16 - Nowhere To Run
Logan
“I’m surprised they’ll even let us in here, considering we up and left after the whole Cillian thing.”
Clarke turns to me, still staring in disgust at his pint of Diet Coke. “Scar negotiated with them, agreed to pay expenses and any trauma therapy for the staff.” He sniggers at the end of that last sentence. Pretty sure the kid who had her ponytail hacked off by a madman might need that.
A quick glance around at the many empty tables is all the evidence we need to show the incident had a negative effect on the business, and likely their profits too.
I bet Scar had to pay out of his own pocket, which he won’t be happy about.
We’re still learning to be good little gangsters.
We can’t always be expected to get it right.
“So, what did you want to tell us this time?”
My eyes dart across to Ezio, who’s watching me with intrigue. A knot forms in my stomach, and my protein shake from breakfast threatens to make another hasty appearance. I take a swig from my pint glass, forcing it back down.
“Yeah,” I mumble, dragging my hand over my face. “It’s about Cordelia.”
Both the guy’s gazes are on me now. I can’t see them, but I can feel their gazes burning holes through the top of my head.
“Continuar,” Clarke says simply, his tone low.
“CMR,” I sigh, hauling my eyes up to meet their faces, a mixture of disbelief and confusion. “Cordelia Maeve Rousseau.”
Ezio’s pupils dilate in realisation, and Clarke’s already near-black pupils somehow darken. His fingers gripping the tall glass squeeze tighter, becoming dangerously close to shattering it into tiny pieces.
“Are you sure?” Ez says, reaching over to rescue the glass from Clarke’s shaking chokehold.
I nod. “The initials are on her license plate.”
“What the fuck?” Clarke spits, venom dripping from his lips. “How did we miss that?”
I shrug. “I guess we didn’t suspect the new kid.”
“Fuck!” he yells, slamming a fist on the table, making everyone around us jump out of their skin. “That’s why her name wasn’t picked up in the database. After all that time she’s been under our noses.”
“Right,” I dip my chin in confirmation. “It hadn’t been updated with the new student intake.”
“Alright,” Clarke mutters, nostrils flaring, jaw set in stone. “We need to arrange a meeting with her.”
Ezio scoffs at his friend, anger roiling across his shoulders. “She’s hardly going to come willingly, is she?”
“Then we take her against her will,” Clarke says bluntly. Like he’s stating a fact and not staging a morally questionable kidnapping.
My stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of forcing Cordelia’s hand. But it might be the only way she’ll listen to me. The only way I can get her to see sense and to understand the danger she could be in. The danger our unborn child could be in.
“Okay,” I breathe finally. “But we have to be careful. We can’t do anything that will hurt her or the baby.”
We nod simultaneously. I order another round from the bar and then we sit and come up with a plan to get her where we want her.
Cordelia
I’m being followed.
All I did was pop out to the shop to grab some milk for Mama.
When I pulled away from the car park, a white van trailed far too close behind.
I’ve purposefully gone a different route home to see if they’d keep up their pursuit.
When I turn left, they turn left. When I take an exit at the roundabout, they take the same exit.
They keep their distance out on the roads, far enough away not to rouse suspicion, but close enough to cause my heart to race. There’s two of them in the vehicle. Only with their faces shrouded in darkness, I can’t define any facial features or even decipher if they’re male or female.
I need to lose them, but I’m lost from all the diversions and changes in direction.
Having not long moved here, I’ve not grown accustomed to the area yet, so I tend to stick to where I know.
In Nice, I knew every street, every road, every little shortcut.
Here, I have no chance. The rain crashing down hard on my windscreen isn’t helping.
It obscures my vision of the road ahead, making it difficult to gauge my position and distance from other cars.
Add on the dazzling lights reflected in my rear-view mirror, and this is a complete recipe for disaster.
The driver of the van flashes me. They want me to pull over, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to.
So, I follow the traffic, spotting another roundabout ahead.
At the very last minute, I jerk the wheel left and swap lanes.
The van rolls to a stop parallel to me. Close, but in a completely different lane. Thankfully.
The blacked-out window begins winding down at an excruciatingly slow speed, and my blood runs cold when I come face to face with Clarke. His eyes gleam through the shadows with what I can only describe as wired excitement.
“Sly move, Cordelia,” he slurs. His arm hangs lazily out of the open window, even though it’s pelting down outside. “I’m going to have to ask you to pull over.”
I stare, my eyes pinballing between him and the traffic lights.
Come on, change!
“Why?” I ask, struggling to mask the trembling dictating my tone.
Clarke chuckles, leaning back in his seat, allowing me a glimpse of Ezio behind the wheel; whose eyes are sharp as a hawk, focused on the road ahead like it’s his next kill.
“I think you may have something in your possession that belongs to my friend,” Clarke says, voice low and dangerous.
The lights change, and I slam down on the gas so hard I think my foot might go through the floor. The car lurches forward, flattening my back against the leather, whilst I accelerate at a stupidly reckless speed.
Once I’m a couple of car widths ahead, I risk a glance behind me. And openly gawk at the rear-view mirror when Ezio performs an insanely illegal manoeuvre, cutting across several cars to swerve into the lane beside me. Then he hammers the gas, eating up the road between us.
We’re neck and neck now, and I’m quickly running out of road.
Clarke flashes me a look. The look he gives you when he’s furious you’re not conforming to his dictatorship. “Stop the car before you get yourself killed,” he snarls. “We just want to talk.”
I scoff. I’ve heard that one before. “Sure, you do. Then you’ll tear off my fingernails and toenails with a pair of fucking pliers.”
“Brutal,” Ezio throws in with a grimace.
“For fuck’s sake, Cordelia. Stop the fucking car! We haven’t got time for this.”
My grip on the steering wheel tightens under my quaking fingers as I push the pedal down harder to the floor.
Clarke’s frustrated roar fades to nothing as I leave them behind.
I veer off down a quiet side road to the left, putting all my focus into getting my nerves back under control.
Steadying my breathing, in and out slowly.
Except my body is still racked high on adrenaline, and my endeavour to control the rhythm is failing hard.
My headlights catch something on the road ahead. No, not something.
Someone.
A motorbike silhouetted against the darkness.
When I realise the driver has no intention of moving, I hammer the brake, resulting in a treacherous emergency stop that sends my wheels spinning, aquaplaning and careening sideways on the slick road.
The engine splutters and cuts out close to a tall hedge.
My eyes fixate on the bike - a black Harley Davidson, with a lick of green fire splashed from front to back.
Logan’s Harley. He tugs off his helmet, and his eyes find me in the lamplight.
My breaths turn ragged, and my palms sweat so badly they may as well be wet.
I want to run, but the fear ruling my body has me shackled in place.
Headlights behind tell me the other two have caught up.
A moment later and the passenger door swings open.
Clarke climbs in with one hand held suspiciously behind his back.
The stench of chemicals in the air fills the confined space.
I slink away from him, pressing my back flush against the car door.
My hand flies to the handle, but it won’t budge.
I risk a glance over my shoulder, horrified to see Logan wedging himself against it with overwhelming strength.
My eyes dart back to the unhinged guy in the car with me, who’s creeping further over the central panel.
“Why didn’t you just pull over, Cordelia?” He growls. His tone insinuates aggression, but the smirk on his lips says otherwise. He enjoys this—striking fear into people’s bones. “We could have avoided this whole ordeal.”
I snort. Because it seems I can still be brazen even in the face of fear. “Don’t lie, Clarke. You would have taken these measures either way. You live for this shit.”
His smirk stretches wider. The devil himself couldn’t match this guy’s smile, I swear. With a shrug, he reveals his hidden hand, clutching a syringe of milky fluid.
“Smart girl.”
My breath hitches and I scream, piercing the deathly silence.
He claps his hand over my mouth and nose and shoves my cheek against the car window.
I thrash and flail beneath his rough grip, but he’s like a wall of muscle.
And when he practically sits on top of me, all chances of winning this battle ebb away.
The sharp sting of the needle sinking into the skin makes me gasp.
The urge to fight soon leaves me, and I find myself succumbing to the bewitching pull of sleep.