Sonata (North Security 3)

Charles Bisset. Shar-el. Why did he take me? Because I’m a tourist? Maybe he thought I’d have money. That’s no reason to take me, only my bags.

Or maybe he recognized me as the famous children’s book author. Except that the only person who could pay ransom is my sister, and she’s missing.

There’s no other reason he would take me.

Isn’t there? The soft voice inside my head knows exactly why a man would take a woman. He asked me out, didn’t he? He asked to show me around the city. I said no.

He doesn’t take rejection well.

The darkness closes in on me, it becomes a tactile force, squeezing my lungs. I don’t want to stay here, in this pitch black prison. I can’t stay here. There’s no oxygen. I gasp through the fist around my throat. I’m going to die here, before Charles can even touch me, and that seems almost like a gift, except that the body fights anyway. It wants to live.

“Easy,” comes a voice from the inky void. I choke on air. “Easy there,” he says again.

“Charles,” I gasp out. It’s twisted that I’d actually be relieved to have him here. Anything is better than being alone right now. Even the presence of my captor.

There’s quiet.

I’m not alone in the dark, though. My fists curl around iron. “Answer me.”

“I’m not Charles.” And he’s not. He’s missing the fluid accent. He says the name the American way, with harsh syllables. His voice is completely different—lower, more blunt, gravelly like the broken concrete underneath me.

“Who are you?” Was he the driver of the van? Or someone else?

“I’m no one.” Shadows curl around his rough voice. His presence settles into my skin, deeper than the dust, farther than the cold. He’s someone, this stranger.