“Then hop. And I’m not freeing your hands.” He grabs the links between my wrists and pulls.
I cry out in pain. The skin on my wrists is already raw from when he yanked me up the final couple of stairs while we were boarding. That happened after I got up close and personal with his buddy’s jewels. My eyes prickle with unshed tears, but I blink rapidly, keeping the waterworks at bay by sheer will. I half shuffle, half hop between the seats before the knucklehead’s bruteness has me falling flat on my face. When we reach the back of the plane, he opens the lavatory door and pushes me inside.
“You have five minutes,” he growls and slams the door closed.
Like the rest of the jet, the restroom is luxurious. No stainless steel sink and such here; it’s all dark-brown wood cabinetry and beige leather upholstery. There is even a small cushioned bench seat in the corner. The elegant-looking vanity and the toilet are on the opposite side. It takes me four hops to reach them.
I take care of my business as fast as my handcuffed hands allow, then look around while trying to calm my nerves. It doesn’t really work. There’s a sick kind of feeling in my throat, as if I’m going to throw up any second, and the inside of this lavish room seems to be spinning around me. My hands are still shaking, partially from the pain, but mostly from fear. I’ve experienced a few stressful situations in my life. A shooting, when I was four. Two small fires when our cook accidentally set the kitchen ablaze while trying out French recipes. Even an attempted raid on our home when my father was at war with a rival crime organization some years back. But no kidnappings. Maybe I should have expected this, seeing as my dad is the leader of Chicago Bratva.
When I was grabbed off the street, in broad daylight, I was sure it had something to do with my father. Ransoming the pakhan’s daughter can potentially yield someone a lot of money—if the dimwit lives long enough to see it, that is. But now, I don’t think it’s about making a buck from kidnapping. Considering what I’ve seen so far, whoever had me abducted has to be seriously loaded. Is this because of some mob feud? Retaliation for something my father did?
Bang!
“Are you done, yet?” an angry voice seethes from the other side of the door.
“I need a few more minutes!” I yell back as I crouch to open the cupboard under the sink. “It’s not exactly easy to unbutton jeans while your hands are cuffed.”
He barks something in retort, but I don’t hear it, too focused on rummaging through the contents of the cupboard. Toilet paper. Towels. Extra soap. And . . . a disposable toothbrush.
“I can work with that,” I whisper.
I tear the plastic wrap with my teeth and, somehow, manage to stuff the brush up my sleeve. Then, I continue going through the rest of the supplies.
Sponge. More towels. Condoms. Really? Who the hell fucks on a plane? I shake my head and resume. Dental floss. Mm-hmm . . . I rip off an arm’s length, wrapping the two ends around my fingers to make it taut, then yank them apart as much as I can, testing out how sturdy it is. My uncle once showed me how to strangle someone using a garrote and— The shitty thread snaps on the second pull. Yeah . . . that won’t work. I shift my attention to the lower shelf.
Cleaning supplies, but the bottles are too big to be concealed. Plastic gloves. And . . . a spray deodorant. Men’s. Travel size. Perfect.
I grab the container, straighten up, and push the little tube canister into the waistband of my jeans. The door flies open just as I’m adjusting my oversized shirt to cover my hidden stash.
“You done?” the jackass asks. I believe Hank referred to this lug as Vinny earlier.
“Yup.” I hit the button to flush the toilet, then wash my hands while the impatient dick glares at me from the doorway. Ass. Hole.
With no other option, I hop out of the bathroom. All the while, the concealed deodorant digs into my hip. I’m not sure what kind of damage I can do with deodorant and a toothbrush, but we’ll see. I need to try to escape the moment we land and then find a phone, or I might never get another chance.
My dad has connections all over the US. He’ll come for me right away. Or, if we’re not close to Chicago, Dad will arrange for someone to pick me up and take me somewhere safe until he can arrive. And he’ll kill these bastards . . .
Hop.
. . . in a very . . .
Hop.
. . . very . . .
Hop.
. . . painful way.
* * *
“We’re here,” Vinny says an hour or so later. “I’m going to free your legs now, but if you try pulling anything again, you’ll regret it.”
“Where are we?” I ask meekly, deciding a change in tactics is in order. Maybe if they think I’ve quit resisting, they’ll lower their guard?
The bastard ignores my question. He cuts the zip ties from around my ankles, then grabs my upper arm and jerks me up to stand. “Move.”
I tread between the seats and then down the narrow stairs from the plane to the tarmac, with jackass number one behind me and jackass two leading the way. The air is fresh, and the scent of brine carries on the slight breeze. We’re close to the coast. Florida maybe? It’s much warmer here than in Chicago.
The bastard whose balls I introduced to my knee—Hank—stops at the foot of the stairs, eyeing the dirt road extending away from the runway. I look around, taking in my surroundings. There’s not a soul anywhere in sight, and other than one small building off to the side, no other structures. This isn’t an actual airport at all. Just an airfield. A paved runway. Grass. And rolling hills. I’ve never been to Florida, but I don’t think it looks like this.
A bird’s shrill cry sounds somewhere above me, and I tilt my head up, focusing on the source. It’s a seagull. I squint my eyes because the sun is high in the sky. Midday. It can’t be midday. I got snatched in the late afternoon.
“Guido is late,” Vinny says as he comes to stand by Hank, his meaty grip on my arm unrelenting.
“He’ll be here soon.” Hank shrugs and reaches into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes.
I push thoughts about the time of day aside and fix my eyes on the lit lighter in Hank’s hand. My heart rate skyrockets, adrenaline surging through my veins as I stare at the small flame. This is my chance. But I need my arm to be free.
“Can I have one?” I ask. “Please?”
Hank narrows his eyes at me. “How old are you? Thirteen?”
I suppress the urge to knee him again and smile instead. Similar to my mom, I might be shorter than most women, but I’m sure the asshole can see the swell of boobs under my baggy shirt.
“Twenty-three.”
“Yeah, sure,” Hank snorts, taking a cigarette out of the pack and offering it to me.
