Page 5 of Dirty Quinn
Before I have a chance to change my mind, I call Viktor Limonov to tell him I’m in. If he can get the FBI to cover for me, I have nothing to lose. I’m disheartened by the Feds right about now anyway. For the very reason that someone like Limonov can get to them and impact their decisions. That’s not the organization I signed on with.
The organization I signed on with is on the right side of the law at all times. They make plays that are legitimate and above board, and don’t allow foreign powerhouses with too much money and not enough brains to decide agents’ careers. And higher-ups aren’t influenced by outside sources.
Shit. Maybe it’s always been like this and I’m the stupid one.
2
Quinn
I stick my cell phone, compact, lipstick, and eye drops in my clutch and head out the door. My Lyft should be here any minute and I already have multiple destinations requested just in case I don’t get it right the first time.
I look back at my little apartment above the garage one last time, in case I don’t see it again for a while. If I had a dog, this is where it would sit in the window and wag its tail as a way of saying goodbye. Oh, except if I had a dog, I’d need someone to feed and walk it in case I’m not back right away. Since I’m the only person I know who does that for other people, a dog is a bad idea. So, instead, I’ll just say goodbye to the apartment.
The car pulls up and I get in the back.
“Quinn?” the driver asks.
“That’s me. Can we go to stop number one first? Depending on what happens there, we may not need to go anywhere else, but I’ll still pay you for the whole trip.”
“Is good.”
I settle back into the seat and play with the hem of my dress, wrapping it around my finger one way, then the other, going over my plan one more time in my head.
It will work.
It’s got to.
There is no other choice left.
I’m going to find the guys David was working with and let myself be kidnapped.
Then, I’ll wait for Reed to come and rescue me.
* * *
Even though it’s my idea to get kidnapped, and I thought I was prepared for it, the actual act still catches me entirely off guard when it happens. In the movies when a girl is kidnapped she has all this time to struggle and scream—to fight back and scratch her attackers so she has evidence under her nails. In real life, it’s nothing like that.
At least it wasn’t for me. So much so I didn’t even have to implement my plan. And before you say anything, I do now realize how dumb my idea is. Or was. And how dangerous it is to go searching out human traffickers all trussed up like a five-course meal in front of a table of starving heathens.
Because in reality, all I had to do was get in the backseat of the car Ithoughtwas my Lyft. The bad guys did the rest. I was already on their radar; they had already planned to take me. At least that’s how it seemed when the driver turned to face me at a red light, pointed a gun at my head, and demanded my phone.
Which he promptly tossed out the window as he accelerated onto the freeway. The only other thing he’s said this entire thirty-minute ride so far is that if my friend Daria is smart, she’ll know how to find me. I already know Daria is smart, what I don’t know is how she’ll be able to find me when I don’t have my phone.
What I also can’t figure out is how the bad guys knew I’d ordered a ride to begin with. Not that it matters, I suppose. Really, that’s the least of my worries. Because now that it’s happened, I realize how utterly asinine it is to want to be kidnapped. Never mind dressing up for the occasion.
My god, no wonder Daria doesn’t think I can be a Dirty Darling. I’m an idiot. A crazy idiot. No one in their right mind decides to be kidnapped. Regardless of the fact they were already planning to take me, I’dhadthe intention of being taken. So, the fault lies with me first. And the bad guys second.
They’ve tinted the windows a deep black, so dark I’ve given up trying to figure out where we are going. Recognizing anything beyond the light that blurs outside them is pointless. I was so flustered after he pointed a gun at me I forgot to keep track of our stops and turns. And which freeway he may have gotten on.
While we’re talking about how stupid I am, I’ll go ahead and admit that it wasn’t until just a few seconds ago that it occurred to me to try to open the door to jump out. While on the freeway. Not the side streets. Or even a red light. But at a speed of seventy-five miles per hour.
Not that it matters, I’ve since realized that the door handles and window buttons are on child lock back here, so I have no way to escape anyway. Unless I could somehow climb over the back of the front seat without the big guy noticing. . .
Ugh. I can’t even finish that thought, it’s so dumb.
Speaking of the driver, I tried talking to him after he took my phone, but he only replied with a gruff, “If you want to live, you’ll stay quiet.”
He’s a big guy. Tall enough that his head grazes the roof of the car, and he needs to push the seat all the way back. I’ve never driven a car where I don’t have to have the seat locked in as close to the steering wheel as possible because my legs are short.
