was being said. But the words were so similar to Spanish that I thought I might have had a hold on some of them. Not that my Spanish was great, but I spoke enough to get by on a Mexican vacation.
Buono—Bueno—Good. Banca—Banco—Bank. Some words needed no translation. Padre. Problema. Tempo. I had the feeling Anderson’s father was running out of time to solve a problem with the bank, and if they cooperated, things would be good.
Strange how similar our problems were.
But now, being downstairs in the garage, our problems’ similarities have ended. I’m not sure what’s happening now or why I’m being transported. No one tells me shit. My hands are tied in front of me. I’m just a package, as far as anyone here is concerned. All I know is the woman and the big guy walked me next to a nondescript red sedan with black tinted windows. Older model. Nothing fancy. Not as nice as the sprinter van—not even close.
All of that makes me nervous. This is the kind of car you use to dump a body. Something unremarkable, so it goes unnoticed. I guess my status will be determined by where I ride. If I go in the trunk, I’m dead. I know it.
Once the blindfold is secured to the woman’s liking, she says, “No. Not there.”
“He said the trunk.”
Fuck.
But she counters, “No point to that. She can sit in the back.”
I love her.
“Moeller said she goes in the trunk. Easier when we get to where we’re going. Simpler for the meet up. Pop it, and we go.”
