Page 56 of Femme Fatale
“Easy,” Mike said, voice thick from his busted nose. “Don’t want to bruise the merchandise.”
They dragged me toward the van, my boots scraping asphalt, all three of them sweating and straining. I caught sight of my Harley, paint gleaming in the moonlight, and I almost screamed.
"Get her legs," said the short one, and Mike obliged, hooking both hands behind my knees and lifting. I flailed, landing a solid kick in his kidney. He grunted, nearly dropping me, but the adrenaline had turned my muscles to rubber.
The side door of the van slid open. Inside was bare metal, the floor covered in a filthy blue moving blanket. They shoved me in face-first, the metal lip catching my shin, pain lancing through bone. My knees hit steel. Before I could turn or buck, the tall one shoved my head down, face grinding into the musty blanket.
In the back window, for a split second, I saw Nines. She’d made it out of the bar, phone up, her mouth open in a scream I couldn’t hear. The expression on her face was pure murder, but her body was small, fragile-looking, framed in the blue glow of the bar’s lights.
"Stop!" she yelled, and the word was like a gunshot.
Mike looked back at her, eyes wide, then slammed the door shut.
The van roared to life. I heard Nines’s boots pounding toward us, but the tires spun out, gravel and sand spitting up like shotgun pellets. She pounded on the window, her face a mask of rage and terror, but it was too late. We peeled out of the lot, Nines’s shadow receding behind us, shrinking into the haze of bar lights and blown neon.
Inside, the men held me down, their knees digging into my back and legs. My mouth was dry, every breath a mix of gas fumes and the bitter taste of the rag. I tried to count the seconds, tried to memorize every detail—where we turned, how fast we went, the angle of the curves—anything to help me if I got out. The walls of the van rattled, each bump slamming my head against the ribbed steel.
"You see the other girl?" said the tall one. "She got a phone."
Mike barked, "Don’t matter. We got five minutes." He sounded more nervous than before, like this was getting out of hand.
"We could grab her too," suggested the short one.
"We got what we need," said Mike. "We don’t want the heat. Just get to the address."
The van took a hard left, nearly rolling me into the wheel well. My wrists burned, plastic slicing deeper with every jolt. The rag sucked every ounce of spit from my tongue, making my throat close up. I tried to bite down, to spit it out, but it was jammed too deep.
The men didn’t talk much after that. They just kept a knee on my back, breathing loud and heavy, the silence broken only by the rumble of the engine and the metallic clatter of my boots on the floor. I focused on keeping my heart slow, on not giving them the satisfaction of a sob or a scream.
After what felt like forever, the van slowed. The engine idled, and someone climbed out, footsteps crunching on gravel. Theback doors yanked open. Cold air slapped me in the face, and I saw we were parked in a different lot—a dead-end, boxed by concrete and chain link. There were no lights, no cameras. Just a building with black windows and a door painted the color of old blood.
"Up," said the tall one, and they dragged me out, my legs barely working. I staggered, but Mike caught me under the arm, holding me up like a cop leading a drunk. They shuffled me toward the door, moving fast, heads down. One of them knocked—two sharp raps, a pause, and another two. The door opened, and a woman’s face peered out. She said something in Turkish, voice low and clipped, then stood aside as the men hustled me inside.
The room reeked of sweat and boiled cabbage, and the walls were lined with those cheap plastic chairs you only ever see in DMV waiting rooms. They sat me in one, the metal legs icy against my thighs. Mike crouched in front of me, his eyes red and swollen, blood drying at the edge of his lips. He plucked the rag from my mouth, and I sucked in air so cold it stabbed my lungs.
“Listen, sweetheart,” he said. “You do what you’re told, you’ll walk out. You play tough, it goes bad.” He checked my wrists, then leaned in, close enough that I could see the smear of blood under his nose.
I spat in his face. This time, I didn’t miss.
He stood, wiped it away, and shook his head. "You girls always think you’re so fucking hard."
The short one came over, pulled a fresh zip tie, and looped it around my ankles, cinching them to the chair. Then they left, closing the door with a solid thunk. I was alone, wrists and ankles burning, my mouth slick with the taste of bleach and rage.
I sat there, counting the seconds, listening for any sound, any hint of what came next. I thought of Nines, her face as the vanpeeled away, her eyes promising retribution. I hoped she’d call in the crew, hoped they’d burn the city down to find me.
The walls here were thin, but not thin enough to hear more than a dull hum. I tested the bonds, rolling my wrists against the plastic, flexing my legs. There was no give, but I knew from experience that everything breaks if you make it want to die.
I waited, counting my breaths, plotting my moves.
The door opened, and that big bitch walked in. “Kara,” I said, and she smiled.