More of my brain fog clears, and it’s replaced by panic.
I have no idea why they’d take my boots.
I need to get out of here. Even if it means running through the desert in socks.
Hans will find me.
He’ll always find me.
I don’t remember Andre locking the front door after we came in. Which is good. I think.
I just need to get away from the man at my side.
Except he’s so much bigger than I am. I’ll never win in a fight.
My chest constricts, and I have to open my mouth to pull in a breath.
Don’t freak out.
Focus.
I fill my lungs.
What would Hans do?
I picture Hans jumping through the back door of a hijacked school bus, throwing a knife through the eye socket of an unsuspecting kidnapper.
I picture Hans biting down on a stack of Post-its while using a wall-mounted sword to behead a man.
I picture him luring the other men into view with a stolen walkie-talkie before blowing away their skulls without hesitation.
I know what Hans would do.
Hans would fight dirty.
I do my best to fake a stumble, causing Andre to lean to the side to support more of my weight. Then I jerk my arm down as hard as I can.
The movement is sudden enough that he lets go and close enough in timing to my stumble for him to think I’m just falling. Meaning he’s not completely on guard.
When Andre turns to get another grip on me, I turn toward him and knee him in his balls as hard as I can.
The strangled sound that comes out of him fills me with satisfaction.
But when I turn to run, my sock-covered feet slip on the smooth floor.
It’s just a second. Just half a second before I catch my balance. But it’s enough.
Andre grips my hair.
I struggle to keep my feet under me as my scalp screams in pain. But I can’t fall. If I do, I have no doubt he’ll drag me by my ponytail.
“I’m going to fucking kill you.” I can hear the pain in his voice, and it’s the only comfort I have when he drags me in front of him and backhands my cheek.
My eyes fill with tears.
I’m not crying.
I am not crying.
It just fucking hurts when a grown-ass man baby hits you.
He shakes me by my hair.
It also hurts when someone mean pulls your hair.
I reach up and cling to Andre’s forearm, trying to hold my weight up with his arm and take the pressure off my scalp. It lessens the pain, just a little, and I’m able to stay on my feet as he drags me down the long hall.
When Hans pulled my hair, he knew how to make it feel good. And even with tears still trailing down my cheeks, I try to remember that. Try to remember that a good man can make anything feel good.
I won’t let Evil Andre ruin hair pulling for me.
We keep moving down the incredibly long hallway. Men are visible, but I don’t bother calling for help. There is literally no way to confuse me for a willing participant, and none of the men milling around with assault weapons are giving me so much as a glance.
Cool, everyone here is a piece of shit.
I hope Hans kills all of them.
Andre drags me through a doorway, and I stare at the tiny room in confusion before the sound of doors sliding shut clues me in.
It’s an elevator.
The ground beneath my feet starts to move, and I twist in Andre’s hold to look at the floor indicator.
When it changes from one to two, I let out my breath.
Nothing about this situation is good, but I feel like going below ground would somehow be worse.
The number changes to a three as the elevator slows to a stop.
Andre doesn’t give me any sort of warning; he just starts walking, painfully yanking my hair with every step.
I’d kill for my crossbow right now.
I try to pay attention. Try to focus on how many doors we pass and which way we’re walking. But it all looks the same. Same stupid slippery floors. Same lack of taste.
I’m pulled to a stop as Andre opens a dark wood door. I barely get a glimpse of the room before he shoves me forward so hard that I fall. My hip connects with the floor first, and a jolt of pain shoots through my body.
Groaning, I roll onto my knees, readying myself for whatever is coming next.
But Andre doesn’t follow me in. He slams the door shut between us, and I hear a lock turn. From the outside.
“You’re such a little bitch!” I yell and frantically rub at my hip, trying to soothe the sting.
When the pain subsides enough to move again, I climb to my feet and take in the room.
It’s an empty office.
And it’s as pretentious as the rest of the house.
On one side of the room is a seating area with three high-back chairs covered in green velvet and a glass and gold coffee table, all on top of a patterned rug. On the other side of the room is a giant dark-stained desk in front of matching bookcases that cover the entire wall behind it. But the shelves are empty, and that might be the worst part about this room. Then again, it could be the orange silk curtains surrounding the wall of windows across from me.