"This isn't personal, by the way. You're leverage, as is that." He nods awkwardly at my belly. "That's all. Your husband's been taking what isn't his, and now we take what's his. Classic economy."
They know I'm pregnant.
Two more men are at the far end, near the door.
One is built like a gym rat gone soft; arms folded over a jersey that looks better suited for a pub crawl than a felony.
The other is smaller, with a nervous energy that makes his whole body seem to vibrate, even when he stands perfectly still.
Both have guns tucked obviously, the kind of statement only the insecure make.
Scarface—he's the boss, or at least the handler.
He lights a cigarette, then remembers he's inside a mobile tank of potential carcinogens and flicks it out.
The cherry dies on the steel floor, a little red eye that slowly fades.
I catalog everything—the number stenciled on the wall—3098322.
The faded decal for an Italian shipping company.
The subtle scrape of the locking bar when the wind catches the door.
The keening laughter of gulls outside, echoing over the canal.
Somewhere nearby, a forklift does a three-point turn, the reverse beeper shrill enough to cut the air into chunks.
I do not know what day it is or how long I've been under.
The nausea is back, not just from the drugs but from the basal, cellular memory of morning sickness.
It's sharper now, cut with the jitter of whatever they used to knock me out.
I focus on the numbers, counting each exhale from Scarface as he paces—ten steps one way, nine back.
He never takes an even lap.
They're watching me for signs of fight or flight.
What they don't know is that the fight isn't physical, not with mycurrent ratio of body mass to industrial plastics.
The fight is information.
Every question I don't ask is a fact I might already know.
Every wince or flinch or deliberate blink is a breadcrumb.
My job is to starve them of anything they could use.
"Should take the gag out," says the gym rat, picking at his cuticle.
"She'll choke if she pukes."
Scarface gives it a second, then shrugs.
"You're right."
He crouches again, pulls at the corner of the rag with two fingers.
