Page 3 of Deuce

I pushed myself upright into a sitting position.Despite the lingering dizziness in my head, one thing was abundantly clear.I needed to get out of here.

I used a handful of whatever I was laying on to wipe my face, gagging at the smell.Standing seemed like a bad idea, with the van lurching back and forth.It needed a decent alignment.Or some new shocks.Whatever.Not my problem.

I crawled to the back of the vehicle.I was still weak, but as my head slowly cleared, I realized I must have been drugged.

The bitter tasting coffee.George must have slipped something in my coffee when I went to get the wipes to clean up his mess.Had the mess been intentional to get me out of the way so he could spike my drink?

These guys knew what they were doing, and that spurred my need to escape.There were two of them and one of me.Even if I managed to throw off the effects of the drug, there was no way I could fight off two full grown men.My imagination went into overdrive.I had to assume wherever they were taking me was not public.They could do whatever they wanted and there would be no one to hear me scream.

Fear-fueled adrenaline overpowered the remaining drug in my system.I scrambled my way to the back of the van and clawed at the doors.

I screamed as loud as I could.Surely someone would hear me and go for help.Or call the cops.People didn’t seem to want to get involved these days, but surely a woman screaming from inside a van would get some kind of response.

“Scream all you want.No one else can hear you,” George shared with an repulsive chuckle.

Weren’t these delivery vans supposed to have a release on the inside so people didn’t get trapped in them?I got unsteadily to my feet and reached up as high as I could, sliding my hands down the loading doors.It had to be here somewhere.

Two thirds of the way down, I found it.My heart sank.There was a latch all right, but someone had broken it off.When I tried to push it, the latch swung loosely around in a circle without any effect on the doors.

I screamed in frustration and banged on the doors until my hands felt raw.Sinking down on my haunches, I let out a helpless sob.

Then I pulled myself together.I wasn’t going to just sit here and wait for whatever sick plans these guys had for me.I crawled across the floor, feeling frantically for something, anything, that I could use to pry the doors open.

In the front corner, I found it.A tire iron.Gripping it tightly, I made my way to the back of the van just as it lurched to a stop.

I could hear loud engines, other vehicles pulling up behind the van.I screamed again.And again.Surely they could hear me, but I wasn’t going to count on it.

Standing was a whole lot easier now that the van was still.I inserted the sharp edge of the tire iron between the two doors and pried.Nothing happened.I screamed in frustration and jerked harder on the tire iron.Nothing.

I could feel time running out.Fear of what George and his buddies had in store for me intensified with each passing moment.I had to get out of here.No knight in shining armor was going to ride in on a white horse and save me.

I moved the tire iron down so that it was in line with the broken release and threw my entire body weight against it.For a second, it held fast.Then the lock gave way with a loudscreechof bending metal.

The doors burst open.

Off balance, and still gripping the tire iron with both hands, I fell out of the van and landed on the pavement with a painful jolt.I rolled over and staggered to my feet.

Less than a car length away, staring at me from the back of a shiny red and chrome motorcycle, was the most dangerous looking man I’d ever seen.

* * *

Deuce

What the hell?

Rattler and I were headed into town to the bar that Riptide owned on the lower east side of town.It was a nice night for a bike ride, and a cold beer sounded inviting.The sky was clear and there was just a hint of a breeze.The smell of fresh-cut hay permeated the air.

We’d stopped at the railroad crossing on Seventh Ave, behind one of those cargo vans.Kind of scuffed up.Serviceable, but not memorable.What had once been a name on the side was illegible, worn off by years of weather.

I kicked my Harley back down into first, scanning the tracks to gauge how long we’d be stationary.I had just flipped the visor up on my helmet when the back door of the van flew open and a woman half jumped, half tumbled out onto the pavement.

Seriously, what the hell?

She looked stunned.Or stoned.Not sure which.If I’d been any closer, she would have landed on my damn bike.Her eyes were open wide, and she stared up at me like she’d just seen a ghost.Or a monster.

Not that I hadn’t had that effect on women before.I didn’t look like your typical CPA.I’d ditched the office and three-piece suit a lifetime ago.Six-foot-six, riding a Harley, and sporting a leather cut that proclaimed me to be a patched-in member of the Riptide MC?I didn’t exactly screamWall Street.

The woman’s mouth moved, but if any sound came out, I didn’t hear it.The train made a shit ton of noise, and Harleys aren’t quiet either.There’s a saying in the motorcycle world --”Loud pipes save lives.”The theory was people could hear us coming so they paid attention or got out of the way.Not sure how true it was, but I had to admit you could hear us coming long before you saw us.Add that to the clank and rattle of the train, and you couldn’t hear much else.

---