Jill wanted to scream from the blinding pain behind her eyes but her mouth was stuffed with an oily rag and covered in tape. The rag was small, no bigger than the palm of her hand she guessed, but if it worked its way any further down her throat she’d choke. Her wrists were bound together in front of her. A blindfold dug into her temples — tied tight. Her head pounded, sinuses screaming in pain. Her first response was to check her holster but it was empty. The Swiss army knife she always carried with her and her phone were missing as well. Her gun. What use had it been to her? She’d been given special permission to take the Glock home because she feared for her safety. Dorin Chisca had threatened her life when she’d gone to speak to him in prison about the part he played in her father’s murder. Chisca was a powerful man, with many friends inside and outside of prison.
Every nerve in her body was on high alert. All she could remember was being grabbed from behind and then it all went hazy. Think harder. Jill’s breathing slowed. She remembered the shadow by the window, the attack from behind, and the biting sting of a needle. She went through everything she could remember; looking for any detail that might help her identify her attackers.
Brennan, you fool. She’d identified Adam Lee as a member of the Red Cave Gang, hadn’t she? What the hell did she think was going to happen?
She had to regain her composure. Where was she? She felt around her with her fingers. The space was small, she tried to kick her legs out but they thudded against surfaces in every direction. Car boot? Seemed likely, but the car was stationary…it was parked somewhere. How long had she been unconscious?
Try to breathe, stay calm. At least she wasn’t going to run out of air. Cars weren’t built tight enough for that…were they? And the lock? They’re meant to be secure from the outside in, not the other way around, right? A release tag, there should be one, somewhere.
Then she felt it. Not a release tag. It crawled across her cheek, spiky appendages pricked at her skin. Movement in her hair. She was living her worst nightmare. She shook her head from side to side, tried to raise her bound hands to her face, tried to flick the cockroach away. Get the fuck off. Tears flowed.
She kicked out. Then the rag edged slightly backwards in her mouth. She could feel its hot sting — close to the point where her gag reflex would kick in. She froze. Calm down, Jill. Get it together.
She focused on taking more even breaths through her nose. Slow, solid, but not too deep. Her heart rate slowed. Okay. She had to get out. Run. But where to? She had no idea where she was. She concentrated, listened for any sound that would help identify her location. She heard a plane overhead, a barking dog, distant traffic noise. She rolled back and forth trying to loosen her bindings. The car rocked and rolled with her. She bent her wrists, bent them further until she thought they would break.
Over and over she repeated the action until her wrists were raw. Her sense of time was distorted, but at a guess she’d been working the ropes for at least half an hour, maybe an hour. Her hands cramped. She lay still, listened to her laboured breathing, thought of Rimis. Would he come charging to her rescue like he had when Kevin Taggart had tried to kill her? How long had she been in the boot? She might have only been unconscious for a few hours. If that was the case, it was still the middle of the night. No one would realise she was missing. And by the time they did it might be too late. No, it was up to her, she couldn’t wait for a non-existent cavalry to turn up and save her. She tried the ropes again, tugging, twisting her wrists, and working the rope, again and again until she felt them loosen a little. With her energy spent, she knew she was dehydrated and the ache behind her eyes made her wonder what damage had been done to her skull.
She rested, gathered her strength, and began all over again. Had it been two hours now? Three? She twisted her shoulders from side to side, struggled with the rope until it was loose enough for her to feel the circulation returning to her torso and hands. Whoever she was dealing with, they weren’t professionals. She’d just had her first lucky break. Second lucky break: whoever tied these knots had never been a boy scout. And they’d tied her wrists in front of her, not behind her back.
The rope was loose enough now that she could lean over and tear the masking tape from her mouth with her fingers. The rush of heat and pain seared her lips and cheeks. She yanked the foul-tasting rag from her mouth, felt saliva and bile dribble down her chin. Next, she tugged her blindfold, pulled it down and blinked. Cars had tool kits, right? She groped with her fingers, used them to lift up the worn, carpeted panel to the tyre well. She backed herself into the corner of the boot and for once she was glad of her height — or lack thereof.
She reached into the tyre well. A lone screwdriver. It would have to do. She used the tool to loosen the knots further. She rolled over onto her side, and felt for a boot release. Nothing. The car must be an old model, pre-2000. She felt for the lock with her fingers, found it and jabbed the point of the screwdriver against it to try and release the spring latch. She pressed her back hard into the corner of the boot and kicked her feet out with every ounce of energy she had left.
The boot sprung open enough for her to push it up with her legs. She climbed over the rim, projected herself out and fell hands-first onto a slab of concrete. She lay there to catch her breath. She tasted blood, tried to stand. Fell. Pin pricks of white light flashed and exploded in her head.