Hellfire Drop (Brimstone Cycle Book 2)(11)
“OK.” says the driver. “Let’s get this done with.”
I have less than a second to wonder what the hell “this” is, before Diner Boy grabs onto me with rough hands and starts to drag me towards the back of the van.
CHAPTER TEN
“Fuck no!” I shout as more hands grab onto me. With my legs tied ups as tight as they are, I can’t really kick, but that doesn’t mean I’m wholly helpless. I try and head-butt whoever is trying to grab onto my shoulders, and snap my teeth into the darkness as well once the poorly secured hood rides up high enough to uncover my mouth.
I know that my outburst is dangerous, but Three Letter Agency’s earlier threat no longer worries me. I’ve got bigger things to be worried about now. Every time you change locations in a kidnapping situation is a point against the kidnappers. Plenty of kidnappers have lost track of their victims because someone got sloppy when moving their captives from a car to another building.
The fact that now may be my last best chance to attempt some kind of escape isn’t my reason for fighting so hard, though.
I struggle because I know that plenty of other kidnappers have killed their victims after arriving somewhere the bad guys felt safe.
If these mercenaries have parked somewhere they feel confident enough to pull me out of the van, then there’s next to no chance I’ll be able to get out after being taken inside. I’m not going to die here. I’m not going to die at all. Not until I’ve gotten payback for Mary. Not until I’ve finished Ole Beeze, then it doesn’t matter what happens to me.
A gunshot, loud and echoing off what sounds like high ceilings above, goes off nearby. The fact that I don’t start gushing blood immediately just means that it’s unimportant. A warning shot. I keep on fighting.
Finally, I feel an arm wrap around the back of my head in some kind of arm lock. The guy it belongs to, the driver I think, straightens up far enough to lift me off the ground. My tied together feet keep kicking in the air for an instant before another pair of hands grabs them tight and more or less holds me still.
“Next time,” I hear Three Letter Agency say, “just let me shoot her. She doesn’t need both kneecaps for this thing to work.”
“She was kicking too hard. You could have missed.” replies the driver, still holding me, “Hit an artery and you’ve wasted our only damn lead.”
I hear a grunt of annoyance from the woman, who does not sound like the other person holding me. There’s a sensation of movement and the creak of doors opening. Finally the two mercenaries holding me come to a stop, and place me down, awkwardly, in what feels like a chair.
The hood gets ripped from my head so fast that I can do nothing but blink in the bright lights that shine in. A spotlight or something shines bright in my face, blinding me almost as effectively as the darkness of the canvas sack.
Almost isn’t completely, though. I can make out some details that are present on the less dazzled edges of my vision. I’m in an industrial space, maybe a warehouse, with a wide open room. What I think may be windows, wide and tall, cover one of the walls towards my left. Most of the space to my right is unlit, and impossible to see with my night vision burned away by the annoyingly bright light in my face.
I heard the sound of something metal scraping on the other side of that light. When I squint, I can just barely make out the outline of a person settling down into a metal folding chair. The figure reaches into a pocket and pulls out a phone. It dials something, and moments later, I hear the woman’s voice from before over speakerphone.
“Where’s Tom, Ms. Kohl?” says the woman on the phone.
“Fuck Tom.” I say. “Where the fuck am I?”
One of the three mercs in the room with me must not have liked my answer, because the next thing I hear is the sound of metal smacking against the back of my head.
Here’s a spoiler for those who live life far from the edge. Getting sucker punched hurts a whole fucking lot. Getting sucker pistol whipped hurts a whole lot more.
Pain radiates outwards, starting about an inch behind my right ear and pressing forward till it settles like a migraine in the space behind my eyes. I’d intended to play tough girl for a while to give my confidence a boost, but I should have known better. While “don’t get kidnapped” is rule number one for surviving these kinds of situations, “don’t antagonize your captors” is easily in the top three.
“Answer me.” says the woman on the phone again coolly. “Where is Tom, Ms. Kohl.”
Head throbbing, I wonder about the cost of telling her anything. I’ll need a body and brain that works to escape. I’m pretty tough, but there’s only so many hits like that I can take before I’m worthless, and unable to think quickly.
“I don’t think you’re going to believe the answer.” I say.
“I can believe a great deal of things, Ms. Kohl.”
“I don’t think you’ll like the answer much, either.”
The voice pauses for a moment before speaking up again.
“There’s been little to like since you took my husband from me, Ms. Kohl.” says the woman on the phone, this time with an edge of bitterness to her voice. “Where’s Tom?”
Head throbbing, I take in a long, shaking breath. I doubt she’ll react well to my upcoming answer, but I think she’d handle a lie even worse.