Dangerously Big (2 page)

My fingers, though, continue dancing over the keyboard. Gibberish, but I don’t stop.

This is the first time I’ve been addressed with my real last name since I was sixteen.
 

I’m certain I don’t recognize the man’s voice. He’s likely a hired investigator or a freelancer looking to collect whatever reward my grandfather is currently offering for my return.
 

Which means he’s going off old photos. I was brunette then, and I’m blonde now. I’m also older.
 

Still, I’m drenched in cold sweat. Someone has found me. It’s not the first time, but usually I realize what’s happening and change towns.

I sense the stranger coming closer, and I try to catch his reflection in the monitor.
 

It doesn’t matter.
 

I don’t have a weapon, and if he’s here, then I’m almost certainly alone in the office. Which means he’s been watching. Waiting.

The air stirs slightly and I know he’s moving toward me.
 

For some inexplicable reason I think about insects, about how they can tell when someone is going to squash them. It’s because they sense the change in airflow.

But even though I know I’m about to get obliterated, I’m unable to move. It’s like I’ve turned into a mannequin, my posture proper and perfect, my eyes glued to the screen but seeing nothing through the haze of fear. If not for my fingers clack-clack-clacking away, I’d think I was paralyzed.

He’s in my peripheral vision now. A broad mass of a man, though average height. He smells like stale cigarette smoke. He smells like the end of my freedom, and I swallow hard. The lump in my throat is like concrete.
 

“Little Miss Lindsay Yorker,” he says again, provoking. There’s not a sliver of doubt in his voice.
 

He knows exactly who I am.

But I turn to face him with a polite smile on my face.
 

I expect someone who looks, I don’t know, sinister, but he’s average, his face pleasant. I know what he sees: a sexed-up blonde with pale blue eyes, immaculate makeup.
 

“You must be mistaken,” I say pleasantly. “My last name is—”

“Yorker,” he says. He reaches for my arm, and I jerk away, the office chair flying backward along the carpet until the back of the chair slams into a coworker’s desk. Her cup of pens rattles, then topples noisily.

He advances, and there’s no way I can dart around him.

And all I can think is that it’s not possible.
 

This man can’t have gotten into the building, not with all the security.
 

Which means he’s not here, blocking me with his squat body. He’s not going through my purse and helping himself to my car key, phone, wallet. He’s not rifling through my desk drawers.

And if he’s not here, I’m imagining all this, and any second now the delusion will pass and I’ll get back to my reports, then I’ll go home and watch a romantic comedy with my cat, maybe eat butter pecan ice cream.

But then he comes toward me, his face expressionless except for the slight snarl on his lips.
 

His yellowed, tobacco-stained fingers tighten around my arm.

“Been looking for you a long time, Lindsay Yorker,” he says.

Chapter 2

The elevator is already waiting; he shoved a chair in the door to stop it from closing.
 

I glance down the hall, toward the executive offices in the hope that Romeo will come out and fuck this guy up.
 

Everything is quiet, the doorways dark.

“There’s no one here,” the kidnapper says, his grip tightening until a gasp hisses through my clenched teeth. “But you’re going to be a good girl, aren’t you?” He shakes me. “Aren’t you?”

His other hand lifts his jacket, revealing a holstered gun.

I nod mutely, tears blurring my vision.

As the elevator descends, I pray for someone else to get on, but we arrive at the parking garage without any interruptions.
 

My shock is starting to wear off, and maybe that would be good if I had any ideas at all.
 

But I don’t.

The man knows where my car is, and he shoves me toward it. He unlocks the door and pops the trunk.

“No!” I gasp.
 

He covers my mouth. His hand is so big that it’s covering my nostrils as well. I struggle uselessly against him.
 

He gets me from behind and carries me, thrashing wildly, to the trunk. I fight him as hard as I can, but he’s not only bigger and stronger, he’s got experience on his side. It’s not a comforting realization.

“Scream and I’ll shoot you,” he says as he dumps me in the trunk. And it’s the calm delivery that makes me believe him.

Immediately, I clamp down on my bubbling panic. I’ve got one tool, one chance to change this man’s mind. I smile and pretend this is just a sales call with someone who wants to slam the door in my face.
 

“Look, you’re in charge here,” I say. The overhead garage lights hurt my eyes, but I don’t squint. “Let’s discuss a mutually beneficial arrangement—”

“My wife just kicked me out,” he says.

Yech.
I don’t want to touch him, but if I do this right, if I win his trust, I won’t have to. “So you’re lonely and need a little companionship?” I slowly let my lips part. “I’m lonely, too.”

“No, I’m broke, so unless you have money stuffed up your snatch…” He laughs. “It’s just business.” He slams the trunk lid in my face.

~ ~ ~

The trunk is dark, and it’s uncomfortable. It smells like the bottle of detergent that leaked everywhere a few months ago.

I wish I had my cell phone. I wish…

I shake my head.
Focus
, I tell myself. It’ll be a hard day’s drive—night’s drive—to my grandfather’s mansion. My new best friend will have to stop, get gas, feed me. Or at least feed himself.
 

Each of those will be an opportunity to escape.
 

I’ve talked myself out of trouble before. Maybe it was never quite this dire, but I’ll figure something out.

The tears start slowly. I brush them away, my trembling fingers cold against my cheeks.
 

All the ways I imagined it ending… but never like this. All because I got comfortable, and I got sloppy.
 

It’s impossible to keep track of the time, but I estimate that only ten or fifteen minutes elapse before the car—
my
car—stops.

A truck rolls by, my car shuddering in its wake.
 

Then we’re moving again, but not for long. Just a few minutes, then a stop. The engine shuts off.

It’s quiet here. A place to dump a body? But my grandfather wouldn’t have me killed. He believes that if something happens to me, all my accumulated evidence will land on the desk of an honest policeman.
 

But that was a bluff, something I got from a movie. Who knows if it’s even possible in real life. Maybe my grandfather decided to call my bluff.

If I die, what will happen to my sister? She doesn’t know the truth about our grandfather, that he’s a murderer. And that’s my fault. I should have gone back for her.

My next thought is about Bandit, my cat. I hope one of my bosses will go to my apartment before Bandit starves. Slade would go looking for me. I’m sure of it.
 

The kidnapper gets out of the car. Footsteps approach.

“Sir,” I plead when he opens the trunk.

To my surprise, he holds out my phone. The screen is illuminated with an unfamiliar number.

I stretch out my hand only to have the phone jerked away. “Talk,” the man mouths. He brings up his other hand. Light glints off the gun’s barrel.

“Hello?” I say. My throat is raw, and the word comes out lumpy and unconvincing, but it’s hard to be calm when I have a gun in my face.

“Lindsay,” Slade says, “Sorry to call so many times in a row. I heard you were working late, and I was going to come by the office with dinner, if you’re hungry. Where are you?” Slade is surely wondering who answered the phone, but he’s too polite to ask.

My kidnapper taps the mute button. “You’re going to put his mind at ease,” he says. “I don’t want any cops looking for us. And in case you have any ideas, you should know that you’re worth the same to me dead or alive.”

My hands begin to tremble, and my throat turns parched.

I try to tell myself he won’t hurt me, that he’s playing tough, that surely my grandfather wants me back alive.
 

But I know better than to believe my own lies.

“Understood?” the man asks. “You fuck with my money, I’ll fuck with you.”

“Lindsay?” Slade is saying. “Are you there?”

“He can pay you,” I say quickly, my eyes darting to the phone. “My boyfriend. He’s rich. Really rich. Whatever my grandfather offered, he’ll double.”

The kidnapper is holding his head at a strange angle. From my awkward position, I can’t quite see his eyes, so I have no idea if I’m getting through to him.

“Please,” I say. “It’s just business, right? That’s what you said.”

He hangs up the phone.

“How much do you want?” I ask. I start to sit up, but the man shoves the gun into my chest.

The phone rings, and I assume it’s Slade. But then I see the photo I assigned to Hawthorne—of a cactus wearing a sombrero—on the screen.
 

If only it were Slade or Romeo… anyone but Hawthorne. He and I… there’s a lot of friction there. It’s technically my fault, but he does seem to take special delight in being a jerk. He, at least, won’t be sad if I disappear.

“Triple,” the man says. “You tell your boyfriend that. And I want it in cash. Tonight. Or no deal.”
 

I nod and blink away tears. Hawthorne wouldn’t give the lint in his pocket to help me. The day we met established that loud and clear.

But what can I do except bluff and hope for the best?

The man quickly glances around, and something about the way he does it tells me that we’re well isolated. It’s not comforting.
 

He hits the answer button. “Are you little Lindsay’s boyfriend?”
 

“Who the hell is this?” Hawthorne’s deep voice is dripping with frigid superiority, and I see my mistake. I should have told the kidnapper that it was a different person calling, but I’m so panicked that I’m not thinking clearly. My circumstances are already volatile, and Hawthorne is like a barrel of kerosene and a lit match.

“Let’s talk about your girl,” my kidnapper says.
 

“What about her?” Now Hawthorne is guarded.

“I’ve got her,” the man says. “You want her back, you’ll want to pay.”

I know what’s coming next. Hawthorne saying he doesn’t want me back, saying it’s a good riddance.

“Let me talk to her,” Hawthorne says.

“Say hello, sweetheart,” the man says. He holds the phone a few inches from my face.

“Please, Hawthorne—”

He yanks his hand back. “I want three hundred thousand. Cash.”

“Who are you?” Hawthorne demands. He’s arrogant and hates being challenged. How unfair that he’s my only hope.

“Call me Joe,” the man says.

“Fine, Joe. I’ll get your money. Just tell me where.”

They discuss the details, and I listen closely, waiting for Hawthorne to laugh, to tell us to go screw ourselves.
 

He doesn’t, but I’m not sure he’ll show up. And the money? He can’t get that much this late at night.

“You might as well sit in the front,” Joe tells me. Kidnapper Joe. Giving him a cartoon villain nickname makes him less scary.

It’s a potentially dangerous illusion, but I have no intention of doing anything crazy. Meek and obedient, that’s me.

Kidnapper Joe moves to offer me a hand and I jerk away.

“You wanna stay in there, then suit yourself,” he says, and even though my tight skirt makes it difficult, I scramble out of the trunk without his help.

Chapter 3

Half an hour later, we pull into a mall parking lot. I’ve never been here before, but I’ve only lived in this area for a few months.

There’s already a sleek car waiting. The engine is running and the lights are on. A tall man in an elegant suit is leaning against the hood. His arms are crossed over his chest.

As we pull up, he watches steadily. The headlights roll across his face as my captor turns the car, and I catch a flash of Hawthorne’s ice-blue eyes.

He looks
pissed
.
 

Already I’m trying to come up with a believable explanation for why I was abducted.
 

Kidnapper Joe leaves my door locked, and he gets out of the car, taking the key with him.
 

The second he moves away, I dive across the seat and disengage the master lock, but it’s no good. He’s got the gun out.
 

Can’t outrun a bullet.

When he turns away, I snatch up my wallet and phone and stuff them into my snug waistband.

“Let me see her,” Hawthorne demands.

Joe steps aside. Hawthorne’s eyes barely flicker to me. “Come out here, Lindsay.”

“The money first, pal,” Kidnapper Joe says.

Hawthorne bends down, and that’s when I notice the crumpled black plastic trash bag at his feet. He tosses it at Joe, who takes a quick look inside, then gracefully moves out of the way. I unlock the door and I’m already spilling onto the blacktop, then sprinting toward Hawthorne.

“Get in,” he orders, his voice icy.

Somewhere deep inside, I’m irritated and offended by his tone, but it’s buried under layers of embarrassment and fear… and relief, so much relief I can hardly breathe.

I get into his car. Almost immediately my entire body begins to shake so hard that I think I might actually puke. Tears gush down my cheeks.

I’m alive. And I’m free. Somehow.
 

The man is pulling away.
 

Hawthorne gets in, and my leg jiggles nervously.

“My car,” I say. I’m nasally and congested, and I hate appearing weak in front of Hawthorne.