Page 10 of Carnal Urges
I sit holding the towel and stare at him, lost. “Are you okay?”
After a moment, he turns his head and peers at me.
“I mean, you just seem… oh, sorry. I forgot I’m not supposed to be talking.”
I busy myself with drying my hair and face, blotting my mascara carefully so I don’t wind up with raccoon eyes. I wipe the rain off my bare legs, too, wondering what I’m going to do for clothes for however long I’m going to be a captive.
All the while, I’m aware of him silently watching me. The air is thick with all the things he wants to say but doesn’t.
We drive. He takes phone calls, one after another, speaking in Gaelic through each one. After maybe a dozen, he hangs up and turns to me.
“Don’t try to run. It’s safer for you with me than anywhere else right now.”
“Trust me, my feet hurt too much to… What do you mean, it’s safer with you?”
“Exactly what I said.”
We gaze at each other as the limo speeds through the night. Wherever we’re going, we’re going there fast. “So all that stuff you threatened me with on the plane—”
He interrupts, “What kinds of guns have you handled?”
When I blink, he growls, “Answer the fucking question, please.”
Please.Astonished, I open my mouth, then close it again. My second attempt is successful. “A .357 Desert Eagle. Glock G19. AK-47.”
His brows lift. He’s surprised by the AK.
“Stavros had rifles lying all over the place. He liked to shoot at fish in the lake.”
“Of course he did. Fucking Russians.” He shakes his head in disgust, then leans down and pulls a small black pistol from a holder around his ankle.
He hands it to me.
“If we’re separated, use it on anyone who approaches you, even if they seem friendly. Even if it’s a little old lady, shoot that bitch between the eyes.”
I stare at him with my mouth hanging open and my eyes wide.
He sends me a mirthless smile. “At last. Silence.”
I can’t form words. This psychotic blue-eyed gangster has rendered me speechless.
When I finally manage to regain control of my tongue, I say, “How do you know I’m not going to shootyou?”
“Are you?”
I consider it. “Maybe.”
“Decide. We don’t have much time.”
“You’re insane, is that it?”
“Believe me, lass, I sometimes wonder.”
Pulling a beefy silver semi-automatic handgun from his waistband at the small of his back, he continues. “Things are going to get bad. We’re going to take fire. The car is armored, but if the tires are compromised, we have about eighty kilometers before they die.”
He stops and looks at me. “That’s roughly fifty miles.”
I see. He doesn’t think I’m brain damaged, he thinks I’m just plain stupid.
