I blink, wondering for a moment if I’ve gone blind. “Fuck.”
“What?”
“It’s not much of an improvement. Stay put. I’ll bite yours off, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is pitch black in here. Come to my voice.” Sienna bumps into me then bends her head down.
“Perfect. Stop right there.” I have to loosen the knot, but after a while, I free her face.
“Let me see if I can chew through your zip ties. Twirl around.” Sienna’s plastic refuses to give. “Stay put. I’ll see if I can find something sharp.”
A drunken sailor, I wander with my back to the wall. We’re in a metal cargo container and unless someone witnessed us changing vehicles, Suds is never going to find us. Even Jason would have a hard time making the connection.
“Why didn’t they just kill us?” Sienna voices what I’ve been thinking for the past few hours but I don’t have an answer.
And why me? It would’ve been a hell of a lot easier to get out of Dodge without taking the risk of stopping by the salon.
A woman as smart as Dahlyla had to have done her research. She must realize my dad’s a police chief and my Uncle Vinny runs a well-established organized crime ring.
The truck goes over a bump and I brace my footing. It reminds me of the time I went sailing with my FBI boss and puked over the side railing.
Not one of my better days.
The vehicle banks right and gravity sends us flying to the opposite wall. Dammit. We’ve no doubt pulled off the interstate and onto a bumpy state road. Time is running out.
Continuing my search for a rough edge, the blisters on my wrists break open. To make matters worse, the pinpoint of light in the door disappears.
In the inky blackness, Sienna shares her excitement. “I found something over here.”
“What is it?” With our jail cell bouncing around, I follow the sound of her voice on my knees.
“Closer.”
Suddenly, we come to a halt as rain pounds on the metal container.
Shit, we’re too late. The door swings open and a large, tatted biker hops aboard. Leaning over, he grabs my upper arm with his right hand and Sienna’s with his left. Then, he forces us down the stairs.
Soaked to the bone, we’re dragged toward another waiting truck in some kind of industrial park. Once inside, I gasp.
About a dozen teenage girls fill the container hold.
Fuck. Slave traders.It makes more sense than murder. This way they don’t need to dispose of our bodies. It’s a hell of a lot easier and profitable, too.
The country star hisses into my ear, “Sex traffickers?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“God damn it. I’d rather die.”
“No, honey. You need to survive for your baby and for your husband. Do you understand? You, are going to make it.”
Despite my pep talk, for the first time since getting kidnapped, tears drip down my cheeks. If we’re taken out of the country, we’ll never be found.
Chapter Eighteen
Suds
