Page 17 of A Dance With Devils
Nothing’s right here. In the air. It’s unsafe. We’ll die here. All of us. The blades will stop and we’ll all plummet downwards. My fingers grip the material I’m clinging to, a fear induced snort leaving me. Die? I might die anyway. That’s what I’ve been running from all this time, isn’t it? Hiding from. And now it might be here for me. All this might be them and a bullet’s waiting for me at the end of this journey. I can’t do the air, though, can’t think straight in it or deal with all this.
And clothes?
They might have been fucking useful if I was going to be kidnapped.
Every damn curse and panic soaked thought I can think whizzes through my brain, bringing with it hints of acute rage and utter fear. Pretty when I panic? Freak. I need to get out of this damn helicopter and on the ground. I’m not good in the sky. I’m also not good in situations I can’t see a way out of. Currently, I’m not seeing any way out of this that doesn’t involve me being dead, or some kind of plaything for a freaky ass fine as fuck man.
I shouldn’t have thought that last bit.
Jesus.
My wrists grate in the tape continuously, attempting to break them. It’s another useless thing I’m trying for given that I'm hundreds of feet off the ground and surrounded by some covert ops team, but it’s something I can control.
The ground jolts suddenly, my backside jolting with it, and I feel the guys shift beside me. One grabs hold of my arm, hauling me sideways until I feel the seat disappear under me and he picks me up to dump me on solid ground. I’m walked with little care to how fast they’re moving, and I eventually hear the sound of the helicopter disappearing in the distance behind me. Fuck. Now I’m thinking about it, the feel of that helicopter around me served me well, gave me time because of the confinement. Instead of that box and a direction for them, I’m now alone with who knows how many guys going to god knows where.
My shoulders are gripped and pushed downwards until I’m sitting on something hard, and then silence other than some quiet footsteps around me. Several of them. If I could stop this shivering it would be good. I can’t, though. It’s part anger, part fear, and part fucking cold. There’s nothing on me but this thin old robe, mud, and some panties. No shoes on my feet. Not even a bra to cover some element of modesty.
My thighs tighten at the thought, feet clamping together to at least try making sure my red panties aren’t on display. Sadly, the fact that my hands are tied and my robes rucked up means they probably are. I’m not sure I’d mind so much if I knew it was the freak alone, but these guys and impending death?
Un – fucking - happy.
I shouldn’t have thought that first bit either.
The bag’s suddenly whipped off my head, and blinding lights make my vision swim for a few seconds. It’s only when I regain sight that I get a glimpse of the fucking huge, white jet in front of me, the steps on the side already down. I glance around, tossing scans at everything and anything. It’s a hanger. A massive one. No other planes. Nothing other than the three men guarding me, some containers dotted around, and this jet dominating the space.
After a while a man walks by, suited up like he’s a pilot, and then another follows him. They don’t look at me, nor acknowledge me or the other men at all. They just climb up the steps and talk about plane things. I don’t care what the hell they’re talking about, or how capable they are at flying something like that, I’m not getting in it. Things like that fall out of the damn sky weekly. I’d rather die now than have that happen to me.
And then it’s just silence again.
For fucking ages.
Hours maybe. I don’t know. I’m getting too numb in this seat, too cold, and too fearful of all the consequences this scenario could bring, that I’ve lost clarity in what day of the week it is let alone how long has passed by.
And then engines start.
My head rears up at the potential.
I am not going in that plane.
My wrists grate some more, eyes trained on the three guys still hovering around me. Not that they seem to care about my ability to get out of this situation. Two of them are smoking, and the other one has drifted out towards the far door as if he’s on sentry duty. The very real possibility that I’m about to get on a plane makes me work harder at the tape. I can feel it stretching, weakening under the pressure I keep putting on it. And if they just move a few steps more over to the right of the hanger, I might have a chance at running for it again.
The eventual tear in the tape makes me turn, spin, and launch across the ground behind me in the hope of a door. There must be one. Those two pilots came from somewhere. No direction, though, just me running as fast as my legs will take me across the floor until I break through a set of doors and into an even brighter foyer area. My head whips sideways, looking for an escape route, and I scramble around a corner, hand bracing me off the walls as I run erratically into a corridor.
Everything stops, as I suddenly hear the sound of footsteps travelling in my direction from in front of me. I skid to a halt, feet back peddling like crazy to get me back the way I came. The immediate barge into some cabinets, followed by me tumbling to the ground, doesn’t help me in any way. My head rebounds off the floor, and my feet kick out, attempting to get a grip on the shiny linoleum floor so I can push myself upright again. No grip, though, and the bang must have shunted my vision about. It’s blurred, painful in these bright lights.
I keep scrambling backwards, hoping sight comes back soon, but the sudden vision of suited legs walking slowly in my eye-line confuses everything. Long steps. Hard soled steps. Who the hell is that? Another pilot? I’m not doing it. No planes. No confined spaces.
My legs keep kicking, like they’re desperate to get traction and propel me away from all this. Nothing works, though. No grip, just them sliding about and this man getting closer and closer. It’s so unhurried, like slow motion propelling something at me quietly, almost solemnly. A funeral, that’s what it reminds me of in my haze. Mine possibly. Tears and sobs, all of them blurred behind watery eyes as I get lowered into the ground.
The eventual clear sight of him standing over me fills me with equal measures of surprise, dread, and unwelcome interest. It’s him – Malachi. So tall. Huge in my line of sight. Like the jet in the hanger. It’s all wrong, though. A suit. Immaculate suit. Black. Black shirt under it. Shiny leather shoes. Where are the clothes, the hood, the boots? And then those deep black eyes under long lashes blink at me finishing off the look, as if he was born to tempt every woman on the planet.
Hot as fuck.
No.
Freaky.
And possibly working for them.
