The man hulking over me is a prisoner, the grey pants branded with the initials CMCF for Christchurch Men’s Corrections Facility.
A rush of confusion comes first—is he in the wrong place or have I busted into the prison yard somehow?—quickly chased by an outpouring of fear. I shrink back into my seat, too afraid to even try to reach past him and grab the door handle.
The opportunity is lost as he leans into the car, crowding the confined space. His chest is so broad it takes me two blinks to see all of it.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, but he continues to push into the vehicle. My seatbelt jams when I press the release button, but he leans over and slides me out from the restraints as my shock-weakened hands try and utterly fail to push him away.
“Just a moment,” I mutter, still struggling to put things into linear order. “Wait.”
But he doesn’t wait. He shoves me into the passenger side, rough hands working with such force I can’t fight.
The man slots himself into the driver’s seat, knees practically crushed up to his ears because it’s so far forward. He slams the door, fiddles with the starter, then turns the engine before I’ve wriggled to face forward, staring out the window as I see the collapsed driver lying halfway out of the prison van.
“Is he hurt?” I grab the prisoner’s arm, jerking him, pointing to the injured man. “Should we—”
The engine bursts into life, and he throws the car into reverse, foot flat on the accelerator until the bonnet shimmies.
Reality pierces through my shock enough for me to fumble at the door handle. I get it open, but a hand so large the palm covers me from sternum to shoulder forces me back against the seat, leans further to tug it shut, holding me in place as he brakes.
Next, the car lurches forward, wheel rubbing against the damaged fender as he navigates a wide U-turn. A crack in the windshield makes the sky appear like it’s splitting open, about to spill horrifying creatures through the gap.
I pull at his fingers, unable to move his hand more than a millimetre.
He gets full control of the vehicle, plants his foot, and we take off, going from zero to a hundred so quickly the G-force pins my head back against the seat.
“Put your belt on,” the prisoner’s low voice rumbles as the car picks up speed.
We head straight back up the road I just drove down. Too fast for me to leap from the vehicle, even if I could free myself from his hand. The one covered in scars from a hundred fights.
“Are you driving to fetch help?” my stupid mouth asks, already knowing he isn’t. Of course, he isn’t. All six-foot-and-far-too-many-inches-of-him isn’t driving away from prison in my car because he wants to alert the authorities to the accident.
“Let me out,” I shout, becoming fully cognisant that I am in deep, deep trouble. Even deeper trouble than I thought I was in, and that was plenty deep enough.
My nails dig into his hand, no longer trying to pull it off. Trying to hurt him. Pure panic circling my brain.
The pressure on his hand briefly increases so much I feel my ribs bending, bruising. I gasp and he growls, the sound coming from so deep in his chest that I can sense the reverberations where my back touches against the seat.
“Please let me out,” I beg, changing tack, already cursing myself for not reacting sooner.
There’s an intersection. I can get out at the intersection.
“What’s your name?”
I blink. Trying to calculate the risk of being truthful. Before I get halfway through the equation, he barks, “Your name.”
“Nadia. I’m Nadia Ostend.”
His gaze flicks to mine and I hunch back, afraid of the grey glint in his blue eyes. Shark fins in the water. “Josh’s mother.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but I answer anyway. Answer with a nod that sets my head bobbing like a toy about to break.
“You’ll be with me for a while. Do as I say, and I’ll let you go once you’ve served your purpose. Understand?”
I nod again, mouth dry as a bone, terrified that large hand might stop holding me in place and start hurting me.
But the mother in me needs more clarification.
