Marco is stationed in the hallway. When I tell him I'm going to the clinic he offers to drive me, but we both decide it might be better if I take one of the drivers, so that he can stay and wait for Dante as per his instructions.
I tell him to let Dante know where I am the second he’s home and I don't wait for his response. Just grab my coat and head for the door.
However, I cannot find anyone around. Even more impatient, I decide to call a rideshare and thankfully, the car arrives in three minutes. A black sedan with a driver who doesn't make small talk. Good. I can't handle small talk right now.
I'm in the backseat, pulling up the clinic's number to call ahead, when I notice we're not heading toward the hospital.
"Excuse me?" I lean forward. "St. Catherine's is the other direction."
"GPS is rerouting," the driver says. "Accident on the main road."
Something twists in my gut. Wrong. This is wrong.
"Stop the car."
"Just a detour, miss. We'll?—"
A black SUV cuts us off. Hard. The sedan screeches to a stop, tires burning rubber against asphalt.
I reach for the door handle.
Too late.
Two men yank open the back door before I can lock it. I see their gloved hands, fast movements. Professional efficiency that speaks of training and repetition, which of course means I’m in big trouble.
"Don't touch me—" I try to fight, but one grabs my arms while the other wraps something around my wrists.
Zip ties. Plastic biting into skin. I feel them tighten with a sharp click that sounds too final.
I scream. Full-throated and raw. Someone on the street has to hear. Has to help.
No one comes.
I kick out hard. My knee connects with someone's ribs and I hear a satisfying grunt of pain.
"Bitch—"
A hand clamps over my mouth, just as a leather glove presses against my lips. I bite down hard. Taste fabric and flesh and copper-salt blood through the material.
The man curses. "She broke skin?—"
"Hold her still!"
I try to slam my head back, catch someone's nose or jaw. Anything. My elbow finds soft stomach and someone exhales sharply.
But there are two of them and one of me. And they've done this before.
They drag me from the sedan into the SUV. I'm fighting every second—scratching with bound hands, kicking, trying to catch door frames or seat edges. Anything to slow them down.
One of them curses. "She's stronger than she looks. Someone help?—"
"Just get her in!"
Something rough drops over my head. A hood. Fabric thick enough to block out light. Everything goes dark. Claustrophobic. My breath comes back hot against my face.
I'm shoved between two large and solid bodies as arms like steel bands pin me in place.
"Drive."
