Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

"It's a condition of the contract. She has to disappear."

I'd forgotten that. The client stipulated that it had to look like suicide or I had to disappear. Roland skipped the suicide option for good reason--if I was found hundreds of miles from home, dead of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound on a rooftop, that was as suspicious as murder. Of course, they could leave my body here and just hope I wouldn't be found for a long time, but Roland didn't strike me as a gambler. And I sure as hell wasn't suggesting the option.

CHAPTER 25

The bodyguard gagged me with rope. Then he untied my hands to let me climb down the fire escape before he refastened my bonds. They led me to the car and popped the trunk. If I was a civilian, I'd never have gone along with this. Rule one of abduction: don't let them take you to a second location. Do whatever you can to escape or call attention to yourself, even at the risk of death, because once you get to that second--secluded--location, your chance of survival plummets. I still did put up a token resistance so they wouldn't suspect I was playing too nicely.

They dumped me into the trunk and slammed it shut. And I went straight for my knife. A few minutes ago, Roland commented that this wasn't the movies. That was a shame, because in them, I'd have gotten that knife out and had my bonds severed in seconds. Of course, in a movie, the bad guys would have found the knife because viewers wouldn't believe they would actually miss it. If criminals really were as smart as movie audiences expect, my job would be a whole lot tougher. Truth is, I've met very few criminals who strap a weapon to their leg. One reason? It's a bugger to get it off when you need it. Especially if your hands are tied.

It helped that I was in good physical condition, though after about ten minutes, I started wishing I'd joined my neighbor's yoga classes. I had my legs pulled up behind me as I worked awkwardly at the knife, trying to pull it out without losing a finger. I did get a nick or two when the car bounced.

As we hit a highway, the ride smoothed out. And that's when I started getting worried. I'd been working at the knife for ten minutes. If it didn't come out, and Jack and Quinn had no idea where I was, then there was little chance of escaping this alive.

After ten more minutes on the highway, the car exited onto a quiet road. I heard the distant chug of a train. We clattered over the tracks. Then the car turned again, onto a completely silent, rough back road.

We were getting close to that secondary location. Where they would kill me as soon as they hauled me out of this trunk. Hell, maybe before--to save dealing with my struggles and wordless pleas.

Shit, oh, shit. I should have fought harder. I'd been cocky. I couldn't even stall by pretending I had more information, because my mouth was gagged. The minute the car pulled over--

Just get the goddamned knife out.

I grabbed the cuff of my jeans and yanked my legs up until pain shot through my thighs. I wriggled backward to jam my legs against the rear of the trunk, holding them

in that painful position. It helped--I could now wrap my fingers around the knife handle. My grip was still awkward and the blade sliced in, making me gasp against the gag. But at last I got it out.

I took two seconds to catch my breath. Then I wriggled the blade around until I could get at my bindings. Again, the angle was wrong, and when the car hit a pothole, I gashed my wrist deep enough for blood to well up, my fingers and the blade sticky within seconds.

I was bleeding. Really bleeding. Maybe I hadn't missed my artery. Oh, shit.

I struggled not to panic as my hands grew ever slicker with blood. I got the tip of the blade into the binding and sliced it half through. I started pulling, but my hands slid on the blood. Finally it came free.

I wrapped my hand around my cut wrist. I couldn't see a damn thing, but I could feel the blood flowing fast enough to make my heart race. I pulled off my boot, then yanked the strap for the knife over my foot and put it on my wrist, cushioned with my sock, and pulled the strap tight. The whole time the panicked part of my brain shouted for me to just get the hell out of the trunk and bind it later. But the blood was flowing too fast, my heart thumping too hard. Once it was bound, I could focus.

The car was a luxury model. Relatively new. It should have a trunk release. Since I was sure Roland didn't transport a lot of people in his trunk, he wouldn't have tampered with it. Probably wouldn't have known it was there. The problem was finding the damn thing. On some cars, it glows in the dark. I couldn't be so lucky. I had to pat around searching for a button, a handle, a cord, a toggle . . .

The car slowed. Damn it. I wasn't going to have time.

At least I was free. As soon as the trunk opened, I could lunge out.

Except the car didn't stop. It only slowed. Then I caught voices from inside the car.

"Got a tail," the bodyguard said.

"What?"

"Car behind us. Lights off."

"For how long?"

The bodyguard didn't answer.

"We haven't passed any other roads since the damned turnoff," Roland said. "Are you telling me we've been tailed since the highway? You said she was alone."

The bodyguard started to protest.

Roland cut him short. "How far back is it? What kind of car? How many occupants? Oh, never mind."

Roland muttered as he presumably looked for himself. If the lights were off, it must be Jack or Quinn. I breathed a quick sigh of relief but didn't stop searching for that release. I knew what they were driving, and it couldn't keep up with Roland's car. Which is exactly what he said next.