Page 8 of Dirty Quinn
The next time I wake, I’m in a small windowless room with a bed. I am still taped the same way, but at least this time I am on a mattress instead of a van floor. And instead of being hot, it’s cold. Like, freezing. I try to roll over onto my side so I can at least look around the room a bit, but it is too hard to get my body to cooperate.
My muscles have all cramped because of being restrained. The tape has dug into my wrists and ankles from struggling against them, leaving them sore and bleeding. I hope they don’t scar. Or get infected.
Ugh.
Tears rush to my eyes and invitations to my pity party go out.
I cry because I have no idea where I am or why they have me. If I will live or die. And worst of all, I don’t know if anyone is planning to rescue me.
Let it out, Quinn.
Let it out and let it go.
I let myself cry for the count of 200, then collect myself and take a slow look around the room.
No windows, one door, wood floors, wainscoting up the lower half of the walls with a chair rail to separate it from the upper half of the wall. No ceiling fan, no vents, one light bulb hanging directly from the ceiling, a light switch by the door, and a surveillance camera in the corner at the ceiling. A bucket in one corner with a small bundle of toilet tissue next to it to show its intended use.
Funny since they bound my hands and ankles.
The door has a deadbolt that needs a key from both sides. And finally, the mattress I’m lying on. I have no idea how long I’ve been here, or how long I was unconscious.
With no way to actually measure time, I count tosixty-Mississippiso I can attempt to estimate the length of time I have been here. I thought I wanted this, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve put myself in a situation where I have zero control and I’m scared.
Return to the rules, Quinn. When all else fails, remember the rules.
Rule #3: Don’t fall asleep.
I’m not sure what sleeping will have to do with anything in these circumstances. I mean, I made most of these rules when I was a pre-teen. Regardless, I may not be on Elm Street with Freddie Krueger invading my dreams, but I know enough that if I fall asleep, I’ll definitely lose out on any chance to escape.
Not that it really matters. Even if I could escape, where would I go, and how would I get there?
I don’t even know where I am.
3
Daria
“Wait for my signal.” I look through the shattered glass. There are more men in the audience than I would have expected. I’m not sure how we missed them arriving, or maybe that was just me. I recognize a few men there: some Russian, some American. Two politicians, one high-ranking police officer. They make me sick, promising to protect and serve, all the while kidnapping and raping. I don’t now who most of the other men are until I see one I know well.
My stomach drops, bile rises in my throat.
It’s impossible.
There’s no way.
How can this be happening?
My head spins as I try to think of a reason why.
Ohmigod. I’m going to be sick.
I stumble down the stairs, whispering rapidly through the comms as I go. “Don’t do anything. Repeat. Do nothing. Fall back. Reconvene at the cars. NOW! GO!”
I run back to the starting point, making sure I don’t hear any errant gunshots as I do, getting there just as the girls do.
“What the hell, boss? We could have taken a lot of them. Probably saved those girls. I was pumped and ready.”
“I know,” I sigh. “Me too. But we couldn’t go in.”
