Page 4 of Rami

“That’s all” my ass.

But Rami wouldn’t argue with him right now. “My guess is the sister was taken by human traffickers. You agree?”

August picked up the picture of Ivy, who was identical to Gigi.

“She was taken from a parking lot,” Rami continued. “Only video footage is of a van coming up behind her. It blocked the camera.”

“You saw a tape?”

He gave one nod. Gigi had practically held open his eyelids herself.

“There’s a good chance then. Lots of cases like that across the country over the last few years.” August dropped the crisp photo of Ivy smiling and holding a camera—a photo she clearly used to show the face behind her photography business.

“Right. And none of ’em have been found,” Rami guessed dryly.

“They didn’t have us.” August smirked.

Rami shook his head. “You screw up this business and Toth’ll put you six feet under.”

“I gotta try. Ivy doesn’t deserve this, whether she’s Gigi’s sister or not. Kills me to think about what this woman is going through, what they’re doing to her—if she’s alive. I’m doing this regardless if you like it or not.” A beat passed. “You got my six?”

Rami folded his arms across his chest and gave his head a shake. Fucker knew how to get to him. “Yeah, I’ve got your six,” Rami muttered. “I’ve always got your six.”

He had his friend’s back. Always. But completing this job successfully would be a different story altogether.

***

Whomp, whomp, whomp

The whirring melody of a ceiling fan that only stirred hot air was a persistent soundtrack when she was conscious. Ivy groaned at the blasted noise that pulled and pushed her in and out of sleep.

Sweat coated her skin and dampened her clothes. A rancid stench she didn’t want to identify burned her nostrils. She forced open her eyelids and focused on the objects waltzing around her. In a few minutes, the swaying would steady as her brain recalibrated. Normally she didn’t have her eyes open very long before someone plunged another needle into her skin.

They didn’t want her to fight again.

The memory of lunging at one of her attackers and biting his face burned a hole in her mind. In return, she’d received violent punches and kicks. She brought her hand to the puffy skin around her eyes. At least the swelling was going down—how long had it been since she first woke up here?

Days? Weeks?

She’d lost track.

Why are they keeping me?

The drone of a TV punctured the haze that clouded her awareness. She swallowed, but no spit coated her tongue. The red plastic cup on the floor they sparingly filled with water had been empty the last few times she’d checked. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d peed in the bucket in the corner. If she didn’t find water soon, she’d die of dehydration.

So what? If desiccation wasn’t her demise, whatever they’d been injecting her with—the substance that removed her from reality for hours or days on end—would make her croak. She swiped the back of her hand over her lips and the salty taste of sweat and dirt filled her mouth.

Her arm shook and dropped to the ground as though a weight were strapped to her wrist.

She was weak. The slightest movement made her muscles ache. But she didn’t want to die here.

Not like this.

She lifted her head and surveyed her torture chamber. The tattered brown couch was about ten feet away. To her right was a small kitchen area and to her left, a short hallway with a single bedroom and bathroom.

A vague memory of being carried in the dark over a dirt-covered field entered her mind for the millionth time. She was in a trailer in the desert somewhere.

Which meant she was far from Seattle. Surely it had been weeks since her kidnappers approached her in the parking lot. Weeks since she’d dealt with mundane daily tasks or made silly faces to get a baby to smile for a photo.

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