Page 34 of Dangerous Games

I shiver; it’s chilly. They haven’t removed the bag from my head, but they tied my arms behind my back, so I can’t remove it myself. I fiddle with the bracelet, wondering if there is some way I can signal Dominic as to where I am or if just wearing the bracelet is enough for him to find me. I hope he doesn’t think I ran out on him. Given enough time with Jimmy I probably would have. We’d have gotten in his car and driven it to the edge of the city and stolen someone else’s car to escape from there. Of course, I’d have been smart enough to ditch the bracelet. If I get that chance, I may still take it, or maybe not. Things with Dominic aren’t that horrible.

“Well, look who’s awake,” a male voice says, giving me a start. I thought I was alone in this place, and I’m clearly not, or maybe he just walked in. I didn’t hear footsteps though.

“What do you want with me?” I’m not stupid. I know what they want with me. They want Dominic. They are probably using me to get to him now. It’s possible they know he is tracking me, that they’re using me to lure him out. Or worse—they want Jimmy to hunt me down. He can’t do that, but he’s just stupid enough to try.

“Oh, what a feisty little bitch.” I hear the footsteps now as they move closer to me. Rubber boots on this cold floor, squeaking with each step. He yanks the sack off my head, and I’m blinded by the light for a moment until my eyes adjust. It’s an old office with several tall filing cabinets lining the walls. A few shelves sit to one side, covered in boxes and cleaning supplies. I still don’t recognize it, but at least I can see.

There is a single window on the other side of the room above a small table covered in magazines. If this jerk leaves, I can open that window and sneak out of here. I keep my eyes on it like it’s my only hope, and the man with scraggly dark hair towers over me.

“Why am I here?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the window.

“You should know by now why you’re here. Shacking up with Dominic taught you nothing?” He scoffs and tosses the bag onto the desk. A few papers flutter to the ground near my feet and I glance at them. There’s a logo on the upper right corner of the paper, a shipping yard off Long Island Sound. I’ve seen commercials for it. They accept large cargo and allow people to dry dock their boats here in winter. I know where I am. Little good that does me without a phone. I’m sure they’ve taken that by now.

The man stares at me with interest, as if he’s trying to decide what Dominic sees in me. I feel like I’m being scrutinized like a lab of meat on a butcher’s hook. I shift how I’m sitting, realizing the ropes on my hands aren’t that tight. I can probably slip my hands out of them if he’s not looking at me. I sit perfectly still though, not wanting the man to read my thoughts. He looks scary, broad shoulders, gun strapped to his hip. If he wanted to, he could probably snap me in two.

“Who are you?” I ask, not really expecting him to give me an answer, but I memorize his face. He has blue eyes, but they’re dark and stormy. There is a scar above his right eye; looks like he was sliced open at some point. I glare at him, but it doesn’t faze him.

“Who I am is none of your business.” He kicks my feet out from under me and I wince. It doesn’t hurt but I nearly fall over.

“When Dominic gets here, you’re going to pay for this. He won’t like that you’re mistreating me.” I am so mad I could spit on him, but I don’t. I don’t want to make things worse for myself.

“Ha, you’re funny.” He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at me. “Dominic is out. He’s not the boss anymore. We’re making Sven the boss.”

“Why so you can push him around? What do you have on him? Is he ready to stab Dominic in the back too?”

That comment earns me a smack so hard I do fall over, knocking my head against the corner of the desk. I wince, yelping in pain, and try to sit up but he’s there. He stands on my hair and crouches next to me, almost putting his knee into the side of my head. Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them away. I am not weak, and this man will not get to me. I will stay strong because I refuse to be a coward.

“Listen to me good, bitch, you’re just a pawn. Nothing more. There is nothing stopping me from slitting your throat right now. I could have done it already. You’re alive as a bargaining chip and nothing more.”

The man’s phone chimes, and he stands, backing away. I watch him pull it from his pocket and he shakes his head in frustration, then turns and walks out. For a moment I lay there, waiting for him to come back, but after a few minutes I realize he isn’t coming back. At least not soon. I force myself to sit up, wriggling at the restraints on my wrists until I feel like the ropes are cutting my flesh; they may be. It hurts like hell, and they’re not as loose as I hoped they were.

With a bit of effort, I’m able to work my hands under my hips then around my butt until they are hugging my legs to my chest. I’m not quite flexible enough to get them fully free, but I can at least spread my knees and see the knot is loose. At first, I try in vain to squeeze my wrists out, but then I try using my teeth to untie the knot. When that proves useless, I look around the room for some way to extract myself from this mess. There is a trash can in the corner, a cardboard box that has words written in some Asian language, a few pieces of paper still on the ground in front of me, and some sort of wooden crate with a handle.

I don’t hear anyone outside the door, so I scoot across the room until I can see into the crate, and I see victory. It’s an old tool kit, complete with a small saw, a pry bar, some screwdrivers, a few wrenches, and some sockets. I hit the jackpot. I scoot faster, eager to get out of these ropes and try to bust out the window.

My hips hurt, but I manage to lift one leg up and reach into the box for the saw. It’s awkward trying to twist it around in my hand until the blade is up against the rope, but then I set to work. I concentrate, wiggling the saw up and down in slow determined movements until the rope begins to fray, and before long, it snaps into two pieces. The rope is still wrapped around my wrists, but with one end free it only takes a second to loose it completely and I’m standing up and stretching my aching back.

I tiptoe to the door and listen, hearing the work being done outside the door. I also hear a few male voices very close to the door, which means I can’t sneak out that way, so I head back to the window. It’s locked, and it’s frosted too. I can’t see out it. I don’t think we’re on a second story, but I can’t just climb out if we are. And I can’t bust it open either. The men outside the door would come in within seconds. So, I push the lever on the top side of the window to open and try to lift it.

It's an old window, wooden, probably swollen from misuse. It’s stuck, making it twice as difficult to open. Frustrated, I push upward with all of my strength, but it doesn’t budge. I examine it, glancing over my shoulder a few times to make sure no one enters the room. The tan paint slapped on this old wooden frame has painted the window shut. I’ll never get it open on my own, at least not without some sort of tool, so I return to the toolbox on the floor and rifle through it. I find the pry bar but no knife or other tool to break the paint seal. The pry bar will have to work.

I return to the window, eager to apply some elbow grease. The pry bar is heavy, but it’s not like I haven’t used one before. I press the claw into the window near the bottom, tapping it lightly to lodge it in place. If I hit it too hard, they’ll hear, so I can only hope I’ve done a good enough job of getting it into the wood. But when I begin to pull back on the shaft, it pops out of the wood, making a loud sound. I freeze, my heart suddenly pounding ten times faster than normal, as if I wasn’t already freaking out.

For a second nothing happens. I think maybe I’ll get away with it, but then the door opens, and the same scar-faced man appears. “What the hell are you doing? How’d you get loose?” He barges over to me and grabs the pry bar.

I’m terrified that he may hit me with it, so I keep my hands wrapped tightly around the shaft, not giving it up. “Let go, bitch,” he shouts, pulling on it.

“No, let me go.” I fight him, refusing to give it up, and he brings the back of his hand across my face, knocking me over. I fall hard against the filing cabinet behind me and slide to the ground where his boot connects to my hip, and I yelp in pain.

“Fuck, stop!” I yell, shielding my face in case he wants to hit me again. My cheekbone is throbbing, and my hip hurts. It feels like he dislocated something.

“Stupid woman. What did you think you were going to accomplish with this? The whole place is surrounded by my men. We’d have seen you in literally a minute, tops. Just sit there and wait for your brother to show up.”

His words get my attention and I lower my hands. “Jimmy? What do you mean? He’s coming?” I’m confused. Jimmy is working with them? Or are they expecting him to come rescue me?

“You really are stupid, aren’t you? Hasn’t Gusev told you anything?” The man tosses the pry bar into the toolbox, and it clangs against the other tools in a loud shrill sound that hurts my ears. I cover them briefly, shaking, then lower my hands again as I curl into a ball. He crouches again, hands draped over his knees and clasped in front of himself.

I shrink back. I don’t want him to talk to me anymore. I don't want him to look at me or touch me. I want to go home. I want the safety of my risky life of sleeping with rich powerful men and feeling that release. That’s what I want. Normal. My specific blend of normal that makes me feel in control.

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