I reach for my bag, my slick fingers fumbling with the catch.
“What the fuck are you doing?” The bag is snatched from my grasp.
“Let me out of this car immediately!”
The steering wheel wavers towards the side of the road and I’m momentarily incredulous, thinking about how easy it was. Then whatever part of his rat brain was obeying my command reasserts its dominance, and he steers the vehicle straight again.
“You need to shut it, lady. I don’t want to hurt you but—”
“Slow down!” My eyes stare at the road ahead, absorbed by a new fear. I reach over to tug at the wheel. “Slow down. There are too many cars about. They’ll phone you in for dangerous driving and the cops’ll send a dozen patrol vehicles after you.”
His eyes briefly leave the road, scanning my face, then he eases off the accelerator. We’re still going far too fast to jump from the car safely, but at least we won’t have the police crawling up our arse at any second.
On any other day, I’d welcome a patrol car.
A contradiction he seems to clock at the same time, glancing over with a puzzled expression. “Why’re you keen on dodging the cops?”
My thighs clench and my stomach tumbles over. There’s nothing left inside it, but it still squeezes tight, causing a wince of pain.
“I’m just thinking of you,” I mutter, avoiding the truth.
“Sure,” he scoffs, then takes a right-hand turn into a less populated side street. “You’re worried about my welfare.”
Sadness lurks beneath the sharp edge of his voice. He’s little more than a kid. Probably a year or two older than Josh. I bet his upbringing was terrible. He needs to find a nice girl who has plenty of attention to lavish on him and…
What the fuck are you thinking? Idiot! Even Stockholm Syndrome should take longer to set in.
“I’m worried for Josh,” I snap back, hiding my confusion beneath aggression the way my ex-husband taught me as he broke my bones. “I don’t give a shit what you’re doing, but I need to get to the prison.”
“Forget it. The whole place’ll be in lockdown by now. You’re not visiting even if I did let you out of this car, so you might as well settle in for a long ride.”
“No.” My voice lowers in pitch and rises in volume, channelling my most fearsome teacher mode as I insist, “I need to see my son.”
This time, his glance is wary. I clamp my lips to hide a smirk, amused it’s the turn of this terrifyingly large man to worry about the person in the car beside him.
But as quickly as it appears, my amusement dies.
The armed men who visited me mid-week laid out the stark reality of my choices. If I don’t deliver the drugs as promised, my son dies. Since I haven’t paid for any of what is currently residing somewhere near my shrivelled G-spot, I’ll be next.
That’s if the packets don’t burst inside me. They’re not designed to stay lodged up there forever. They weren’t fashioned to withstand being swallowed by a mule and shit out the other end. It’s like comparing a single-use plastic supermarket bag to a rucksack.
With a grim face, I stare blankly at the street ahead, wondering how long it takes from the time the drugs hit my system to the time I stop breathing.
A few minutes? An hour? Will it be pleasant or will I long for death?
“You have my purse. You have my cards. I promise I won’t report you if you let me go right now.”
“Why’re you desperate to see Josh? He’s been in there… what? Six months already. Haven’t noticed you in the visiting room before.”
My hackles rise. “I’ve visited.”
“Once.”
Dull shock takes hold that he’s knows the number. Is he a friend of Josh? Is he an enemy? Is he the killer those men who visited would hire to murder my son if he weren’t busy holding me captive?
“What’s that road sign say? I don’t have my glasses.”
There’s a strange note in his voice and I shoot him a quick glance before dutifully reading out the street name. And the next.
