Kidnapping a woman shouldn’t be this aggravating.
Part of me is surprised we even managed to get her onto the plane. From the moment we grabbed her in that parking garage in Manhattan, she’s been an absolute pain in the arse.
Most people—most sane people—do one of three things when subjected to a traumatic experience like kidnapping: they cry, they beg, or they shut down completely, paralyzed by fear. The rare person will fight for his life or try to escape. Few are that brave.
And then there’s this barmy lass.
Chatty, cheerful, and calm, she acts as if she’s starring in a biopic about a beloved historical figure who died at the height of her beauty while saving a group of starving orphans from a burning building or some such noble shite.
Her confidence is unshakeable. I’ve never met anyone more completely self-assured.
Or one with so little reason to be.
She teaches yoga, for fuck’s sake. In a tiny mountain lake town. The way she carries herself, you’d think she’s the Queen of England.
How the hell does a twenty-something yoga instructor who barely scraped through college, has never had a long-term boyfriend, and looks like she buys her clothes at a Tinker Bell estate sale get so confident?
I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
I’m curious about her fighting skills, though. She might not remember clobbering Kieran, but I certainly do. In all our years working together, I’ve never seen anyone take him down.
I hate to admit it, but it was impressive.
I know from the background check I ran on her that she didn’t serve in the military and has no formal combat or martial arts training. And there’s no indication in the thousands of selfies on her Instagram page that she knows how to do anything other than eat kale, bend like a pretzel, and strike a pose in good lighting wearing tight, revealing athletic gear.
He was probably distracted by her tits.
Or maybe it was her legs.
Or maybe it was that cocky grin she likes to flash, right before she says something that makes you want to put your hands around her neck and squeeze, if only to get her to stop talking.
The sooner this is over, the better. I’ve known her for all of two hours—half of that while she was unconscious—and I’m ready to shoot myself in the face.
I take out my cell, dial the same number I’ve been dialing since we picked her up, and listen to it ring.
Once again, it goes to voicemail.
And once again, my sense that something is very wrong grows stronger.
