“Other than being drugged, watching my boyfriend get killed, and being taken hostage first by you and then whoever the hell they are? Just peachy. You?”
Boyfriend… the asshole she was with was her boyfriend. Good to know. There’s more to this story than it seemed at first.
“Cut the bullshit. We’re both hostages here for who knows what or how long, and there’s no telling if we’re a better use to them dead or alive, though it seems alive, and it might be the only reason we’re still breathing.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me your injuries.”
“You gonna doctor me up?” she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
The little brat. “Tell me your fucking injuries.”
She sighs. “Hit my head. My lips feel swollen, but that might be from the meds.”
“Yeah.” Okay, so, so far nothing sounds like it will prevent her from running if we have to.
“My wrists hurt where I’m tied, and my—oh! Oh, shit,” she says, her voice dropping. “I just remembered.”
“Yeah?”
“They—do you think we’re being bugged?”
“No idea. If they have cameras in here, they won’t see anything because it’s so dark. And it’s a small room, so the chances they took the time to set anything up are pretty slim.”
“How do you know it’s a small room?”
“Took him four steps to get to us from the doorway and saw the corners when the door opened. Plus, the air in here’s getting stale now that we’re both awake, but it’s probably still a good idea to talk discreetly so they don’t pick up shit.”
“Right,” she whispers. “Do you remember what Orlando said to get before they got us?”
My mind feels like thick sludge, and it makes me want to punch a wall. I hate someone fucking with my mind more than anything. I’d rather die a painful, drawn-out death than lose my mind to illness or disease. I close my eyes, remembering… I called Orlando, that much I know.
I push, trying to open up my mind and replay the conversation, when suddenly it comes rushing back with such vivid clarity. I sit up straighter.
“Your phone’s set up to send an SOS with three pushes of the volume button… there’s a tiny transponder in the glove compartment. It works the same as a cell.”
My voice is husky and low in the darkness. “I remember. Where is it?”
“I shoved it in my bra.”
If they’re tapping us, we have to move fast.
“Fuck. We’re tied together and I’m guessing you can’t reach it.”
“No, I’d have to be a circus performer to reach my bra with my chin.”
“A sight I’d pay good money to see.”
“Jesus.”
“Just sayin’.”
I’m thinking.
“What kind of a bond is this?” she asks.
“Feels like rope. They weren’t prepared to take us.”