Page 101 of Rage

“No, it’s not.” Mona looked toward the double glass doors, but there was no movement inside the building. “I’m going to go inside and ask around.”

A short pause and then, “You worried?”

“Getting there.”

The first thing I become aware of is vibration against my cheek. I’m lying on my side with my knees drawn up. The air around me is still and hot and I’m soaked with sweat. I open my eyes to complete darkness. Confusion and disorientation tangle inside my head. I don’t know where I am or how I got here. The only thing I know for certain is that I’m in trouble.

I try to straighten my legs, but there’s not enough room. I shift to free my arms only to realize they’re bound behind my back.

What in the name of God happened?

Alarm spreads through me like fire on gasoline. Heart pounding, I raise my head and look around. I can hear the low hum of an engine and the whirr of tires against asphalt. I’m locked in the trunk of a vehicle, I realize, and a creeping fear wraps around my chest and squeezes …

The incident at the club descends like a nightmare. My encounter with Lance Wingate. The woman injecting me with some unknown drug. I glance down at my duty belt. A greasy layer of helplessness grips me when I see that my weapon and radio are gone. My cell phone is gone.

“Shit,” I whisper. “Shit.”

I can hear myself breathing hard, feel my body shaking, and I realize I’m an inch away from panic. Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a breath, reach for calm, remind myself that Dispatch knows I was at the club. Mona was on her way to meet me. My rental car is parked in the front lot; she’ll find it. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes looking for me.

I try to focus, to map out my options and find a way out of this. But my thoughts are sluggish and disjointed, my physical reflexes slow. The drug, I realize. The sense of doom that follows is crushing.

Bringing up both knees I slam my boots against the side of the trunk. I test the bindings at my wrists only to realize I’m bound with my own cuffs. “Son of a bitch.” I kick the side of the trunk again and again, but it’s a waste of energy.

I have no idea where I’m being taken, or by whom. I don’t know what they have planned for me. I think about Wingate and wonder what he could possibly hope to accomplish; surely, he knows he can’t get away with something so brazen and foolish. I think about Samuel Yutzy and Aaron Shetler and can’t help but wonder if a similar fate awaits me.

Knowing that most vehicles are equipped with an emergency trunk release, I use my legs to maneuver myself around so that my back—and hands—are against the taillights and latch. Once in position, I feel around with my fingers. Sweat drips down the side of my face as I try to locate the release. Most latches are a simple plastic handle attached with a cord. Some are inlaid. A few have buttons.

I struggle for several minutes before realizing someone has probably cut the cord or removed the handle. Breathing heavily, I feel around for anything I can rip out or break—wire or plastic or even a flap of carpet. If I can disable a brake light, I might be able to get this driver pulled over by a traffic cop. But my efforts are futile. Finding nothing vulnerable, I inch my way around and use my feet to kick at the plastic.

On the sixth kick, plastic cracks beneath the heel of my boot. Hope jumps in my chest and I redouble my efforts, feel something shatter. Abruptly, the vehicle bumps and then judders, rocking me. The cadence of the tires changes, crunching over what sounds like gravel. The driver is either pulling over or we’ve reached our destination.

“Come on,” I pant. “Come on.”

I kick harder, using my heels. Once. Twice. Breaths hissing, I scooch around so that my hands are against the broken plastic. I feel around, my fingers seeking wire, anything exposed. The vehicle stops hard enough to roll me. Choking back fear and frustration, I wriggle back to the rear of the trunk, hook a finger in wire, and pull, snapping it.

The trunk swings open. I look up, see the silhouettes of two males an instant before the flashlight beam blinds me.

“Someone’s been busy,” one of them says.

“I’m a cop,” I say. “You can’t do this. Let me go.”

“Get her out of there,” comes a vaguely familiar voice.

Strong hands fall upon my shoulder and arm, fingers clamping like vises. “Help me!” I wrench free, swivel on my back, bring up my knees, lash out with my feet. “Help! Help!”

“Shut her up,” he snarls.

Recognition pings my brain. Carter Brooks, I realize. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask.

“Something I wanted no part of,” he clamors. “Thanks to you, here we are.”

The second man leans in. I can just make out his face in the periphery of the flashlight beam, but I recognize him. The bouncer from The Cheetah Lounge.

He makes eye contact with me. A smile touches the corners of his mouth as he pulls a roll of duct tape from his pocket and tears a length of it off with his teeth. “Hold still.”

I try to jerk away, but I’ve nowhere to go. The bouncer is ready and slaps the tape over my mouth, hard enough to cut my lip.

“Pull her out,” Brooks growls. “We don’t have all damn night.”