Hawk (Sex and Bullets 2)

He pushes me into the car, and another guy is there. He grabs me and holds me down while the first guy climbs behind the wheel and drives away. I scream, and the guy’s hold on me tightens.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” he says in a quiet, deadly voice, and I still, suddenly remembering I’m not alone anymore. It’s not just my body.

I must protect my baby.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, not moving a muscle. “Where’s Dorothy? Is she okay?”

The man says nothing and drives on in silence that stuffs my ears and turns my heartbeat into a horror movie soundtrack in my ears.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

How did they find me? Where is Dorothy? How did this happen?

And above all, what am I going to do?

Keep quiet for now, I guess, and still, not giving them an excuse to hurt me. A thought strikes me then. If these are Sandivar’s people, they took me to get to Hawk. It’s not me they want.

Which means they might kill me if Hawk doesn’t take the bait.

But it also means they’ll tell Hawk where to come meet them. Knowing Hawk, he’ll want to see me. He’ll demand an exchange.

Right?

Oh God. I’m making up scenarios in my mind. This isn’t a movie. I have no clue how these people are thinking, what they are capable of. However, what little I’ve seen of their actions in the warehouse basement, when they had Hawk, should be a warning that they are capable of violence just for the sake of violence.

Not reassuring.

The air is locked in my lungs. Breathing is a struggle. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so scared in my whole damn life, although seeing Hawk tied up and bloody in that basement came close.

My head is spinning. My stomach is churning. Did Hawk get my note?

I close my eyes and hope not to puke on the guy who’s holding me. I slump back and focus on breathing.

A few days ago I did my best to save Hawk’s life. Now I have to try and do the same for his baby.

And this is how I’m going about saving the world, I guess—or try to, anyway: one person I love at a time.

***

I’m keeping my eyes open as we drive through the city. We’re heading away from the center. Not surprising. Without lifting my head, the guy’s inked arm locked around my neck in a mockery of a loving embrace—ink like Hawk’s, a hold like Hawk’s, and God how I wish he were here, how I wish I hadn’t left—I struggle to see something, anything that might tell me where we are.

A landmark. A spark of recognition in a city I’ve grown up in.

Wait. Is that the Museum of Art with its colonnade?

Crap, and if it is? How is this helping?

Calm down. North. We are heading north. Maybe.

Holy crap, I’m terrified. No matter how hard I fight it, the panic keeps resurfacing, a claw that’s dragging me down into a black void.

Focus on the facts. Dorothy texted you.

Or someone texted you from her phone. How did they find Dorothy? Did they find her car near the warehouse?

There were many cars parked there, though. Why would they investigate that one? This isn’t making any sense.

After what feels like hours, we stop, and I’m yanked out of the car. It looks like a normal city street, and not the bad sort, either. The guy who’s gripping my arm in a vise is dressed in a dark suit, his blond hair gelled back.