Page 82 of Declan

Of course, there’s still the little problem that I don’t know who killed Bobby. I don’t believe it was Declan, but even if it was, I don’t give a shit. While Bobby wasn’t so bad when I first met him, over the years, his potential decent personality had been overrun by the blood-sucking shitbag I’d come to loathe. I don’t know if it was desperation or greed or maybe a combination of both, but, at the end, he was nearly unrecognizable. I guess that’s what happens when one’s ego grows faster than one’s reputation.

I’m not enjoying my current predicament, but at least with the duct tape over my mouth, I’m saved from having to make idle chitchat. It also prevents me from running my mouth because, apparently, that’s my new default whenever there’s a problem.

I blame Declan.

Before Declan, I preferred to run under the radar, allowing everyone’s baseless assumptions and stereotypes to push me to do more. It wasn’t until Jessica and I completely restructured my management team that anyone even considered that I had a will of my own. Some people found out the hard way that I also had teeth, but with enough persuasion, most of them were convinced to scurry off back into the weeds where they belong.

Of course, the old cat’s out of the bag now, and it’s going to take some serious maneuvering for Jessica and me to twist it all around into a scenario that works best for us. It’s fine to have part of our operation exposed to scrutiny, but having the entire thing shut down would be a problem. We’ve worked diligently to find a way to rid the industry of unscrupulous, users, abusers, and those who use their own money and power as a means to hurt people they feel are lesser than them.

Sure, in time, we’ll find a way to pick up where we left off, but short of us running full extermination on the information we have, we don’t want to lose momentum now.

I yawn behind the tape over my mouth, and the man on my right glances over at me, shaking his head as he asks, “Are we fucking boring you?”

I grimace and shrug my shoulders in response, and then the man on my left says, “I still don’t understand why we’re doing this. My kids love her. She’s like an American treasure.”

The driver pipes in, “We’re just doing what the boss told us to.”

They all fall silent for a moment, and then the man on my left reaches out, his fingers going into my pocket. I glare at him and attempt to squirm away, but he gives me a look and shakes his head slightly, so I still, allowing him to pull my phone from my pocket. He pushes it behind me and, after a few attempts, manages to unlock it with my fingertip. He then nonchalantly sits back, and I assume, takes a picture of me.

He inconspicuously messes around with my phone, setting it on top of his leg as he speaks again, “Well, I don’t like it. You know I got no problem killing people, but this doesn’t feel right.”

The guy in the front passenger seat turns, looks back at him, and replies, “Then, maybe you should get the fuck out.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”

“That’s not what I’m hearing. So, let me repeat myself. You should get out.”

The car slows significantly, and the man on my right leans over me. There’s a bit of a tussle, and then the door opens with a grunt. With a shove, the one person in the car who might’ve been on my side vanishes, taking my phone with him.

I make a frustrated sound, which they probably assume is horror that they tossed a man out of the car, but it’s mostly anger. No matter how much horrible shit I witness, it still amazes me the many atrocities people will commit for money. People are always committing heinous acts for other people for a payday.

I imagine Declan would’ve come after me quickly when I left the courthouse without speaking to him, so it shouldn’t have taken him long to realize I’d disappeared rather suspiciously. I know he’s a resourceful guy, and if nothing else, his brother and his friends are even more resourceful, so I’m betting they’re right on my tail.

Most likely tracking my phone.

Fuck.

A chill runs down my spine at the idea that my ticket out of here may be miles back on the side of the freeway. I take a deep breath through my nose, attempting to slow my racing heart at the implication of what this means for my pending rescue.

We had picked up a good rate of speed for a while, then the car slows and we veer off so I assume we’ve left the freeway. We do a bit of stop-and-go traveling, and then after a while, the car comes to a stop, and the door is opened. The man still in the back with me says, “You can get out on your own, or I can help you.”

I don’t have to be told again. I scoot myself to the edge, putting my feet on the ground and carefully standing, so I don’t bash myself. He grabs onto my arm, yanking me along with him a touch faster than is reasonable, and I focus on keeping my feet underneath me.

I’m shoved down into a chair, and the driver unties my hands and reties them behind me, securing me to the chair. I sit there for a few moments in silence, and the guy who had been sitting on my right says, “I don’t see why I can’t get a taste. It’s not like she can tell anyone when she’s dead.”

I’m not overly excited about the confirmation of their plans for me, and I’m even less excited about the reminder of all the heinous things that could happen to me before then, but I also don’t want them to see my fear. I’ve seen how horrible people feed off fear, how they get off on hurting those they feel are weaker than them, and the last thing I want is for what could possibly be my last moments to be ones of fear.

Also, I’m hoping pissing them off will earn me extra time and maybe an opportunity to escape.

Figuring I have nothing to lose at this point, I try to speak behind the duct tape to no avail, so I keep making noises until, finally, the driver rips the duct tape off my mouth.

I make a pained choking sound and then say loudly, “You’re gonna wish you’d been nicer to me.”

“Why the fuck would I wish that?”

“You obviously haven’t met my husband,” I snap, knowing continuing to run my mouth is likely foolish but finding myself incapable of shutting it. “He’s kind of a dick, you know. I have a feeling he’s going to take this whole kidnapping ordeal very personally.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

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