Page 108 of Call Me Anytime
“Yeah,” I spit and meet his eyes with a hard stare. “The fancy-as-fuck hotel.”
It doesn’t take a second for him to understand.
“Fuck,” he mutters and picks up his pace to meet mine, which is now an all-out sprint toward the self-parking lot on the side of the building. We’re in my Camaro in a matter of seconds, and I peel out of the spot and run over three curbs to pull onto the main road.
I’m hitting seventy miles per hour and swerving in and out of traffic, and when an MNPD cruiser starts to ride my ass, Shane gets on his phone and lets dispatch know it’s us.
“We’re going to need backup,” he says. “The Swan. Lights and sirens ahead of us to clear the way.”
The MNPD cruiser swings wildly in front of me, Officer Marks driving it, and he damn near has to hit eighty to get around me and flip on his lights and sirens as we fly through the streets of the city.
“It’s going to be okay, man,” Shane says, but when I glance at him out of my periphery, the expression on his face doesn’t match his words.
Trust me, I should know,nothingfeels okay right now.
Hannah is in trouble and I’m three miles out before I can reach her.
Fuck!
45
Hannah
10:12 p.m.
Deep, throbbing, excruciating pain bounces around inside my skull, and it takes every ounce of energy I can muster to open my eyes.
Everything around me is black, but I can hear voices, multiple voices surrounding me.
“Shut up! Just shut up!”
“Why are you doing this to us?”
“Gibbs is gonna be so pissed at you.”
It’s that last line that makes me blink my eyes open, several harsh blinks in quick succession, and only then does my vision clear from the dark fog.
A hotel bed with a thick white comforter and fluffy pillows sitting against a beige-colored headboard is the first thing I see. Pink roses and a silver plate of chocolate-covered strawberries on a light-wood dinette table with two black leather chairs are next.
And when I look to my right, I see Monica is beside me, her eyes wide with fear and a mix of black mascara and actively running tears smeared down her cheeks. Her back is against the wall, just likemine, and her hands and ankles are tied together with what look to be plastic zip ties.
I glance down at my body and see that my hands and ankles are tied together in the same fashion.
“You good, Ziva?” The question comes from my left, and I follow the voice until my gaze meets the one face that should not be here—my mom’s.
Oh. My. God.
Her eyes are wide, but they’re also lit up like a Christmas tree. Her mouth threatens to quirk up into a smile as she assesses my face. “She got you good, Ziva. A hit right to the noggin.”
Panic clutches my chest when I look across the room and latch on to the woman with gray eyes and gray hair, pacing near the floor-to-ceiling, sliding windows that showcase a view of Nashville.
“Are you going to kill us?” Monica cries, and the woman—who appears to be in her early sixties—spins to face us. It’s only then that I realize she has a gun in her hand.
“Shut up!” she shrieks, and her arms gesticulate so erratically that I duck my head out of fear as the gun’s barrel swings in our direction. “I already told you to shut up! I can’t think with all this fucking noise!”
Holy fucking shit.
“I’ll admit, she got the drop on us,” my mom whispers, her mouth actively smiling as she talks. “But relax, Ziva. Tony and Gibbs are coming.”
