“I even showed up late to make sure she’d want it bad. You always know a bitch wants it bad when you keep her waiting.” Pushing his shoulders back, trying to look intimidating, Chazz points at the broken mirror. “I want extra for that.”
“Keep dreaming,” the masked man says again, growing impatient. Then to the men holding me: “What are you two idiots doing just standing there? Get her in the van.”
The two holding me move at once. They drag me toward the back of the van. The doors are open, but they don’t shove me inside. One of them holds me while the other grabs a roll of duct tape. He tears off a piece, places it over my mouth, then tears off two longer pieces and wraps those around my wrists and ankles. They put me in the van while somewhere outside Chazz keeps whining about his car and the other guy says okay fine they’ll pay him extra. After a couple minutes of silence, the front doors open and the two other men get in and then the engine rumbles to life and the van starts to move.
Five hours to go.
Eight
We head south.
I know we head south because the van turns left onto the highway. I can’t see out any windows, of course, but I can feel the movement of the van, just as I can feel the engine’s heavy rumbling as the driver accelerates. He doesn’t go too fast—doesn’t want to get pulled over, no doubt—but fast enough so we’re cruising at maybe ten miles above the speed limit.
The one in the passenger seat has a cell phone in his hand. He dials a number, places the phone to his ear, and simply says, “We have her.”
After that, there’s silence. Nobody speaks. Nobody tells me what the hell is going on. I just lay on the floor of the panel van, duct tape over my mouth, my wrists and ankles bound, completely helpless.
The two who had dragged me into the van are sitting on the floor, their knees pulled up to their chests. They keep their masks on. It’s dark in the van, but I can see their eyes through the holes in the masks. They watch me for a while, but eventually they seem to get bored. One of them closes his eyes. The other’s gaze drifts toward the front of the van.
Has it hit me yet just how scared I should be? Not really. I’m scared, sure, but I’m not terrified. It’s a strange feeling. Part of me knows I’m in some kind of danger while another part knows there’s a limit to that danger. Because if these men wanted to kill me, they wouldn’t be wearing masks. The reason they’re wearing masks is to hide their identities, and I have to assume—hope—that the reason is they plan to eventually let me go.
I think about my mother, who’s back at the condo and maybe still watching old movies in the living room or maybe she’s gone to bed by now. I think about my father, still at work doing God knows what. I think about Tina, over four thousand miles away, who’s probably tucked into bed asleep.
If these men do decide to kill me, when will my family find out? Will they ever find out?
The floor of the van continues to vibrate, which is becoming really annoying, so I start to sit up.
The masked man who hasn’t closed his eyes glares at me. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Because of the duct tape over my mouth, I can’t give a verbal response, but I plead with my eyes to try to get across the fact that it’s uncomfortable lying on the floor.
The masked man doesn’t seem to care, so he doesn’t object as I continue to sit up. It takes a couple moments—the passenger up front turning in his seat to watch—and then I’m sitting with my butt on the floor and my back against the side of the van.
Now all three of the masked men are watching me—the one who’d closed his eyes is now staring at me intently—and I do the smart thing which is to not make eye contact. I focus on my feet instead, on the nails I’d painted earlier tonight because I thought I was going to have a nice date with a hot guy.
The van begins to slow. For some reason, I think it’s because we’re going to turn off onto another road, but I notice a traffic light ahead of us. The yellow light changes to red.
We stop.
I don’t move. My eyes shift up to find that both masked men in the back are watching me.
Outside, the traffic light changes to green, and we start moving again.
The masked man who closed his eyes earlier closes his eyes again. The other one watches me for another minute, then glances up toward the front. That’s when I tilt my head just enough to focus my gaze on the back doors.
The masked man who hasn’t closed his eyes adjusts his sitting stance, and I glance back down at my feet.
For another minute, the van moves at a steady speed, doing maybe forty-five, fifty miles per hour.
Then it starts to slow again.
From my vantage point, I spot the traffic light coming up, this one already red. No telling how long it’ll stay red. So the moment the driver eases the van to a full stop, I make my move.
My ankles and wrists are bound but that doesn’t stop me from pulling my knees up to brace my back against the side of the van. Within two seconds, I’m up and hopping toward the rear doors. My wrists may be bound, but my fingers are still free, and I quickly lift the latch that opens one of the rear doors just as the two men behind me scramble to their feet.
I shove the door open and jump down onto the highway, my bare feet against
