Lily
My ears are picking up all the sounds, the fear sharpening my world in a way I can’t explain and, if I survive this, I’ll never explain. I’d take it to my grave...hopefully not right then.
The other man, slightly shorter, falls in line with his accomplice. “Put that down, fool, before you hurt someone.”
“That’s the point,” the one holding the gun snaps. Both are wearing hoods, and once they’re a little closer to one of two lamp posts in the back lot, the orange light reveals black scarves over their mouths.
No wonder they sound a little funny, their voices are muffled by the scarves.
“Put it down,” the shorter one repeats. Then he pulls out his own gun, safety clicking off. It happens too fast. Like it poofs into his hand. This guy is either a magician on the side, or he’s a professional.
Professional hitman. My mind coughs the answer up, finishing the thought I started.
“Slowly.” The short one says, drawing the barrel of his gun from his partner’s temple once the other lowers the gun that was pointing to me. Before I get the chance to run, to seize my opportunity, the short one shouts at me through the glass. “You move and I swear to God I’ll hunt and kill you myself.”
He doesn’t point his gun at me though. He’s tucking it away, like his taller friend. More like making it disappear. It’s there one second, menacingly warning me of the level of danger I’ve stumbled into, and the next it’s gone again.
Crooking a finger at me, he beckons me over.
Grabbing my purse and pushing open the door, I shuffle forward, coming to a halt far enough out of his immediate reach. But he keeps crooking that finger until I’m standing in front of him.
His dark, wide eyes study me from under the hood. There’s something familiar about them, but I can’t imagine I’ve met this man before.
“You’re their office girl, aren’t you?”
I blink, bobbing my head a little belatedly. My stare darts to the other man. He’s folding his bulky arms over his barrel of a chest. The short one isn’t bad in the muscle department either. This one’s leaner though, I think, in case I have to give descriptions to the police, or Luke himself.
Unless he sent these thugs, and doesn’t that thought freeze my blood nice and winter-like?
“Swell.” The short one whistles then, nudging his head at his accomplice. “You take this car then. We’ll take the other.” Clapping him on the arm, he adds, “Clean up good here. Don’t mess up my ride.”
The other one grunts, but he robotically does as he’s told, starting with shutting the trunk. But not before I catch sight of something in there…
Is it a body?
I gasp, staggering away from the car, from the body, and from these dangerous men.
“This way,” the short one bruises my arm with his tight grip, and he’s dragging me along, not caring if my arm socket dislocates with his rough tugging.
He opens the back door to the other vehicle, a black older model Acura. It’s in decent shape and the cushions I’m shoved onto don’t have any curious stains or scents. I would have expected a thug’s car to have both.
Interrupting my mental musings with his country radio, the thug drives us sharply out of the parking lot and far from Hanley Auto.
Having watched my fair share of action thrillers, I’m silent through the ride. Kidnappers don’t seem to like being questioned and this guy has a gun on him—a gun he had no trouble handling.
“Awfully quiet back there,” he says at one point. He obeys traffic laws, pausing at stop signs in the quiet, quaint neighborhood he’s turned us into, taking the scenic route to my final resting place.
Rolling down his window, he lingers at one stop sign, lighting a cigarette. “Mind if I smoke?”
It comes off as a question, but he’s smoking already.
I’m a little shocked when he rolls down my back window. The fresh air is appreciated. Shifting closer, I suck it in greedily, replacing the acrid, bitter smell of his cigarette fumes.
“Almost there,” he says, lowering his radio volume.
It’s a weekday still, and many of the homes we pass are dark and silent; the families asleep and preparing for another busy work and school day tomorrow. A tomorrow I might not have...
I have no clue where he’s taking me, and as much as I resign myself to my death, I cling onto my share of hope and lots of crippling fear. Begging comes to mind, though that could only piss him off and hasten my death. I consider screaming. Or opening the car door and ducking and rolling out, running to one of these houses and yelling for refuge.
But I can’t do it.
I’m stuck in my seat, with breathing proving to be difficult.
The thug is turning into a driveway of a gated, pricey-looking community—the condos stacked two over each other, the mahogany siding, large picture windows, eggshell-colored stucco, and glass balconies visually pleasing.
It’s not what I’m prepared for, but then I start thinking he means to torture me in his home. He doesn’t look like he could afford a place here, yes, but he didn’t look like much of a killer until he pulled his gun out.
Parking the car and silencing the engine, he pushes out of his seat, slamming the driver’s door before opening the back and waving for me to get out. He forces me ahead, probably to prevent my running. But the cold metal of a gun doesn’t kiss my back as it might have in a movie.
We climb stone steps to an intermediate landing where I pause and look back. He’s right there, in my face, eyes narrowing. “Keep moving.”
I scramble up the last steps, desperate to put as much distance between us without alarming him to pulling and using his gun.
He pushes us past the front door, leading me around a floating wraparound porch. It’s modern and funky, but I’m not appreciating the architecture. I’m calculating the distance of jumping down onto what I see is the garage below.
“Move,” he says, annoyance pushing into his tone. I scamper from the steel and glass railing, coming to the end of the porch and staring in through a glass sliding side door.
He knocks lightly on the glass, varying the knock. Morse code, maybe? And why would he be knocking or taking the side entrance to his own home?
A shadow breaks up the warm lighting behind the sheer curtains and I understand now. This isn’t his home at all.
The choking fear of being enclosed in a space with another thug has me backing away.
He catches my arm and squeezes, still not drawing his firearm. Apparently I’m not worth a bullet. At this rate, with his propensity towards grabbing, he’ll probably strangle me or snap my neck.
The curtain is pulled aside sharply, and I nearly cry from relief at the sight of Luke’s frowning face.
We’re at Luke’s house. Of course.
Snapping the lock, Luke slides the door open and looks from me to the thug and back to me.
The thug bows his head. “Sorry to bother you, boss.”
Boss?
I feel the blood draining from my head, the truth slapping me hard in the face.
This guy works for Luke Hanley.
Oh, God. My boss is going to kill me.