Page 8 of The Lies We Tell

“I don’t buy it. They can’t attract the top players.”

I test the give in the rope. There’s the smallest amount of release. I can work with that.

“You’re kidding me, right? New York is the epicenter. The Garden is the best arena to play in,” Joe says.

I can only pray they remain distracted by their conversation. The music helps cover my actions.

The knot across my wrists slips a little. Or maybe I’m imagining it after a prolonged period in unforgiving metal cuffs.

Biting back a hiss as the rough hessian scrapes across my wounds, I slowly tease my hands back and forth, determined to not bring attention to my actions. Each time I tug, I feel as though I make a little more room.

There’s more laughter. “Dude, you haven’t had a franchise player since Patrick Ewing.”

“Maybe it’s our turn this year. The streak can’t stay cold forever.”

I pull a little harder. Warm air blows from a heater by my knees. I’m not going to waste my opportunities for escape. This vehicle could have a trunk, and the last thing I want is to be placed in it.

I narrow my hand, pressing my thumb and pinkie together against my palm, and attempt to tug it through the loop.

“Yeah, but there are too many teams on fire, and the draft was deep this summer,” Joe says.

His indifference brings tears to my eyes. How can they be so nonchalant about kidnapping me?

I have to use it to my advantage.

I’ve been biding my time until there is a real opportunity to escape, but perhaps my lack of resistance has lured them into a false sense of security that I’m not going to try anything.

With one last burst of exertion, I manage to slip the loop off one wrist. I feel the car slow and stop; I’m guessing we’re approaching the stoplights.

Now is my chance. Fear looms large, but I can’t wait. Not any longer.

I yank the blindfold off my face and try to open the door. It’s locked, but I don’t have time to unlock it.

“What the fuck?” the man in the passenger seat yells as he tries to grab my arm, wrenching it backward. Pain burns through my wrist as he squeezes where it already hurts.

My elbow collides with his shoulder, and this time I manage to unlock the door and reach the handle. My breath comes in short gasps, my heart racing at such a frantic pace I worry it will burst.

A scream escapes me as the truck swerves.

We all get thrown around. As the stranger aims his gun in my direction, I slam into his arm, causing the gun to clatter into the dark footwell.

Pain floods through me as he grabs my hair in his fist.

It’s dark.

The road isn’t busy. We careen.

I mistimed everything.

And now I’m going to die.

3

SAINT

Once we’re parked at the lot for the drop, I get off my bike and cross my arms. “What were you doing tonight?”

Spark shakes his head, blond hair whipping in the wind before he secures it with an elastic. “Nothing much. You?”