Page 58 of Knot Yours

“He was getting her out of Puerto Rico, and someone stopped him.”

Birdie nods. “That’s what I think.”

My phone is out before she finishes. I dial the number Birdie found for the Borrero residence, but no one answers. Grabbing my bag off the floor, I turn to Knot. “I need a ride to the airport.”

I call for Piper and storm through the lobby with Knot shouting after me. He barks orders at Frank as I rush from the building, but I ignore them both. Piper jumps into the back of Knot’s Escalade when I lift the gate. I toss my bag on the floor beside her and wait for Knot to get behind the wheel.

The former SEAL slams the door shut as he yanks off his tie. We’re racing through the main gate seconds later. “What’s your plan? You don’t even know where you’re going.”

“I’m going to Puerto Rico. Birdie’s already got an address.”

“For where your lady lives but not where she’s been taken. If she was taken. You don’t even know. Even if you’re right, you know what you’re up against. You’d need a small army to reach her and an even bigger one to have a chance at walking away.”

“You’re not going to talk me out of going,” I snap.

“Crazy, suicidal son of a bitch,” he mutters.

Minutes later, Knot enters the airport but drives past the entrance to departures. I turn in my seat, glaring at my boss. “What the hell, man?”

Knot keeps his eyes on the road. “I figured you’d want to get there sooner than tomorrow, so Stan is readying the jet.”

“I… Thanks.”

Knot skids to a stop outside the company hangar and hops out. I figure he’s going to speak to the pilot, but he opens the rear door and slips out of his suit jacket. When Knot throws the garment over the back seat and reaches for a duffle bag, I freeze. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You didn’t think I’d let you go alone, did you?”

Marisol

The sun is coming up just as I’ve exhausted my search. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a manicure set to be found, and the only sharp object in the suite was a disposable razor.

I walk from the bathroom to sit on a wingback chair by the window. My bags weren’t brought in here with me. I hadn’t replaced my phone yet, not that I would have been allowed to keep it. I am without my ID. That means there will be no getting on a plane if I should manage to find a way to escape.

A knock on the door interrupts my planning just before the ornate panel swings open. A mousy woman strolls in carrying a tray, followed closely by one of the men involved in the attack this morning.

The woman doesn’t speak but quickly shuffles into the room, places the tray on a side table, and slides it closer to me. Lids are removed from the plates, and the woman pours coffee into a dainty cup. She wordlessly offers to dress the coffee for me, but I shake my head, dumbfounded by the concept of room service for a captive.

I’m simply at a loss for words as the girl in her mid-twenties unrolls a napkin and drapes it across my lap. The goon with her approaches and snatches the knife from the tray as if I could have used the blunt instrument for anything. Remembering Dario’s threat, I refrain from snapping at the man but fail to suppress my eye roll.

Just as unexpectedly as the pair entered, they exited the room, leaving me staring in disbelief at the five-star breakfast.

The process is repeated at lunch and dinner, and the spent trays are collected when the new meal is delivered. Outside of those interactions, I’m left to my paranoid thoughts concerning Dario’s plans for tomorrow… and the rest of my life.

I’m still fully dressed when my next visitor wakes me in the morning. I slept in the comfortable bed but was too nervous to strip out of my clothes, even for the soft sleeping gowns in the closet.

Not that my jeans and blouse would have served as effective shields, but I couldn’t stand the thought of being vulnerable in this room. God knows how many cameras Dario has installed to watch me.

The same woman brings in breakfast, followed shortly after by a team carrying all sorts of beauty implements and a garment bag. Knowing what they’re all here for, I can’t tear my eyes away from that bag.

Dread fills the pit of my stomach, but no one seems to notice my distress. Or, more likely, they’re ignoring it. No one has a smile for the bride-to-be. Also missing are the celebratory phrases and words of encouragement you would expect to hear from a bridal beauty team. Congratulations! Are you ready for your big day? You’ll be such a beautiful bride.

Since none of these platitudes are being shared, I assume these people know I’m not here willingly, meaning they would do nothing to answer any pleas for help.

The assumed leader of the team of beauticians claps her hands and, with a smile, says, “Time to get up, my lovely.”

I groan and cover my face with a pillow. One of them has decided to play nice, and I’m already tired of her bullshit. Knowing she won’t understand the muffled words, I say anyway, “How about you leave, and I get back to sleep.”

Nothing happens for several moments, which is why I shriek when I’m jerked toward the foot of the bed by my ankles. I release the pillow covering my head and come face to face with Dario. He’s leaning over me, his pelvis uncomfortably close to mine.

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