Page 96 of My Best Friend Is Broken
“They’re getting paid very well to sit in that car,” I point out. “And they chose this job. We didn’t ask them to be here.”
“True.” He moves away from the window, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m getting antsy, though. Want to go down to the gym? Work off some of this nervous energy?”
The gym is in the building, technically not “outside,” and we’d still be in a secure, monitored space. Plus, Molly clearly needs to move, needs to do something other than sit around waiting for danger that might never come.
Dr. Torrino has given me a week off to ‘handle this problem’ and pretty soon I’m going to be going stir crazy too. Unless I do something about it.
“Yeah, okay. Let me change.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in the basement gym, which is blissfully empty. Mid-morning on a weekday, most people are at work or otherwise occupied. We have the space entirely to ourselves, which should feel peaceful but instead makes me slightly uneasy. Too quiet, too isolated, too far from the bodyguards sitting in their car outside.
But Molly seems relaxed, already warming up on the treadmill with, completely at ease after putting on the overly energetic pop music. I try to match his energy,pushing my anxiety down and focusing on the familiar routine of exercise.
We’re maybe twenty minutes into our workout when the door opens.
Four men walk in, and I know immediately something is wrong. They’re too purposeful, too focused, moving with the kind of coordinated precision that speaks of training and intent. They spread out, covering the exits, and I see Molly freeze mid-rep, his eyes going wide.
The largest of the men, built like a brick wall with a shaved head and cold eyes, casually pulls back his jacket to reveal a holster. A gun, unmistakable and terrifying.
“Come with us,” he says in heavily accented English. “No trouble, yes?”
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I think it might break through. This is it. This is the danger Nicky warned us about, the threat we thought we were safe from. And we walked right into it by coming down to the gym, by leaving the apartment where at least we had cameras and panic buttons and some semblance of security.
I look at Molly, desperate for some sign of what to do. Fight? Run? Scream?
But Molly just nods, calm and collected in a way that seems impossible. “Alright. We’ll come quietly. No need for anyone to get hurt.”
His voice is steady, almost casual, like he’s agreeing to go to lunch rather than being kidnapped by armed men. But I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides.
The men gesture toward the back exit, the one that leads to the loading bay where deliveries are made. Of course they know about it. Of course they’ve plannedthis carefully, waited for their moment when we’d be vulnerable.
We walk through the corridor in silence, surrounded by Russians who smell like cigarettes and who move as if violence is second nature. I’m trying desperately not to fall apart, to keep breathing, to not think about all the terrible things that could happen next.
The car waiting for us is expensive. A black Mercedes with tinted windows that scream money and power. One of the men opens the back door and gestures for us to get in.
At least they’re not putting us in the boot. The thought is absurd, finding relief in such a small thing when everything else is terrifying, but I cling to it anyway. Not the boot means they want us alive and relatively unharmed. For now.
Molly slides in first, and I follow, sandwiched between him and one of the Russians. The door slams shut with a finality that makes my stomach drop. The child locks engage with a soft click.
We’re trapped.
The car pulls away smoothly, and through the tinted windows, I catch a glimpse of the bodyguards’ car. They’re just sitting there, completely unaware that we’ve been taken from right under their noses. Nicky is going to be devastated. Furious. Terrified.
If we survive long enough for him to find out.
“So,” Molly says brightly, breaking the tense silence, “where are we going? Anywhere nice? I’ve always wanted to see more of London’s industrial areas.”
The Russian beside him grunts, unimpressed by the sarcasm.
“What about you?” Molly continues, addressing the driver. “Do you enjoy kidnapping, or is it more of a necessary evil in your line of work? I imagine the hours are terrible.”
“Shut up,” the man beside me growls.
“Rude,” Molly mutters, but he does fall silent for a moment. Then, apparently unable to help himself, he adds, “I’m just saying, you could at least offer us some water. This is going to be a terrible Yelp review.”
I stare at him in amazement and horror. Is he insane? We’re being kidnapped by the Russian mafia, and he’s making jokes about Yelp reviews?
But as I watch him, I start to understand. The sass, the cheek, the refusal to show fear, it’s all a defense mechanism. A way of maintaining some control when everything else has been stripped away. And somehow, he knows exactly how far he can push without triggering real violence.
