Pete had cuffed them, chained their ankles together and tossed them onto the helicopter, then flown them somewhere south and landed on yet another godforsaken uninhabited island, where he’d dragged them off the helicopter, again with the help of his minion, and locked them in the bedroom of a house.
This house wasn’t as ostentatious as the last one. It was smaller, less fancy and far less spacious. Not that she cared since they were still stuck out in the middle of nowhere. And chained.
Her mother had cried out when they’d been taken out of the room. After so many weeks in the dark, the sunlight had played havoc with her eyes. Elena had told her to keep her eyes shut tight. That, coupled with the chains around her ankles, meant her mom kept tripping and falling as they were dragged to the helicopter. Pete, finally disgusted, threw her over his shoulder and carried her. When they landed on this island, he told her mother if she didn’t get out and walk, he’d shoot her and leave her on the deck of the helipad.
Elena’s mother somehow managed to squint and walk to the house, but she was crying now because her eyes burned so badly. She needed medical treatment.
Elena swore she’d find a way to kill the sonofabitch for all the torment he’d caused her mother.
She wished she could help her mom take a shower. She said the only thing she’d had access to was water, soap and a washcloth. She craved a shower and a long, soaking bath. But with them being shackled up like this, she couldn’t even have that.
Elena sat on the edge of the bed while her mother slept. At least this bed was more comfortable than the cot her mom had been forced to sleep on for so long. And it was warmer here. Her mother slept soundly, no doubt exhausted and likely malnourished. She’d lost weight, her dirty clothes hanging loose on her much smaller frame.
Elena raised her cuffed hands and swept them over her mother’s hair.
She’d resented her mother for so long, had ignored her, had tried so hard not to be like her. Now she’d do anything to save her.
Elena’s hand brushed something metal. She slid her fingers into her mother’s hair and pulled out one of those thick hairpins and smiled. Her mother was always sticking those things into her unruly curly hair to keep it away from her face.
Then it hit her. She dipped her fingers into her mom’s hair again, searching, and found another pin.
She stared at the two pins in her hand, then at the handcuffs, and grinned, remembering the lessons she’d been taught long ago.
She straightened the hairpin, then bent down and worked at the lock holding the chain at her ankles. She slid it into the hole and began to work it around. After about fifteen minutes she’d worked up a sweat and had gotten nowhere, so she opened the second pin and used two of them, forcing patience when all she wanted was for this damn thing to—
The lock clicked open. Oh, my God, it worked. She resisted the urge to pump her fist in the air and squeal. She pulled the lock off and removed the chains, then set about on undoing the handcuffs, which were a lot easier to pick than the lock. She had those off in a few minutes, climbed off the bed then set to work on the lock at her mom’s ankles.
Her mother stirred and sat up, her eyes still shut. “Elena?”
“Shhh, Mom, stay quiet.”
“What are you doing?”
“Picking these locks with your hairpins.”
“What? How can you do that?”
“I had to amuse myself somehow when you dragged me over to Paco’s when I was a kid. Some of his friends taught me how to pick a lock.”
She sighed. “The influences I exposed you to as a child . . .”
The lock released. “Have come in handy. Let’s take a look at those handcuffs now.”
She had her mother out of the cuffs within ten minutes.
Hope lit a flame inside her. She helped her mother to the side of the bed so she could get her bearings, then stood to look around the room. T
he windows were barred, so no way out there. She went into the bathroom. Same thing with the windows. She went back into the bedroom and opened the closet door, looking for anything that would help her get them out of there. She rummaged through the racks of clothes hanging there, then bent down and pushed aside the boxes of shoes.
Her breath stopped when she saw the bright red numbers and the countdown on the black box tucked in the back of the closet.
That looked an awful lot like a bomb. And the clock was ticking down. Time left was a little over sixty minutes.
She sucked in a shaky breath and gently shut the closet door, turned to her mother and kept her voice calm.
“We have to get out of here before Pete comes in and realizes we’ve gotten free. How are you feeling?”
“A little weak, but I can handle it.”