“Alright, everyone, work is officially over!” Our VP of sales lifts his arms at the front of the bus.
The cheer is mostly enthusiastic, but I don’t think I’m the only one that is completely over this trip.
I’m over people. It’s hot. My deodorant has been working overtime since before we landed on Monday. It’s Thursday afternoon. We leave for the airport tomorrow morning, and all I want to do is take a cold shower, then lie naked on my hotel bed.
“Just settle in, and we’ll be at the distillery in…” He looks at his watch. “A little over an hour.”
I fight the groan that tries to come out of my throat.
There isn’t air conditioning on this bus. Or if there is, it doesn’t work. So that means I need to sit through the next hour with the back of my thighs sticking to the seat beneath me. Great.
At least our group is small enough for everyone to get their own little bench seat. If I had to sit shoulder to shoulder with one of my coworkers, soaking up their body heat, I’d crawl out the emergency hatch in the ceiling and end it all.
Slouching down, I put my knees against the back of the seat in front of me. My knee-length skirt drapes open beneath me, and the small amount of airflow against my bare legs is worth the risk that Suzanne across the aisle might see my underwear.
The bus rumbles away from the manufacturing plant, where we’ve been every day for training seminars, and merges onto the main road we take to and from our hotel. But instead of turning toward the hotel, the way I desperately want to go, we turn the other way.
I get that they’re trying to do something fun for our last night, but a distillery… How could anyone think that copious amounts of hard liquor the night before we all have six a.m. flights is a good idea?
My stomach roils just at the thought of boarding a plane hungover.
I don’t have anything against drinking. I enjoy it when the mood strikes. But I won’t be partaking today.
It’s the final night. One last night before you get to go home. One more night until you can see Hans again.
Making an effort to push away my sour mood, I watch the scenery beyond the window.
I’m a little embarrassed over how much time I’ve spent thinking about Hans this week. Especially since there’s a chance he’ll go back to ignoring me.
We’re nearly out of the city when the bus jerks to a stop, causing me to slide farther down in my seat.
A few people make noises of displeasure at being jolted, and I struggle for a moment to right myself.
I’m about halfway back on the bus, sitting in the same place I have every other day, but through the big windshield, I can see the top of the van in front of the bus. They must’ve stopped suddenly at the red light, forcing our driver to hit the brakes.
Bad drivers are truly everywhere.
I start to lean back in my seat when someone up front screams.
Like screams.
Then more people scream.
I hear a shout, and then the bus lurches straight into the back of the van, pushing it forward a few feet.
“What—” My words are cut off when a bang rips through the air.
The screaming gets louder. And our bus driver is slouched over in his seat. His foot must come off the gas because we stop pushing the van into the intersection.
My heart is racing.
What the hell just—
Over the screams, I hear the distinct sound of breaking glass before a stranger climbs the steps at the front of the bus. Holding a gun.
I slap my hands over my mouth.
Oh my god.
A second man follows him onto the bus.
Oh my god!
“Stay where you are!” the first man shouts. His accent is strong, but there’s no mistaking his demand.
The second man is reaching for the bus driver.
I press my hands harder to my mouth.
He’s going to drag him out of the seat so he can drive us off. Because that first bang was a gunshot. They killed the driver.
We’re being kidnapped.
The first man holds his gun higher and snaps something at one of my coworkers up front.
This was my fear. And now it’s happening.
The gunman’s still yelling at someone, but then he whips his head over to look past where I’m sitting.
Toward the back of the bus.
He straightens his gun arm like he’s going to shoot.
I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for the loud noise as more screams fill the bus.
But there’s no gunshot.
I open my eyes.
Then widen them.
The gun drops from the man’s hand as he reaches up to his face. His fingers grab at the slender hilt of a knife protruding from his eye socket.
Under my hands, my mouth pulls into a grimace.
The man drops to his knees, then out of sight.
“What the fuck?” I whisper into my palms.
Hands still over my mouth, I turn my head and see another man, a new man, walking up the aisle of the bus from the open rear door.
He’s large. Tall, with broad shoulders wrapped in a black long-sleeved shirt.
His face is covered in a black knit ski mask that makes him look sinister, but the thick material does nothing to hide his defined jawline.
In a blur, one of his hands whips forward, and something flies from it.
There are more shouts. More cries of fear. But I can’t focus on anyone else. And I can’t look away from the new man. Because peeking out around the bottom of his mask is hair. Long dark blond hair.
Still striding forward, the man nears where I’m sitting. And when he reaches me, when he passes my seat, he turns his head my way.
Just for a heartbeat.
A split second.
But our eyes connect.
My stunned ones to his intensely dark ones.
My heart skips.
“Hans?” I gasp the name against my fingers.
But the man doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t acknowledge me. He just keeps moving.
My head turns to follow him.
Something inside me urges me to go after him. To be near him. But…
It can’t be him.
Can it?
I hadn’t noticed the gloves on his hands until he puts them on the back of two seats, one on each side of the aisle, and swings himself forward.
I stand, needing to see.
The masked man swung over the man on the floor with the knife in his eye.
I’m not great with anatomy, but the man is on his stomach, and blood is pooling around his face.
I don’t think he’s gonna make it.
There’s a grunt, and I snap my eyes back up.
The second man, who was dragging the driver out of the seat, is pulling a knife out of his neck.
The ski-mask man, our hero, who might be my mother-freaking neighbor, must’ve thrown that knife too.
Second Man presses his free hand over the bleeding wound in his neck, then he lunges, knife first, toward Ski Mask.
This time, I’m the one who screams.
Faster than I can track, Ski Mask avoids the wild swipe by dodging down and to the right.
Second Man still has his arm extended.
Ski Mask lets his right arm lead, shooting up and to the left, cutting across between them and stealing the knife back from Second Man.
Because I’m staring—because I can’t look away—I see the knife spin in Ski Mask’s hand so the sharp side is pointed back toward Second Man.
Bringing his arm back down, Ski Mask steps forward as he slams the blade into Second Man’s chest.
Second Man stumbles backward, crashing into the controls at the front of the bus.
Not stopping, Ski Mask slams his palm forward, against the butt of the knife, sinking it farther into Second Man.
It all happened in seconds.
My mouth is hanging open.
Someone up front pukes.
And Ski Mask doesn’t stop.
Gaping, I watch as he grips the shirt of Second Man, who’s gone limp, and tosses him down the bus steps. The door at the bottom of the stairs is still open from when the bad guys broke it.
New shouts sound from outside the bus.
More bad guys.
Ski Mask ducks down and picks something up off the floor.
I see a glimpse of a gun, then he’s following the body of Second Man down the stairs and off the bus.
Gunfire erupts outside, and as everyone crouches down in their seats, I move onto my tiptoes.
I need to see.
I need to know.
