Page 88

“Medics are here,” Danny said. “This way, guys.”
“Dammit, Ryder, tell me what the hell is going on?” Lachlan’s voice boomed from Ryder’s mobile.
Ryder held the phone to his ear, tension dripping from every syllable as he answered, “Foster Hadley has Nathalie.”
Chapter Twenty
Theslamofacar trunk penetrated the fog. Nathalie’s eyes blinked open.
Heavy shadows and stifling air were the first things she noticed. Her stomach flipped-flopped, desperate for fresh ventilation. She breathed in as deeply as she could, then out slowly to counteract the nausea.
Her legs were bent, her knees pressed against her chest. Dirt, sand, and God knows what else embedded in the carpet liner scraped her cheek. A white plastic zip-tie dug into her wrists.
That asshole.
She turned onto her other side, so she was facing the trunk latch. A plastic lever with a black icon of an open trunk gave off a pale green glow. She yanked on it.
Nothing happened. She tugged again.
Still nothing.
Her spurt of temper morphed into fear.
The car’s engine turned over and tires rumbled beneath her head. Soon, the car picked up speed and traveled fast without stopping. They had to be on one of the many highways running through the DC metro area.
Angie.Please, God, let her be okay. Hopefully, by now, Ryder would have gotten suspicious and broken into her apartment.
After endless minutes, the car slowed into stop-and-go traffic, making a series of turns, left and right before coming to a stop. Nathalie banged on the inside of the trunk lid with her bound hands and yelled, praying someone heard her.
The driver’s door opened. The weight of the vehicle shifted. She braced herself. If there was an opportunity to strike out at her captor, scream for help, anything, she had to take it.
Sunlight flooded her eyes and in the time it took for her to blink and readjust her vision, the man had lifted her from the trunk and deposited her feet on the pavement. Hard metal jabbed her ribs.
Damn him.She was tired of having a gun on her.
He slammed the trunk with his free hand, then gripped her arm. His gaze scanned their surroundings.
So did Nathalie’s. They were on a quiet, dead-end street in front of a light blue, two-story shotgun-style house. The street had kept its older, single-family homes, but two streets over in either direction were multi-story apartment buildings and townhomes. At the end of the street, through a sparse barrier of trees, was what looked to be the fairway of a golf course. A plane roared overhead, low enough for Nathalie to see the airline markings on the tail and the landing gear in a lowered position.
“Easy luv, this way.” The man ushered her through the gate of a wooden privacy fence that jutted out from the front corners of the house. Inside was a secluded backyard with a flagstone patio, a wrought iron outdoor table, and four matching chairs. The back door of the cottage opened onto a narrow room with a modest kitchen and stairs leading to the second floor.
Past the kitchen was a single dining and living area with a square dining table, a couch, coffee table, and two armchairs. The blinds were closed on the only windows in the room, flanking the front door, cloaking the natural light with a dull, gray patina.
Her captor forced her into one of the gray table chairs and held up two long strips of white plastic. “Fasten your ankles to the front chair legs.”
She held up her hands, already zip-tied, and glared.
The bastard laughed and withdrew a pocketknife from his trousers. The blade sprang open with an audible click. With an almost careless gesture, he cut the plastic around her wrists.
“No funny business, pet.” His frosty blue eyes watched as she scooted back the chair, then bent down to secure her ankle to the chair’s wooden leg with a zip tie.
“Now the other leg.”
After she complied, he leaned down and tugged on each tie until it was snug against her skin. “There. If you cooperate, I won’t need to use additional restraints. And if you don’t cooperate, there are plenty of other, less pleasant ways to get what I want.”
His smile made her skin crawl. After what he’d done to Angie, she had no doubt he’d resort to physical violence to get his way.
She needed to develop some kind of rapport with… “What’s your name?”