Fast Burn

The big man waited, watching her, and finally shrugged. “Do you believe your brother is dead?”

“No.”

He sat forward again. “Have you had any contact with him?”

“No.”

With a note of frustration, he asked, “Then what makes you think—”

“Somehow, if he were truly gone, I’d feel it.”

The freckled guy barked a laugh. “Female logic.”

She snorted. “Male logic would be an oxymoron, wouldn’t it?”

“Shut up,” the leader said.

The two men in front got out, closing their doors seemingly without fear of being heard. That told her that they must be someplace isolated...or perhaps they had a way of sneaking her out of the van without anyone noticing.

Seconds later the doors at the back of the van opened.

Sahara could see they were inside a large garage or warehouse. Dim, smelly and cold.

Three of the men climbed out. The leader, bent over in the confines of the van, took her arm and said, “Let’s go.”

For once her heels were a hindrance. With her hands tied, she couldn’t use them to help her gain her feet. He solved that dilemma by dragging her on her butt toward the doors.

“Brute,” she accused.

“I didn’t drag you by the hair, did I?”

No, and she didn’t want to prod him to it either.

When another man reached in, the boss said, “I’ve got her,” and everyone else backed off.

Sahara realized what he meant when he stepped down, then hauled her out and over his shoulder. With one muscled arm he pinned her legs behind her knees, and with the other... Dear God, he had his hand spread wide over her behind!

She reared up, using her bound hands to brace against his back. “So a kidnapper, and a perv, too?”

The swat he landed on her cheek stung, but she didn’t cry out. She just gritted her teeth and, as he possibly intended, kept quiet.

He carried her as if she weighed nothing, going down concrete stairs and into a smaller, colder, darker room. Along the way her hair spilled loose, draping down to cover her face. She also lost a shoe, but the man paused to pick it up. He turned a corner, careful not to smack her head on the wall, and went down more stairs.

Her heart started to pound nervously and her mouth went dry.

Someone turned on a light and she saw that her prison was even worse than she’d suspected. Very small, maybe eight feet square, all concrete.

She did not want to be alone here, but as he set her on her feet she quipped, “How quaint.”

The big man actually laughed.

Then he surprised her by bending down, clasping her ankle and helping her to step back into her shoe. From his kneeling position, he looked up the length of her body.

Grateful for her coat, which still covered her, Sahara tried to feign confidence. It wavered a lot when he came back to his feet, lifted her chin and gently brushed her hair out of her face. Sahara jerked away, but he only grabbed her upper arm and finished running his fingers through the unruly tresses, finding two pins still caught in her hair and pocketing them.

So maybe that wasn’t about inappropriate thoughts, but rather he didn’t want to take the chance that she’d know how to pick a lock.

She did, of course, but whether or not a hairpin would work depended on the lock.

Around them, she realized the others were working, turning on an overhead light—and blessedly, an electric heater. She moved closer to it, holding out her hands and trying to stop her shivers.

A cot was set up in the corner. It looked clean with a folded blanket and a pillow on top. One of the men added an extra blanket. Did they expect her to sleep here?

She hated that possibility.

“We realized after we had it arranged that you, being female, might find it too chilly.”

Clearly the freckled guy had some notions about “females.” In this case, since she was cold, she let it go.

When he continued to look at her, she said, “Thank you?” and he nodded in satisfaction.

Every second of this kidnapping got more and more bizarre.

Other than the cot, she noticed a portable toilet in the farthest corner, with a roll of paper on the ground beside it. Oh, no and no.

“Who are you people,” she demanded, “and what do you ultimately want?”

Ignoring her question, the boss said, “It’s time.”

Her heart again stuttered. They would leave her here alone now?

But no, apparently only the boss would go, because he sent a penetrating look to each of his cohorts. “No one touches her, understood?”

They nodded.

Then looking at her, he said, “That rule is rescinded if she tries anything.”

Oh, that didn’t sound good. “Define ‘try anything,’ please.” If she breathed, would that be provocation to jump her? “May I sit on the cot? Could I move the cot closer to the heater? May I have my purse back?”

“You’re a smart lady. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He started to go, but then paused. “No, you can’t have your purse. Not yet anyway.”

The freckled guy clutched it, as if he held the prize.

Sighing, she watched the leader go back up those stairs and wondered how long he would be. For some insane reason, she felt marginally safer with him nearby; since he’d been the one doing all the talking, she felt she knew him a little better.

The rest, other than Freckles, were unknown quantities. They could be rapists, murderers—or just plain insane.

Predatory gazes tracked her as she circled the room, inspecting it. Other than the heater, the portable potty and the cot, the room was empty. She saw no other electrical outlets, so she went over to the cot and, using her knee, nudged it away from the wall. She bent, put her hands against the rickety frame and began scooting it toward the heater. Thanks to the metal legs on concrete, it loudly screeched as if death was near.