Wrong Place, Wrong Man

Chapter 3 - The Witness

BONNIE
The first thing I learned about being kidnapped was that nobody seemed particularly interested in explaining the itinerary.
I had asked three times where we were going.
The first time, neither man answered.
The second time, the one sitting beside me told me to stop asking questions.
The third time, I suggested that considering I had been forced into a stranger’s car at gunpoint, a little customer service wouldn’t kill them.
That earned me a look.
So I stopped asking.
For now.
I sat in the back of the black SUV with my handbag on my lap and both hands wrapped tightly around it. The man I’d bitten sat beside me. The larger one was in the passenger seat, speaking occasionally to the driver in a voice too low for me to make out.
Nobody had taken my phone.
That surprised me.
I’d expected them to search me, tie my hands, perhaps put a bag over my head. Apparently, I had watched too many crime shows.
Or perhaps they simply didn’t consider me enough of a threat to bother.
I wasn’t sure which possibility offended me more.
My phone remained inside my handbag, close enough that I could feel its weight against my thigh. Reaching it without being noticed was another matter entirely.
I glanced toward the window.
The city passed behind tinted glass, distorted by streaks of rain and reflections from the streetlights. I tried to memorise every turn, every intersection, anything that might tell me where they were taking me, but after several minutes I realised we were circling back toward the industrial side of the waterfront.
That wasn’t comforting.
I looked at the man beside me.
He looked back.
His jaw had already begun to redden where I’d hit him.
I felt a small, inappropriate flicker of satisfaction.
His eyes narrowed.
I looked innocently out of the window.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I remembered something amusing.”
“Was it my face?”
I turned back to him. “Now that you mention it.”
The driver made a choking sound from the front.
The man beside me stared at me.
I probably should have been more afraid.
Actually, that wasn’t true.
I was terrified.
My hands were cold despite the warmth inside the car, and I had been holding my bag so tightly that my fingers were beginning to ache. Every few seconds my mind dragged me back to the sound of the gunshots, the man’s body hitting the pavement, the blood creeping toward my shoe.
I could still see his face.
Help me.
He had asked me for help.
And I had done nothing.
There had been nothing I could do, I knew that. He had been shot before I’d even understood what was happening.
Knowing didn’t make the memory any easier to swallow.
I forced my attention back to the car.
Panic wouldn’t help me.
Information might.
“You have a name?” I asked.
The man beside me gave me a disbelieving look.
“What?”
“A name. Most people have one.”
He stared at me for another moment. “Marco.”
“Marco.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m just pleased we’ve progressed to introductions.”
His expression hardened. “Don’t get comfortable.”
“I was kidnapped ten minutes ago. Comfort wasn’t really on the agenda.”
“Then stop talking.”
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
I lasted perhaps four seconds.
“Is Valenti your boss?”
Marco closed his eyes.
The driver laughed.
“I said stop talking.”
“And I considered it.”
“You’re very bad at following instructions.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The larger man in the passenger seat turned his head.
“Marco.”
One word.
Marco immediately stopped answering me.
Interesting.
I looked toward the front passenger seat.
The larger man caught my gaze in the mirror.
“Don’t,” he said.
Apparently that was the word of the evening.
I sat back against the leather.
Fine.
They didn’t want to talk.
I could observe.
The car was expensive. Not simply new or nice. Expensive in the quiet way things were when they didn’t need a logo plastered across them to prove it. Black leather, dark wood, almost no road noise.
The men were dressed similarly. Dark suits. No ties. Earpieces.
Professional.
That frightened me more than if they’d looked like street thugs.
Nothing about what had happened tonight felt spontaneous.
The shooting hadn’t been a fight that had gone wrong.
Those men had been waiting.
The man had been running from them.
And somebody called Valenti had been important enough that neither of these men questioned his decision about what happened to me.
I looked down at my hands.
Who the hell had I stumbled into?
The car slowed.
My head lifted.
We turned through a set of tall metal gates and entered a private service road running between two enormous brick buildings near the waterfront. One looked abandoned. The other very much wasn’t.
Several black vehicles were parked outside.
Men stood near the entrance.
My stomach tightened.
This wasn’t good.
The SUV stopped.
Marco opened his door.
I remained seated.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
“Out.”
“No.”
His nostrils flared. “Do we really have to do this again?”
“Probably.”
“Bonnie.”
I froze.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
“You know my name.”
“We found your ID.”
My hand went instinctively to my handbag.
Marco’s mouth moved slightly.
“Relax. Your wallet’s still there.”
“You went through my bag?”
“You were busy trying to break my jaw.”
“You grabbed me.”
“You bit me.”
“You put your hand over my mouth.”
“I was trying to stop you screaming.”
“And I was trying to stop you kidnapping me. I feel my response was proportionate.”
The driver laughed again.
Marco leaned closer.
“You’re really beginning to irritate me.”
“Imagine how I feel.”
For several seconds, we stared at each other.
Then the larger man opened the opposite rear door.
“Enough.”
I looked at him.
He didn’t repeat himself.
Something about his face told me he wouldn’t.
I climbed out.
The cold air hit me immediately.
I wrapped my arms around myself and looked around.
We were still near the marina, but farther along the industrial waterfront than I’d been walking earlier. The building in front of us was enormous, built from dark brick and steel, its upper windows reflecting the scattered lights from the harbour.
It didn’t look abandoned.
It looked private.
Very private.
Marco took my arm.
I looked down at his hand.
Then at him.
“Do you mind?”
“Yes.”
“I can walk.”
“You’ve demonstrated a tendency to run.”
“I got two steps.”
“Still counts.”
I considered arguing.
Then I saw the armed man standing beside the entrance.
Fine.