“Maybe. We’ll find out soon enough. I’m keeping her until I get instructions about what to do next.”
How long have I been here?I try to remember, but my mind is blank.
“Instructions? From whom?”
“None of your business. I’m not paying you to question me. Get back to work; we need five more girls for our next job.”
Their voices echo in the room long after they’re gone, swallowed by the whimpers of the girl.
I move another few inches so I can see the rest of the space. My ribs ache, reminding me of the fight I had with Naomi. I remember Gabriel following her and disappearing.
Did he really leave me and go to take care of his old lover? Maybe he does love her and couldn’t bear me beating her. But then I remember going to a hotel room where I followed Gabriel’s location. I try to remember what happened next, but darkness is all I can remember. Has she drugged me too? She must have, or she had help. Otherwise, how the hell did I end up here? Pressure builds behind my eyes as my thoughts spiral, one questions chasing the next one until none of them make sense.
My heart leaps into my throat as panic envelops me. Then I remember that I promised myself never to get in this situation again. I trained with Boris. I can get out of here.
I need my head to be steady. I focus on every inch of my body and the material covering it. I’m still in my clothes. I close my eyes and thank God for small mercies. I know I’m not hurt, and I have a way of escaping. I move my legs; they’re too tight together, my hands too, but I move them, ignoring how the plastic zip ties eat at my skin.
The whimpers have stopped now, so my movement can be heard. Still, I move slowly.
“Please don’t move,” a shaky voice whispers.
“Why?” My voice comes out hoarse.
“He’ll come back. I can’t. Please. Just for a while,” she whimpers.
“How many are there?” I ask, ignoring her plea.
“Two here, but there are another four maybe that I saw when they brought me here.”
“When was that?”
“Maybe a week ago. I’ve lost all track of time; it’s always the same here.”
“Was I here when you came, or did they bring me later?”
“Later.” I close my eyes in relief that I wasn’t brought here that long ago.
So, I might have been here anywhere from a day to a week. Maybe someone is already looking for me. Maybe not. I can’t wait until they have instructions on what to do to me. I need to be prepared.
I wiggle my hands up and down, left and right, opening the gap between my arms a little. I do the same with my legs, making the ties a little looser, then twist my shoulder and lower my hand down my backside, moving slowly on my back. I slide my bound hands down my thighs until I hug them under my knees. I ignore the girl’s pleas to stop and take a deep breath in and out, calming my aching ribs and body. When I’m calm, I continue. I try to twist my hands so I can pull my legs free, but having my legs bound is making it difficult. I try one more time, this time completely calm and focused on my movement. I slide my hand under one foot and take a deep breath before I slide it under the second one. When my hands are in front of me, I fall onto my back and breathe heavily.
I raise my hands to my jacket and search inside it in my hidden pocket. I close my eyes and still. I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry. I slowly open my eyes and very carefully pull my blade out of it. The shiny metal catches the little light in the room. I place the tip between the tie, and from inside, I pull it out. A sense of relief overwhelms me when I feel my hands free, and I quickly unbind my legs and place the knife back in my pocket.
“How did you do that?”
“What, free myself? I’ve had a lot of practice.” I slowly walk toward the girl and squat to her and see as much as I can see in the darkness. She's barely conscious. Her lids are heavy, her face bruised and bloodied. “I’m Valentina. You?”
“Linda.”
“How did you end up here, Linda?”
“I ran away from my foster home. I went to look for my mom, but she wasn’t at our last place. So, I ended up on the streets. They took me from the place I was sleeping.” If she's in a foster home, she can’t be more than eighteen. Bastards.
“Listen to me, Linda. I’m going to get us out of here. But I need your help.”
She doesn’t answer, so I gently touch her shoulder. “Can you do something so we can get out of here?”
“I can try.” A hint of enthusiasm appears in her voice.
