What the fuck? I don’t even wonder how the hell he just created this entire speech on the fly. I press the blade against the tire. I know I can’t afford to actually stab the damn thing. That would make too much noise, and we can’t have that. So I work it in slowly, and the rubber fights me like it’s alive.
Nathaniel’s hand slides over mine and we press together.
Slowly, the blade gives, and the hiss is so quiet I feel it more than I hear it.
Above us, Cassian keeps talking.
“Yeah, I’m not trying to be dramatic, man,” he says. “It’s just, you don’t wanna run a flat on a cargo van. Not with the weight in the back. Trust me.”
The driver says something, muffled by the glass.
“Nah, I get it. Your dash is probably telling you everything’s fine, right? Those tire sensors lag. Especially when it’s cold. Sometimes they don’t even register until the wheel starts moving.”
My stomach flips because this time the man answers louder, irritated.
“It says it’s fine. And take a hint, man. I’m busy.”
The hiss grows a fraction louder.
Then, from inside the van, a bright, sterile ding.
The driver’s voice jumps, sharper now. “What the fuck?”
Cassian doesn’t miss a beat.
“There,” he says. “That’s what I mean.”
Another ding. Then another, faster.
I ease the blade back and slide it away from the tire. Nathaniel pulls the syringe of tranquilizer from his pocket.
My heart tries to claw its way out of my ribs.
“I can help you with this,” Cassian says. “Five minutes, tops, and we’re done.”
There it is. The bait. All that’s left is for this asshole to take it. Then we get him out of the car, Cassian sedates him, we get access to all his equipment, open the back, and get the girls out.
I tilt my head, listening for his response. It doesn’t come yet.
What does come is a toddler. A little girl stands between the two cars opposite the van’s rear doors, staring straight at me and Nathaniel. She’s holding a plush toy in one hand.
Alone.
“Um, Nathaniel,” I whisper. “We have an audience.”
He follows my gaze.
Nathaniel’s expression doesn’t change, which is impressive, because mine is trying to climb off my skull and sprint away. He lowers the syringe toward his thigh, keeping it hidden under his jacket, then shifts his posture like we’re just hanging out behind cars in a parking lot, like people do.
I paste on a smile that probably looks like I’m about to eat her.
“Hey,” I mouth. “Hi, sweetie.”
The girl blinks. Doesn’t move.
Nathaniel lifts a hand in a slow wave.
I angle my body so the switchblade disappears behind my hip. Then I do the first thing my panicking brain offers: I pretend to tie my shoe.
