“Thanks,” I grumbled, and wiped my damp eyes.
“You’re welcome. Now, go do what you need to do; we have a long drive.”
I stood up and looked at Mr. M. He still wore the same filthy clothes after two full days.
“How much did they offer?” I asked. If I was going to die, I wanted to know what my sad little life was worth.
“Three million,” he replied. “Two million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand dollars too much.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You’re a scrumptious, charming man.”
“I’ll give you two minutes,” he said with disdain, giving me a little privacy to wash up and pee.
Two minutes on the nose, he was back. He dragged me up the creaky, dark stairs, through the dilapidated ranch-style house and outside toward a green sedan parked on a long gravel driveway. The surrounding trees and cactus garden hinted that we were still in New Mexico or Arizona, but I didn’t know for sure.
As we approached the car, he told me to put my hands behind my back.
“Going to drug me again?” I asked.
“I’m going to handcuff you. I want you awake for your new owners; they plan to send lots and lots of videos to your father before killing you.”
I winced. “Nice, Mr. M. Really, really nice.”
He frowned. “Turn.”
I did as he asked. After all, what was the point in fighting him when he might change his mind and stick me with another needle, leaving me completely helpless? This way, I might see an opportunity for escape and be awake to take it.
He opened the back passenger side door and shoved me inside before moving to the driver’s seat. Derek was nowhere to be found. “Where is your friend?” I asked.
“He’s gone on ahead to secure—”
Blood exploded over the interior of the car and my face. I screamed. A chunk of Mr. M’s head was gone, and his body bucked violently as what I assumed was another silent bullet hit him in the chest. Then another.
My door flew open, and a man in a black ski mask dragged me from the car. I screamed again and tried to fight, but my hands were tied back.
“Shit, Dakota. Calm down. It’s me.”
“Paolo?”
The man removed his mask. “Yes.” He looked over his shoulder. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”
I’d never been so relieved in my life. And so terrified.
Paolo dragged me across a small field at the right of the house and through a standing of trees to where a motorcycle waited. Panting, he asked me to turn around. He freed my hands and then took off his black jacket and removed his shirt. “Clean your face with this.”
I wiped away what I could and threw the shirt on the ground before he popped a helmet on my head. “Just hang on.” He put his jacket back on and started the engine.
I jumped on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and basking in the comfort of feeling safe, of being with him. I wasn’t letting go this time.
~ ~ ~
Taking only back roads, Paolo didn’t stop for hours. He could have kept driving forever for all I cared. Just as long as I was away from that place and those men. I didn’t care that my face was still smudged with Mr. M’s blood or that my back and arms were numb from being on that bike and squeezing Paolo as if he were my lifeline to sanity.
When he finally pulled off at a small gas station near the Oasis State Park in New Mexico, he had to pry my hands off him. “Dakota, it’s okay now.” He removed his helmet and looked at me with his dark eyes. “You’re all right.”
How could he be so calm and collected?
“Nod if you understand me,” he said.
I nodded.
“That’s my girl.”
My girl. My girl. My hands balled into fists.
He must’ve seen the rage in my eyes because his expression hardened.
“Don’t,” he warned. “Not here. I know you’re angry and traumatized, but you need to hold it together, all right? Just until we’re somewhere safe, and then, I promise, you can scream at me all you like.”
I didn’t respond.
“Please, Dakota?”
I nodded.
“Good. There’s a bathroom. Go inside and wash up. I’ll get you something to drink. Are you hungry, too?”
“No,” I murmured.
He ran his hand down my arm. “I know how you feel.”
How could he possibly know how I felt? I dismounted from the bike and walked to the exterior entrance of the bathroom, keeping my helmet on. When I locked the door, I removed it and looked at my face in the foggy, scuffed up mirror. I didn’t recognize myself. I looked like a creature from a horror movie. Chunks of dried blood were matted in my hair and stuck to my brows. I washed and scrubbed, but I still felt dirty. The image of Mr. M’s head exploding kept replaying in my mind. I rinsed my mouth with soap several times, remembering how some of his blood got inside it. I’d never forget that taste. The taste of death and salvation. And terror.