I tried the door, but with my hands tied behind my back, I couldn't quite reach the handle.
Fuck.
I turned back to the bodies, crouching down and searching them with my hands behind my back, feeling for anything sharp.
All thoughts were on Amelia.
If these assholes knew about her, who else did? Was she safe at the hotel? Did I need to call her? Warn her?
My fingers found a knife in one guy's pocket. I flicked it open carefully, positioning the blade between my hands. The van took a sharp turn, and I almost sliced my wrist open as I was jostled to one side.
That was close.
I steadied myself and started sawing through the zip tie. Slowly. Methodically.
The van rocked as it moved, making it harder to keep the blade steady. At least there was no window where the drivercould see me working. The plastic bit into my wrists as I sawed. Blood trickled down my hands—mine or theirs, I couldn't tell.
Then I felt it—the satisfying click of the knife finally cutting through one side.
That's all I needed.
I twisted my wrists, pulling them apart, and?—
The van cut sharply, then stopped.
Fuck.
I grabbed both guns from the bodies, pocketing one, holding the other ready.
My free hand searched under the dead weight of my captors, looking for extra magazines. Found two. Pocketed those, too.
I heard footsteps outside. Multiple sets.
I moved to one side of the door, weapon raised. The door swung open. I put two shots into the man's face before he could react. He dropped.
I bounded out of the van, landing in the middle of some tucked-away corner of Charleston. Small parking lot. Brick walls on three sides. No through street.
I was just trying to get my bearings when a woman's voice cut through the air.
"Put the gun down, Mr. Dane, or you will die."
I froze.
The voice came from my right. Higher. A window on the second floor of one of the buildings.
I couldn't see her face, just a silhouette. Then I saw them. Men. Armed. At least eight of them, positioned around the parking lot, all pointing weapons at me.
I was standing in the middle, an easy target.
Slowly, I crouched and put the pistol on the ground.
"The other one, too," the woman said. "The one in your pocket."
I pulled it out, set it down, and kicked it away.
The armed men moved in fast. They zip-tied my hands again—tighter this time. Added a blindfold. Then a rope around my neck, just in case I needed reminding who was in control.
My world went dark.
