I follow her into the narrow space between Bubba's and the storage shed.
It's shadowed back here, cooler, the sounds of the compound muffled by the buildings.
The ground is uneven, scattered with gravel and debris.
"Hello?" I call out. "Sweetheart? It's okay, we're going to help you find your?—"
Something hits me from behind.
I go down hard, my knees slamming into the gravel, my palms scraping against the rough ground.
Pain explodes through me—sharp and immediate—and I try to scream but a hand clamps over my mouth before I can make a sound.
"Don't fight," a voice hisses in my ear. Male. Cold. "It'll be easier if you don't fight."
I fight anyway.
I thrash and kick and try to bite the hand covering my mouth, every self-defense lesson my father ever taught me flooding back in a rush of adrenaline.
I twist my body, trying to throw off my attacker.
My elbow connects with something solid—ribs, maybe—and I hear a grunt of pain.
But then there are more hands.
Too many hands.
Grabbing my arms, my legs, pinning me to the ground.
I can't see how many of them there are.
Two? Three? It doesn't matter.
There are too many.
"Hold her still," someone says. The woman. Her voice isn't anxious anymore. It's flat. Professional. Cold as ice. "We don't have much time before someone notices she's gone."
I try to scream again, but the hand on my mouth presses harder, grinding my lips against my teeth.
I taste blood. My own blood.
A cloth presses against my face.
Sweet, chemical smell that burns my nostrils and makes my eyes water.
Chloroform—my panicked brain supplies the information even as my body starts to go limp.
I learned about it in medical school.
Fast-acting. Disorienting. Dangerous if used incorrectly.
No. No, no, no. I have to fight. I have to stay awake. I have to?—
RJ.
RJ will notice I'm gone.
He was watching the door.
