I step into a pair of sneakers, pull on one of Kit’s cardigans, and scurry into the kitchen. While I leave the mug untouched, I hurl the dishes on the drying rack into the open living and dining area. A few bounce, but most shatter against the floor, scattering tiny slivers of glass everywhere.
“Miss Bright?” calls one of the PPOs from the hallway, and he knocks frantically. “Miss Bright, is everything—”
Before he can finish, I tuck myself into the small triangle of space behind the door, which can’t fully swing open in the tiny foyer, and I let out a bloodcurdling scream.
My PPOs don’t bother with their keys. Instead, as one calls for backup, the other kicks down the door in a single go, and it swings on its hinges, missing my face by half an inch. I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut as the PPOs rush past me and into the mess that is the living area, glass crunching beneath their shoes.
“Miss Bright?” one calls again. “Miss Bright!”
“Bedroom,” grunts the other, and their footsteps grow muted. I have no way to tell whether they’re still watching the entrance, but I take that risk and duck out from behind the door, darting into the hallway beyond.
It’s empty, though it won’t be for long. I sprint to the emergency stairwell and burst through the door, flying down the concrete steps so quickly that I’m vaguely surprised I don’t actually take flight.
A few men in suits are rushing into the lift when I poke my head into the lobby, but thankfully no one’s thought to check the stairwell yet. It’s only a momentary oversight, and the clockis ticking as I slip across the hall, toward the rarely used west exit. They’ll have this covered in a matter of minutes, too, if they don’t already, but for now, my security seems convinced I’m still in the flat, and I seize advantage.
As I step out into the freezing evening air, my breath crystalizes, and I spot a black van idling near the curb. I inwardly curse myself, sure I’ve been caught by MI5, but then—
Then the door slides open, and a man wearing a black ski mask appears.
“Get in,” he orders. Dylan. My throat tightens, and I know if I get in that van, there’s a very good chance I’ll never see Kit again. But if I don’t, IknowI never will, and that’s the only reason I move forward.
Dylan grabs my elbow to haul me up, and the door shuts behind me as the van starts to move. Warm, pine-scented air blasts through the vents, and there must be some kind of partition between the front and the back of the van, because I can’t see the driver or the windshield.
But I can feel Dylan’s hands on me, searching my pockets and even my shoes. There’s something detached and authoritative about it, like getting a thorough pat-down at an airport, but it still sends shivers through me. And in the darkness, I see the face of a dead boy named Jasper and hear his whispered crooning that everything’s all right, and why don’t I just relax?
When Dylan finds my phone in the pocket of my sweatpants, he pops open a tiny tray and removes my SIM card. With a muttered curse, he snaps it in half and shuts off my phone completely, then opens the side door only wide enough to toss both onto the dark street below.
“I told you not to bring anything,” he growls, and I know I should be terrified. But now that I’m in this van with him, a strange sense of calm washes over me, and I refuse to let him see me fall apart.
“How else was I supposed to contact you if you didn’t show?” I say with a shrug I hope is maddening.
He huffs and produces several zip ties from his pocket. “Hands.”
I place my wrists together for him to secure, and he does so efficiently. Clearly this isn’t his first time tying someone up. “Is that it?” I say, testing the plastic. It’s tight, but not so tight that it’ll cut off circulation.
Without replying, Dylan removes a black cloth bag from his pocket and pulls it over my head, effectively blindfolding me. A surge of adrenaline floods my veins, insisting I dosomethingto save my own damn life, but I force myself to stay still. At least until I know Kit is safe.
“You’re really going all out, aren’t you?” I say as Dylan guides me onto the cold floor. “It’s not like I can tell where we’re headed anyway, you know.”
“Shut up,” he says in that same growly tone, and once again, his hands are on me. “Where’s your panic button?” he adds as his fingers slip into the elastic band of my bra.
I jerk away, nauseated by his touch. “If you don’t take your hands off me right now, I will shove my foot straight into your face, I swear to—”
He tugs off my shoe without warning, but at least he isn’t touching me anymore. I hear him tear through the fabric, clearly looking for any hidden compartments that might hold a panic button, and I scowl.
“I just took a shower. I don’t have anything except my phone, which is clearly not a problem anymore.”
Still, Dylan doesn’t say a word as he checks my other shoe, too, and then the waistband of my sweatpants, albeit with much more care than before. He finds nothing, like I knew he would, and at last he gives it a rest. “Secure,” he calls to the driver, who grunts in return.
“Where’s Kit?” I say. “You have to let him go—”
“Kit’s safe,” he says, which isn’t at all reassuring. “Now shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”
I snort. “What, did you read a list of kidnapper clichés before doing this? I’m not afraid of—”
His knuckles hit me square in the jaw despite the black bag covering my head, and pain explodes in the lower half of my face. My lip splits on something metal—a ring, I think—and I feel warm blood trickling down my chin, soaking into the fabric of the bag.
“I said,” says Dylan in a deadly quiet voice, “shut your mouth.”
