if we’re all going off on some holiday.
Me? I brood and obsess and fight off more images of Charlie being mistreated. I hope Rita is having lots of success hacking into the system at the juvie facility. I want to know every possible detail of what goes down there.
Evan tries to lure me into a discussion about French politics, but my eyes glaze over and he eventually gives up. He puts in his earbuds and listens to music.
I fold my arms across my chest, close my eyes, and pretend to sleep, but what I really do is brood for the next three-odd hours, the scenery outside blurring as the train rumbles along. Finally I’m driven from the car by the need to pee, so I exit and go to find the WC.
When I step out again, the woman who was holding hands with the man on the platform is standing near the door. I hold it open for her, since it’s the polite thing to do. She smiles and nods her thanks.
When I turn my back on her, I notice her companion ahead of me, blocking my path. The woman jabs me in the kidneys with something hard—the barrel of a gun? Then she leans forward and whispers into my ear. “This is an H and K semiautomatic. It will easily blow out your small intestines. Walk very slowly. Don’t try anything—I won’t hesitate to shoot. Turn right into the empty car just ahead. Then sit down.”
I process my shock and her orders. First Charlie, now me?
What is going on? Who is targeting us?
I could drive my elbow backward, into her gut, and then try to get her in a choke hold, but it’s risky—notonly to myself but to other passengers on the train. If it were just her I had to contend with, I might try it, but the man she’s with also has his hand around something in his pocket, probably another gun.
I have no option but to do as she says. I move forward and then enter the car. It smells like stale cigarettes and spilled coffee.
“Sit!” the man says, flanking me.
I do. “What do you want?”
He ignores me. So does she. They avoid meeting my eyes.
I try again. “Who are you? Why are you doing this? What’s this about?”
No answer.
“Who do you work for?”
They stare at me, faces impassive.
Wonderful.
I have a brief surge of hope as a porter appears, his eyebrows raised. He gestures at me. “You find her, eh, your runaway daughter?”
The woman produces an effusive, grateful smile. “Oh, yes, thank you—”
I open my mouth to scream, “Help!” But the man sends a ferocious warning look my way, and I realize that they won’t hesitate to shoot the porter. He probably has a wife and kids . . . again, I don’t want to risk it. I can somehow get away from these two later. I know I can.
The man says gruffly to the porter, “Please—you will alert us if her no-good boyfriend or the idiot friend come this way? We would rather avoid an ugly scene.”
“Of course, Monsieur. Tout de suite .” He shoots me a disapproving glance.
Thanks, pal. Really, you couldn’t be more helpful. Couldn’t you ask for ID, at least? How do you know these two aren’t planning to kidnap me into sex slavery?
But I don’t say a word. I just hunch my shoulders and glare sullenly at all of them.
The porter whistles a tune as he walks away.
I assess the people who are holding me captive. The woman is brunette and wears an ugly printed scarf. She has dressed in a deliberately dowdy, gray sack dress and black tights, but under them she is lean and fit. I’d say she’s a runner, which is bad news for me. She’s got on serviceable shoes with rubber soles.
The man has closely cropped dishwater-blond hair, graying beard stubble, and pale eyes that are devoid of expression. The two of them seem neither intelligent nor stupid; just well trained to carry out someone’s orders.
I wonder about that someone—and try asking again.
Sack-Dress Woman tells me curtly to shut up.
Does the person they work for have Charlie?
I don’t think so. It doesn’t make sense that the kidnappers would demand that I
Me? I brood and obsess and fight off more images of Charlie being mistreated. I hope Rita is having lots of success hacking into the system at the juvie facility. I want to know every possible detail of what goes down there.
Evan tries to lure me into a discussion about French politics, but my eyes glaze over and he eventually gives up. He puts in his earbuds and listens to music.
I fold my arms across my chest, close my eyes, and pretend to sleep, but what I really do is brood for the next three-odd hours, the scenery outside blurring as the train rumbles along. Finally I’m driven from the car by the need to pee, so I exit and go to find the WC.
When I step out again, the woman who was holding hands with the man on the platform is standing near the door. I hold it open for her, since it’s the polite thing to do. She smiles and nods her thanks.
When I turn my back on her, I notice her companion ahead of me, blocking my path. The woman jabs me in the kidneys with something hard—the barrel of a gun? Then she leans forward and whispers into my ear. “This is an H and K semiautomatic. It will easily blow out your small intestines. Walk very slowly. Don’t try anything—I won’t hesitate to shoot. Turn right into the empty car just ahead. Then sit down.”
I process my shock and her orders. First Charlie, now me?
What is going on? Who is targeting us?
I could drive my elbow backward, into her gut, and then try to get her in a choke hold, but it’s risky—notonly to myself but to other passengers on the train. If it were just her I had to contend with, I might try it, but the man she’s with also has his hand around something in his pocket, probably another gun.
I have no option but to do as she says. I move forward and then enter the car. It smells like stale cigarettes and spilled coffee.
“Sit!” the man says, flanking me.
I do. “What do you want?”
He ignores me. So does she. They avoid meeting my eyes.
I try again. “Who are you? Why are you doing this? What’s this about?”
No answer.
“Who do you work for?”
They stare at me, faces impassive.
Wonderful.
I have a brief surge of hope as a porter appears, his eyebrows raised. He gestures at me. “You find her, eh, your runaway daughter?”
The woman produces an effusive, grateful smile. “Oh, yes, thank you—”
I open my mouth to scream, “Help!” But the man sends a ferocious warning look my way, and I realize that they won’t hesitate to shoot the porter. He probably has a wife and kids . . . again, I don’t want to risk it. I can somehow get away from these two later. I know I can.
The man says gruffly to the porter, “Please—you will alert us if her no-good boyfriend or the idiot friend come this way? We would rather avoid an ugly scene.”
“Of course, Monsieur. Tout de suite .” He shoots me a disapproving glance.
Thanks, pal. Really, you couldn’t be more helpful. Couldn’t you ask for ID, at least? How do you know these two aren’t planning to kidnap me into sex slavery?
But I don’t say a word. I just hunch my shoulders and glare sullenly at all of them.
The porter whistles a tune as he walks away.
I assess the people who are holding me captive. The woman is brunette and wears an ugly printed scarf. She has dressed in a deliberately dowdy, gray sack dress and black tights, but under them she is lean and fit. I’d say she’s a runner, which is bad news for me. She’s got on serviceable shoes with rubber soles.
The man has closely cropped dishwater-blond hair, graying beard stubble, and pale eyes that are devoid of expression. The two of them seem neither intelligent nor stupid; just well trained to carry out someone’s orders.
I wonder about that someone—and try asking again.
Sack-Dress Woman tells me curtly to shut up.
Does the person they work for have Charlie?
I don’t think so. It doesn’t make sense that the kidnappers would demand that I
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