13. Hello, Kill Container
Hello, Kill Container
Bianca
Water hits me at full speed, knocking me awake. My breath staggers, and my nostrils flare at the sting mixing with the worst headache.
“What in the world?” I sputter around the words, mouth dry, lungs heaving. Benny’s suit clings to my skin as water drips down my chest.
I wince at the beam of light in my face. My eyes narrow as a shield from the heated rays burning my face, but my hands don’t move.
“The hell is this?” I pull against the binds pinning my wrists to the back of the chair. When I shift forward to stand, nothing budges.
“I know you’re fucking lying!” I shout at my bound ankles.
Jesus, I need a full refund on this vacation. No way this is how it ends for me. I give to charities, round up my change in stores, and check on elders in my old building. Italy must have a personal beef with me. It’s been throwing hands since I tried to relax.
“It’s pointless to fight.”
Hollow footsteps shift to my right. Something scrapes before metal groans.
“Benny, get this light out of my face.” The muscles in my thighs flex. These damn restraints are tight.
A deep chuckle flickers beyond the shadows, dancing over metal. “I like her,” a man says in English, with an accent. “She’s not Bianca, but I like her.”
“I am Bianca!” I protest.
He tsks. “I’ve fucked Bianca. Long legs. Brown hair. Fair skin. Model figure. Doesn’t travel in a bonnet.”
Is he making fun of me?
“Who do you work for?”
This damn question again.
“Benny, I am not playing with you.” He’ll have to kill me if he thinks I’ll sit here in my free time while they disrespect me. I’d prefer not to die, but I’m not begging any man.
His pitch lowers. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“You might as well and say it louder to harmonize with your friend since you two are hard of hearing. Do I look like a woman who is remotely okay with this treatment?” I deadpan toward his voice. “Turn. Off. The. Light.”
A tiny lamp on a table sputters. Spots waltz across the shipping container. We’re not in his house.
Benny’s metal chair grinds over the floor in a slow shriek. His suit pants graze my knees, invading my personal space and human rights. He leans forward, elbows on his thighs, eyes boring into mine. The blades of his cheekbones cut through the light crawling over his black waves.
For someone so fine, he’s an asshole and an idiot.
“Your employer,” he asks again, tone arousing and infuriating.
“I’m between jobs, actually.”
“Who did you work for?”
“A dickhead. I see they’re international,” I mutter.
The man in the back snickers. He’s the same one who laughed when Benny asked if I’d knocked his goon unconscious with a skillet.
Sure did!
“Something funny?” I crane my neck. “You and those soup coolers love laughing at my expense when someone messed up on your end. How do you confuse me with a white woman?”
His smile disappears.
Who knows if she was white. The point is, it’s obvious I’m not her. “Are you the same idiot who verified what Diana looked like before your goon squad snatched me for no reason? That’s what I thought.”
I focus on the other dummy in the room. “Benny—“
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s obvious you have a few things going on in your life that require anger management and some time in jail.
I don’t know you. I don’t know him.” I nod toward his friend in a tracksuit.
He and his fresh fade can go to hell too.
“What I do know is you two know I’m neither the model nor the person of interest who’s got your lips tight.
“Did you bring me here to torture the truth out of me with that hardware on the table you failed to hide? You’re not cutting me up, Benny.”
I’ve watched enough Dexter to recognize a kill room when I see one.
Bringing me here wastes both our time. One would think I earned the benefit of the doubt with how he moaned and groaned into my pussy last night.
My ghost will be all through Sicily, haunting his ass until I beat it in the afterlife.
The lines crisscrossing over Benny’s brows deepen. Emotional regulation is an infinity stone needed on the job. The best HR managers are calm under pressure to keep control of a situation. I’m trying my best to stay calm, but he’s tempting me to go upside his head once my hands are free.
Somewhere, deep inside his stubbornness, he knows I’m telling the truth. His guess is as good as mine about where Diana is. I’ve got something for her too.
“My apartment,” I blurt. “If you go to the place I was housesitting in Naples, you’ll find my identification. I’m Bianca Harris. Newly unemployed, born and raised in Baltimore. Let me go.”
“You’ve seen too much.” Benny stands, his lazy print playing in my face.
Sweat builds across my palms as he talks to his buddy in Sicilian. My pulse is in a full sprint, but I repeat the same chant in my head.
I will not die here.
A door creaks behind me. The hairs on my neck prickle at the approaching footsteps. Benny glances over his shoulder and says something in Sicilian.
“Sorry to do this again,” the voice I want to strangle says before a needle pierces my neck.
Dammit!
My fists ball and my teeth grind together. I keep my eyes on Benny, fighting the weight pushing on my eyelids. A desire for revenge mixes with betrayal. I’m out of here the first chance I get.
By any means necessary.