Page 7 of Deadly Rival

“Watch it!” I jerk again at the guy’s growled instruction. Why is he talking like that? Does he think the weird, gravelly Batman voice makes him scarier? The gun does that without the theatrics.

He keeps the gun trained on me as he picks up my purse from the passenger footwell. He checks for my cell, then throws it into the back seat.

Calm, calm, calm. He’s taking me for ransom. It’s a hazard of being a Calder; everyone knows my dad is loaded. Dad will pay the guy, then wipe him off the face of the earth once I’m safe. I just need to survive until then.

Oh God, what if he hurts me?

Tears blur my eyes as I pull up behind the silver car. I could run. Make a dash for it into the woodland or back toward the facility. But that goes against what Dad drilled into me and isn’t likely to work. This guy has a gun and, from the brief look I got at him, seems fit. He’d catch me easily.

No. Stick to the plan.

“Turn away. Hands behind your back.” I do and, though I’m expecting it, yelp as he fastens something hard around my wrists, cinching them tight. Shit. Terror drenches my nerves as I pull against them. Now I can’t defend myself. The vulnerability opens a fresh chasm in my chest.

What if it isn’t a ransom? What if he’s a serial killer and I’ve just let him cuff me like a sheep walking into a slaughterhouse?

Before I can process what’s happening, the man pulls my hair up and wraps something around my mouth. Tape. Panic overwhelms my senses, and I thrash, yanking my hair at the roots.

“Stop that. Behave, and you won’t be harmed. I’m sure Daddy will pay more for you in one piece.”

A ransom. It’s a ransom. He wants money. I force myself to still. I’ll survive. He’s not going to chop me into pieces. I just need to get through the next few hours.

Or days. Oh God, what if it’s days? Days in some basement.

Calm. Fucking. Down. You’re a Calder. Act like it.

It’s maybe the first time I’ve ever been grateful for Dad’s voice in my head. Act like it. I can do that. I drag air in through my nose, short, ragged breaths.

The man jumps out of the passenger door. If he hadn’t handcuffed me, I could have bolted. God, I wish he was that stupid. I jerk back as he wrenches the driver's door open. Black jeans, black long sleeve, black balaclava. A Halloween costume of a bad guy. All he needs is a stripey sack with “Swag” written on it.

The gun in his hand stops it being funny.

“Out. Don’t even think of running for it.”

That wasn’t as growly, or as deep. Something prickles right at the back of my mind, a tingle of something, but it’s gone before I can catch it.

“Move. Now.” Batman again. I try to push down the uneasy feeling as I wriggle my way out of the car, struggling to balance with my hands bound even though my heels are sensible. I used to take my shoes off to drive, but Dad said it was a trashy habit, so I learned to cope.

At least they give me a little extra height, so I can look my captor in the eyes without craning my neck too much. He’s at least six feet tall.

The prickle of wrongness grows, spiky in my gut as I stare at him. Why hasn’t he stuffed me in the trunk yet? Why is he just looking at me? I glance at his hands. No tattoos, no chunky gold rings, and the skin is smooth. The nails, clean and neat.

Nothing about this guy screams gangster, and I’ve met enough of them to know what they look like. Although Dad keeps me sheltered from the shady side of the family, he can’t lock it away completely. I’ve seen the guys he uses to enforce his power, and they don’t have clean, manicured hands. They don’t put on fake voices to sound tough.

And they wouldn’t freeze in the middle of a kidnapping.

As if he’s read my thoughts, the man surges forward, grabs my hair, and drags me toward the waiting car. I stumble along to keep from falling and catch the car’s badge as we pass. Tesla. Seriously? He came to kidnap me in a Tesla? It doesn’t feel right. None of it feels like it should, and as he throws open the rear door, my banked panic breaks free.

I yank my head back, but his grip is strong, and it just wrenches my scalp hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. I flail against his hold, but it’s too little, too late. If I ever had a chance, I missed it. He manhandles me into the back passenger footwell.

I kick out with my foot and must have hit something soft, as he yells, “Shit!” It’s a victory, but a small, useless one. I try to sit up, but before I can, he’s on me, wrapping tape around my legs. It’s rushed and clumsy, but it works, trapping me like an Egyptian mummy.

All my flailing has left me face down, and I don’t have a shred of leverage to get back up again. My face presses into the carpet. The spotlessly clean carpet, which still has the lingering smell of the chemicals they use when they valet the car’s interior. I should know. Dad has a man come once a week and do every car top to bottom.

He’s taking me for ransom, and he got a $300 valet service to make sure his car was nice for the occasion?

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

It’s a gong in my head, ramming home just how unlikely all of this is. The prickle grows into a wrecking ball, slicing my guts. He isn’t what he’s pretending to be. This isn’t what it seems. It’s a trap, and I walked right into it.

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