Page 24 of Sigma

“The food was very good,” I say. “Thank you.”

He grins. “Good? Good.” He taps his chest. “I make.”

“It was excellent. I’m grateful.”

He shoves the sock and tape back in his back pocket. Fiddles with the hood. Taps his chest again. “No bad man, me. This?” He gestures at me. “No good. But…” a shrug. “Need money. So.”

“You’ve been kind, and I’m grateful. What’s your name?”

“Arnau Cadenes.”

“I’ll remember you, Arnau Cadenes.”

He frowns, as if perhaps this came across as more of a threat than I meant it. But then he shakes his head and lifts the hood. “Put on.”

I take it and put it on.

His hands are work-roughened and hard as he takes my hands in his, brings them behind my back. I hear duct tape, and my hands and wrists are taped tightly together. He then tests the tightness of my bonds. Satisfied, he puts a hand to my back and nudges me forward.

“Step.”

I take an exaggerated step, and then he turns me to the left. Walk forward. His guiding is gentle but firm. Finally, we come to a stop. His hands grab me by the waist, and I’m lifted—he grunts slightly, because I’m not a delicate little thing.

I’m tempted to tell him it’d be easier to just let me climb on my own, but I hold my tongue. Another pair of hands grasps me, heaves me upward, and I’m set on my feet.

This time, these new hands cop a feel, groping my breasts with a rough, lingering squeeze.

A harsh voice snaps something, and there’s the distinctive sound of a fist hitting flesh. A grunt. Voices confer, briefly.

BLAM!

The report of the pistol is loud, but I can tell we’re outside. I hear something wet, and then a thud.

Another rapid exchange.

My guard’s voice, low, near my ear. “He touch, he die.”

My heart is hammering—I’ve been groped worse at the bar and dealt with it myself. But in this case, the hammering of my heart is because I just heard someone get shot and killed.

My stomach roils.

I bite it back, because If I vomit, I’ll likely be gagged again, and I don’t know if I can handle that again.

I’m marched forward, and now I can hear a chaos of sounds: ships’ horns blaring far off, an overlapping of chattering voices and laughter and shouts, squeaking of metal on metal, clanging, engines idling and roaring up to speed and rattling, metal banging off metal in deafening booms…a port, I would guess.

The air is hot, humid.

They’re going to bundle a bound and hooded kidnap victim off the ship in broad daylight at a busy port? Bold.

But then I hear the answer: a helicopter approaching. It’s landing close, too, I realize, as the downdraft nearly batters me off my feet—only Arnau’s hold on me keeps me upright. And then he’s hustling me forward, hand on my head to keep me ducked and bent, my belly meets an edge, and new hands lift me.

A hand grips my ankle and squeezes, briefly. I only nod my head.

Arnau Cadenes. He was kind.

The noise inside the helicopter is deafening. I’m seated in a chair, and hands buckle a lap belt across my hips, yet again with impersonality. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, being buckled in with my hands behind my back.

A door closes, and the noise lessens, but I’d still have to shout to be heard—not that I’m planning on talking.