Page 36 of The Bond

“You’ve always got some kind of weapon on your person,” he said, ignoring my question. “Hand over your weapons.”

As was usually the case, I had a weapon strapped to my inner thigh. A small pistol this time. If I gave it to him, I would have no way to defend myself. Without my phone, I was already at a disadvantage, unable to contact anyone for help. At least with the gun, I’d have a fighting chance against whatever he was planning.

When I didn’t move he said, “I’m not going to ask again. Hand over your weapons or I’ll drive back to you house and shoot your husband in the fucking head. I have zero qualms about making you watch me kill him.”

“Please—”

“Hand it over, or so help me, your husband fucking dies!” he shouted, the crescendo of his voice vibrating through my body, making me jump in terror as I shook all over.

My hands were trembling, my palms slick with sweat, as I shrank back further into the shadows of the backseat so he wouldn’t see me put my hands up my dress. The thought of what he might try to do to me made my eyes water as I struggled to free the gun from the strap. But it was the thought of what he would do to Enzo that made me fight back the scream that threatened to escape. No matter what he did to me, I could face it. Yet it was the thought of any harm coming to my husband that was already pushing me over the edge of reason into a hysterical madness.

“Don’t hurt him,” I pleaded as I handed him the gun. “I’m begging you, don’t hurt Enzo.”

The driver took the pistol from me, stashing that too. “Sit back. Relax. We’re almost there. Won’t be long now.”

He drove on, pulling away from the alley to go through some side streets I barely recognized.

As he drove, I wracked my brain for a way out of this. Without a weapon or a way to communicate I’d have to rely on cunning. But my mind was so focused on Enzo that I found it almost impossible to think. Panic was setting in.

Inhaling deeply, I forced air into my lungs hoping that would help me concentrate. Rapid, incoherent thoughts bombarded my mind, and the only thing that slowed them down was the sound of my breathing.

I tried to think of things that I could use against my driver. Byrne, that was his last name. I held onto the name, willing my brain to start thinking now that it had been able to recall a name. I’d been smart enough to come up with the immunity deal. Smart enough to go to my father to try and get a name. But while I knew his name now, I still barely knew anything about Dave. He was the chauffer who had passed our background check, getting vetted after the car bombing almost killed my dad. But I didn’t know much else. He knew a lot more about me than I knew about him. Maybe getting him to talk and open up would work in my favor.

“Dave, where are we going?” I asked, fighting to keep my tone light and conversational. “Help me understand where we’re headed.”

I noticed the way he flinched when I used his name, as if he preferred to be anonymous.

“You’ll know when we get there,” he answered darkly.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, every single potential answer filling me with abject terror. “Is it money you want? My family could help you.”

“Now you people want to help me,” he said icily. “Where the hell were you when I was drowning in medical debt? Where the hell were you then?”

“I-I don’t understand,” I said. “Help me understand.”

“You’ll never understand,” he threw out harshly. “People like you never do.”

Bile rose in my throat, my stomach twisting so painfully I worried that I might throw up. But somehow, I managed to avoid that, as I focused on breathing while trying to figure out where we were headed.

For the rest of the car ride, I remained still and quiet while Dave seethed from the driver’s seat, occasionally casting me a glare in the rearview mirror that made my blood run cold.

Finally, we navigated down a narrow, stony road near the waterfront. Based on the dim lighting and the shape of the building, I figured we were at one of my family’s abandoned warehouses. If I accounted for how long it took for us to get here, I guessed it was one of the old warehouses that used to store goods for my family’s hospitality business—the front for our enterprise. This was where our liquor and dry goods had been stored in the previous century before we moved to a larger, more modern warehouse across town.

The dilapidated warehouse had been abandoned for so long that I knew there was nobody here. No one was around to come to my rescue.

When he got out to open the back door, I shrank away from him. But then he pointed his gun at me and lowered his head to meet my eyes. “Get out. Quietly.”

I started to move, and the next thing I knew, he was grabbing hold of my upper arm, roughly dragging me out of the car. Pain spread up and down my arm, making me wince as I tried to find my footing on the rocky ground.

“See the entrance? Head to it. Any sudden movements and I shoot,” he said, mercilessly pushing the gun into my back.

I didn’t argue. I just kept my eyes on the warehouse doors and started to move, my heart pounding against my ribs with each shaky step.

Only two outside lights were on and they were dim and blinking. But they were enough, helping me to follow the path to the warehouse entrance.

When we got to the doors, I noticed that the rusty lock and chain holding them shut had been broken and dumped on the ground. Likely by Dave.

“Open the doors,” he ordered behind me.