1
Phoenix
My palms slamagainst the metal door that stands between me and freedom.
The sound ricochets around the…box?I’m locked inside a fucking metal box.
I stuff that terrible thought down, deep down, where I don’t have to think about it, not right now, and pull in breath the way I know to do to keep from panicking. I think of Maverick, and I make a box.
One…two…three…four.
When the box is built, and I’m somewhat even, I smack my palms against the door again, the sound loud and flat—BANG—BANG—BANG—a hollow echo that laughs back at me.
The door doesn’t budge. It’s not a hotel door with a lock you can sweet-talk or jimmy with a credit card and a prayer. It’s steel and cold, moisture sweating through the layers of metal.
I press my forehead to the seam where the door meets the wall and suck air through my teeth. All I get is the scent of dieseland salt and the coppery taste of my own panic. Somewhere below, engines churn a steady thrum that sets the floor to a faint vibration. It travels up my shins, into my knees, and through my spine until it settles at the base of my skull.
Nausea is a faint accompaniment to everything else tormenting my senses.
I don’t want to think about what all this means. Thinking about it makes it real, and right now I need to move past that terror and figure out an escape.
There’s a cuff around my right ankle, cold metal attached to a short chain bolted to a D-ring sunk into the floor. Eight feet of movement, just enough to let me walk maybe half the length of this box, and roughly its width. Maybe one or two more if I’m willing to lose some skin by yanking. I tested that already.
I step back and take stock again, because if I don’t pretend I have some kind of plan, I’m going to go feral and lose my mind. I don’t know how long it’s been since they grabbed me at the hotel, but my body clock is screamingtoo long.
Hunger gnaws in the pit of my stomach.
My senses are dull and numb, like I’ve been sleeping too long.
I need to pee.
Jesus, how could I have been so stupid? I knew better than to even look at those stupid text messages, let alone do what the man in them told me to do.
Walk out of the hotel lobby.
No more games.
If I had just waited for the guys, just shown them the message and the video of my dad…
But what? What would they have done? They’d have known then exactly how much I was worth—just enough to cover my dear old Dad’s gambling debts.
I swipe the tears that well up at that thought—that, not my predicament, go fucking figure—and turn my attention back to getting out of this mess, my fingertips tapping a frantic SOS against my hip.
Four corrugated metal walls, all the same gunmetal gray, beaded with condensation in places that I can’t reach. No windows I can use to assess my location or try to come up with an escape plan. There aren’t any vents I can reach or hide a weapon in, just a couple up at the very top designed to circulate air and keep me alive.
Heaven forbid I suffocate before I’m trafficked. So bad for business.
A clamp lamp throws a mean cone of yellow light over a wobbling wooden crate that passes for a table. The clamp bites crookedly into a metal cross-rib; every third second the bulb hums and flickers like it’s deciding whether or not to die.
Please don’t die.
A sob chokes halfway up my throat. I don’t think I could stand being trapped in this stupid metal box without any light.
Across from the crate, a field toilet stares at me, white plastic from the five gallon bucket turned nicotine yellow with age and use. A shallow metal sink the size of a casserole dish is boltedto the wall above it, goose-neck faucet dripping with every movement.
I hesitate, eying the door warily, and then make my way over to it, drop my pants, and hover. My chain just barely allows me to reach the makeshift bathroom.
There’s a drain in the floor, rust bleeding out from the grate. The seams at the corners are sealed with a lumpy silver caulk.
