Waking up after being chemically knocked out is not fun.
I had my wisdom teeth removed when I was twenty, and that’s the only time I’ve ever been out for something. But I hated the feeling. And I hate it even more now.
But most of all, I hate the big motherfucker carrying me over his shoulder like I’m a sack of rocks.
I tried to wake up when I was jostled off the plane. I really did try. But I slipped back under.
Not this time though. I’m staying awake.
I force my eyes to blink.
The sunlight makes them water, but I keep blinking.
I don’t actually know whether it’s better to be unconscious or conscious for whatever is about to happen. But I know Hans will come for me. So I need to stay alive until then. And at least if I’m aware of my surroundings, I can maybe do something to help myself.
Sucking the inside of my cheek between my teeth, I bite down. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to cause pain.
I am staying awake.
Eyes still blinking, I turn my head and try to take in my surroundings.
It’s hot, and the sun is still up, but it’s lowering toward the horizon.
A horizon covered in… Is that a cactus? It blurs, then comes back into focus as many. That’s a lot of cactuses. Cacti?
I work to steady my vision and see what looks like mountains, or maybe they’re just ragged hills. And I can’t tell if I see a fence or if my eyes are playing tricks on me.
Wherever I am, it’s nowhere good.
I open and close my mouth. The movement helps to spark my senses. But with those senses comes nausea.
The shoulder digging into my stomach is making it hard to breathe, and when the monster carrying me starts climbing steps, the bumping around is too much.
I press my hands into the man’s back and lift my head just in time to vomit up my stomach full of half-digested Skittles.
I pinch my eyes shut and feel tears dripping from my lashes as I heave again.
“What the fuck?” the man carrying me curses, and then my world turns again when he dips his shoulder, causing me to slide off.
I try to catch myself, but there’s no way.
I crash into a railing and have the awareness to be grateful that he dropped me on the landing at the top of the steps and not on the stairs themselves as I land in a heap.
I manage to get up onto my hands and knees before I dry heave once more.
“Stupid bitch,” the man growls, and I glance up to see him twisting around to look at the back of his pants.
I hope I puked all over him. I hope those were his favorite pants. And I hope he never gets the smell out.
He glowers at me, and it doesn’t even matter that he might be considered handsome. He’s a terrible human, so he’s ugly as shit.
“I’m not sorry,” I rasp out.
My throat hurts, and I’m so thirsty, but I still have just enough drugs in my system to help me feel angry instead of scared.
His giant hand wraps around my upper arm, and he jerks me up to standing. “Get walking.”
I spit on the floor as I stagger to my feet, trying to get the nasty taste out of my mouth.
“Disgusting,” the nearly seven-foot-tall man snaps and jerks me forward.
My arm gives a sharp zing of protest since he’s squeezing right where Hans injected that tracker into my arm. But I force my arm to stay lax. I don’t even want to think about what these people will do if they suspect there’s a GPS tracker inside my body.
He drags me to an ornately carved door and shoves it open.
I didn’t have time to appreciate the size of the building from outside, but standing in the entryway, with Evil Andre the Giant at my side, my eyes widen.
This isn’t a house. It’s a freaking palace.
Before us, the hallway stretches impossibly long, with giant two-story living rooms, or whatever they’re called in a place like this, on either side.
It’s impressive. But it’s also gaudy as hell. The floors and walls are all some sort of shiny marble, and the ceilings have so many chandeliers it looks like a lighting showroom for villains.
“Come on,” Andre snaps, dragging me farther into the home.
My feet slip on the smooth floor, and I realize my boots are missing.
I look down.
My shirt is untucked.
Another wave of sickness rolls through me. And I use my free arm to pat at my body.
I’d know if they did something to me, right?
They had to just be checking for weapons. Maybe took my boots off because…
More of my brain fog clears, and it’s replaced by panic.
I have no idea why they’d take my boots.
I need to get out of here. Even if it means running through the desert in socks.
Hans will find me.
He’ll always find me.
I don’t remember Andre locking the front door after we came in. Which is good. I think.
I just need to get away from the man at my side.
Except he’s so much bigger than I am. I’ll never win in a fight.
My chest constricts, and I have to open my mouth to pull in a breath.
Don’t freak out.
Focus.
I fill my lungs.
What would Hans do?
I picture Hans jumping through the back door of a hijacked school bus, throwing a knife through the eye socket of an unsuspecting kidnapper.
I picture Hans biting down on a stack of Post-its while using a wall-mounted sword to behead a man.
I picture him luring the other men into view with a stolen walkie-talkie before blowing away their skulls without hesitation.
I know what Hans would do.
Hans would fight dirty.
I do my best to fake a stumble, causing Andre to lean to the side to support more of my weight. Then I jerk my arm down as hard as I can.
The movement is sudden enough that he lets go and close enough in timing to my stumble for him to think I’m just falling. Meaning he’s not completely on guard.
When Andre turns to get another grip on me, I turn toward him and knee him in his balls as hard as I can.
The strangled sound that comes out of him fills me with satisfaction.
But when I turn to run, my sock-covered feet slip on the smooth floor.
It’s just a second. Just half a second before I catch my balance. But it’s enough.
Andre grips my hair.
I struggle to keep my feet under me as my scalp screams in pain. But I can’t fall. If I do, I have no doubt he’ll drag me by my ponytail.
“I’m going to fucking kill you.” I can hear the pain in his voice, and it’s the only comfort I have when he drags me in front of him and backhands my cheek.
My eyes fill with tears.
I’m not crying.
I am not crying.
It just fucking hurts when a grown-ass man baby hits you.
He shakes me by my hair.
It also hurts when someone mean pulls your hair.
I reach up and cling to Andre’s forearm, trying to hold my weight up with his arm and take the pressure off my scalp. It lessens the pain, just a little, and I’m able to stay on my feet as he drags me down the long hall.
When Hans pulled my hair, he knew how to make it feel good. And even with tears still trailing down my cheeks, I try to remember that. Try to remember that a good man can make anything feel good.
I won’t let Evil Andre ruin hair pulling for me.
We keep moving down the incredibly long hallway. Men are visible, but I don’t bother calling for help. There is literally no way to confuse me for a willing participant, and none of the men milling around with assault weapons are giving me so much as a glance.
Cool, everyone here is a piece of shit.
I hope Hans kills all of them.
Andre drags me through a doorway, and I stare at the tiny room in confusion before the sound of doors sliding shut clues me in.
It’s an elevator.
The ground beneath my feet starts to move, and I twist in Andre’s hold to look at the floor indicator.
When it changes from one to two, I let out my breath.
Nothing about this situation is good, but I feel like going below ground would somehow be worse.
The number changes to a three as the elevator slows to a stop.
Andre doesn’t give me any sort of warning; he just starts walking, painfully yanking my hair with every step.
I’d kill for my crossbow right now.
I try to pay attention. Try to focus on how many doors we pass and which way we’re walking. But it all looks the same. Same stupid slippery floors. Same lack of taste.
I’m pulled to a stop as Andre opens a dark wood door. I barely get a glimpse of the room before he shoves me forward so hard that I fall. My hip connects with the floor first, and a jolt of pain shoots through my body.
Groaning, I roll onto my knees, readying myself for whatever is coming next.
But Andre doesn’t follow me in. He slams the door shut between us, and I hear a lock turn. From the outside.
“You’re such a little bitch!” I yell and frantically rub at my hip, trying to soothe the sting.
When the pain subsides enough to move again, I climb to my feet and take in the room.
It’s an empty office.
And it’s as pretentious as the rest of the house.
On one side of the room is a seating area with three high-back chairs covered in green velvet and a glass and gold coffee table, all on top of a patterned rug. On the other side of the room is a giant dark-stained desk in front of matching bookcases that cover the entire wall behind it. But the shelves are empty, and that might be the worst part about this room. Then again, it could be the orange silk curtains surrounding the wall of windows across from me.
It’s like someone went into random furniture stores and bought the most expensive things they could find and expected them to work together.
Money really doesn’t buy taste.
Of course, I think of Hans.
Sweet, quiet neighbor Hans. Who lives alone in a small house, has a normal vehicle, and wears plain clothes. But apparently has more money than I could even imagine.
Tears build in my eyes again, but this time, I can’t blame Evil Andre.
I’m scared.
And I miss Hans.
I sniff and sniff again.
Be sad, but be productive.
Wiping the back of my hand across my cheek, I’m reminded I was hit in the face recently and wince.
Okay, tears can stay.
I turn back to the door I was pushed through and try the handle.
It doesn’t budge.
I didn’t think it would, but I had to try.
Trying to focus, I cut straight across the room and look out the windows. The landscape beyond is beautiful and harsh, with sand-covered hills and prickly desert plants.
I try to open the window, but there’s no latch. They don’t open.
When I press my face to the glass and look down, I can see nothing but sharp rocks two stories below me. And since I won’t be able to get away on broken legs, I don’t bother trying to break the glass.
With one last place to look, I walk through the sitting area to the other door in the room.
It’s partially open, with darkness on the other side, and if it’s not a bathroom, then I hope it’s a secret tunnel out of here.
I press the door open. Not a tunnel.
Stepping into the bathroom, I shut and lock the door behind me, then turn on the faucet and cup my hands under the water.
I swish the mouthful around and spit it out. Then I fill my hands again and gulp down the cold water.
