Rachel’s head swam. How much longer was he going to keep her in here? The late August sun made the interior of the trunk an oven. Sweat dampened her back and dripped down her face, soaking the gag. Or maybe that was all the moisture from her mouth. The air was heavy and damp, and seemed to take more than a reasonable effort to drag into her lungs. Were trunks airtight? Would she run out of oxygen before they got where they were going?
She was wheezing by the time the car stopped. The trunk popped open. Her eyes wheeled, trying to focus on her captor, but everything was hazy.
He swore, scooping her out of the trunk and carrying her into a building. She tried to focus on where she was, but all her effort was having to go into breathing. Mustache set her on a threadbare sofa and tugged her
