Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“Get off me!” I shout, lungs ripping. It’s an ugly, desperate sound, not the polished charity-gala version of me, and I don’t care. “Help—!”
A hand clamps over my mouth. The chemical tang of nitrile gloves and something like solvent fills my nose, stinging. The heavier one bears down, shoving me toward the grass. I pitch sideways on instinct. I twist and bite. My teeth meet rubber. He yelps. I use the moment to jam my thumb into the soft corner of his eye socket. His head snaps back.
I try to sprint.
The third shape materializes from behind the hedge. I didn’t even see him exit the driver’s seat. He takes me at the knees—tackle perfect enough to make a football coach weep—and I hit the lawn with a breathless whuff. The sky fractures—blue, hedge, van, blue—as the world spins. My phone flies out, cartwheels across the grass, and skids under the van. I lunge, and a hand wrenches my wrist back hard enough to send lightning up my arm.
“Stop fighting,” a voice snarls, low through fabric. “Don’t make me break it.”
They flip me. Grass blades stick to my cheek. Chlorophyll and panic flood my mouth.
“Help!” I scream into the glove. The word dies against latex. “Saw—”
Another palm smothers the sound.
They haul me upright. The heavier one yanks my arms behind me, plastic biting—zip tie ratcheting down too fast. My watch digs into bone. I thrash. From somewhere far away, a dog barks. Closer, the fountain keeps burbling.
The third guy slaps a strip of tape across my mouth. Silver—industrial, stale adhesive reeking of dust and glue. My stomach flips.
I kick—wild and ugly. My bare foot connects with a shin. A hiss, a curse. Hands tighten in retaliation.
“Move,” the driver says. The syllables are so ordinary they terrify me more than a growl would have.
They half-drag, half-carry me to the van. My heel clips the lip of the step. Pain explodes up my calf. My eyes water, and the world blurs. I register details because that’s all I have left: a scratch beside the handle, paint worn to primer; a sticker inside the door—Maintain proper load distribution. As if this were about cargo.
They shove me inside. The metal floor is ridged and cold under my thighs. The air reeks of oil, old coffee, something chemical like bleach half-rinsed from mops. There are no seats, just tie-down loops and a few plastic crates bungeed to the wall.
I squirm to my knees, aiming for the far door. Someone’s forearm slams across my back, pinning me. The sliding door whispers shut. Darkness swallows light like a wave crashing.
The engine deepens. We lurch, tires thumping over uneven pavers, then smooth out as we hit asphalt.
No.
No.
I slam my head back into whoever’s bracing me. My skull connects with a chin. Another curse. I scoot sideways, trying to wedge my shoulder into a seam to lever up, to do something. One of them grabs my ankle and yanks. The world tilts, and I sprawl. A knee presses into my hip, hard enough to bruise.
I force my jaw to work against tape, feeling the sticky edges lift and reseal and lift with every ragged breath. My tongue tastes like glue. I picture Sawyer’s hands, the careful way he freed me from zip ties when we practiced, the way he said you don’t have to win; you just have to break the script. I will not give them compliance. I will announce a mess.
I roll my wrist as far as the zip will allow, hunting for the small metal nub on my smartwatch—panic function. Sawyer made me promise to wear it. Triple-click, hold.
I mash. Once. Twice. Three times. The haptic motor flutters against my skin like a trapped moth. No tone—silent mode—but there’s a feel to it, a stuttering like a heartbeat. Please. Send. Please.
The van accelerates. Through the thin metal I feel the change in road surface. The soft-thud rhythm of expansion joints says we’ve hit a major boulevard. A second later, a higher whine—freeway merge.
The driver mutters something I can’t catch over the engine. The others shift as they settle in. My captor’s knee eases off my hip a fraction. I let my body go limp, counting silently. Thirty heartbeats. Forty. The tempo of tires changes; we hit a patch of rougher pavement, then smooth again. A faint curve presses my shoulder against a wheel well—banking right. The air tastes drier, dustier. Not the moist breath of the bay. Inland? Or am I inventing that to feel less helpless?
My cheek is mashed to the rubber mat. Every vibration rattles my jaw. Tears leak sideways into my ear. I bite them back. I’m not crying for them. I’m crying because this body I’ve been trying to love is now cargo.
I inch my chin, trying to scrape the tape on the ribbed floor. The adhesive peels a millimeter before smearing back down. I freeze when one of them shifts, then try again. Peel. Press. Peel. The tape stretches invisibly. My skin stings.