Page 5 of Scarlet Chains
Something’s wrong.
This wasn’t planned.
Through the partition, I hear car doors slamming. Raised voices outside, but muffled. The engine idles roughly, vibrating through the seat and into my bones.
The shadow beside me stands abruptly, the car rocking slightly under his weight. “You fucking stay where you are. Understood?” His voice is rough, accented, directed at me like a threat. Then the door opens and slams shut, leaving me alone.
This could be it.
My only chance.
Do something, Ilona!
My bound hands are behind my back, but the hasty way they tied my feet gives me hope. The tape around my sneakers feels loose, rushed. If I can just work my feet free—
Come on, come on…
I struggle against the restraints, using the car’s slight movements to help slide my feet within the loosened shoes. The tape pulls at my skin, but gradually gives way. Then, it happens. My left foot slips free, then my right. The tape clings to my sneakers, but my bare feet are free.
Yes!
Now my hands.
Think, girl!
The zip ties are plastic— if I can find something sharp…
But there’s nothing in reach except my backpack, thrown carelessly onto the floor. I twist my body, ignoring the burning pain in my shoulders as I try to bring my bound wrists under and around to my front. The zip ties cut deeper with every movement, warm wetness telling me I’m bleeding, but I don’t stop.
Almost there.
Just a little more…
Finally, my hands come around to my front. Still bound, but I can see them now, can work with them. The blindfold has shifted during my struggles, and I can see slivers of light beneath the fabric edge.
The blindfold.
Get it off.
You need to see.
I hook my zip-tied hands under the fabric and pull upward. The blindfold catches on my hair, pulls painfully, but eventually slides over my head. Suddenly, I can see— the car’s dark interior, tinted windows, my backpack within reach.
My hands.
How do I get these off?
The zip ties are tight, cutting circulation. But they’re also cheap plastic, not the military-grade restraints professionals would use. I bring my wrists to my mouth and bite at the thin plastic, trying to find a weak point.
There!
A little gap where the zip tie overlaps.
I work at it with my teeth, sawing back and forth until the plastic begins to fray. It takes precious seconds— seconds I might not have— but then, the tie finally snaps. My hands are free.
I don’t waste another second. I grab my backpack and ease toward the door. Outside, the voices grow more heated. Something about security, about timing. Whatever obstacle they’ve encountered, it’s bought me precious moments.
The door.
