Chapter 45
Rachel's shoulder slammed into the van's steel wall as the vehicle swerved hard to the left.
Pain shot down her arm from the point of impact, sharp and immediate, running all the way to her fingertips like electricity.
She didn't have time to process it before another turn threw her sideways.
Her knee cracked against the ribbed metal floor and she heard the impact over the engine noise, a sick, hollow sound that told her she'd hit bone-on-metal.
Duct tape sealed her mouth. The adhesive pulled at her skin with every breath, the taste of it chemical and wrong on her lips.
A blindfold pressed tight across her eyes, the fabric rough against her eyelids and smelling faintly of motor oil and sweat.
Her wrists were bound behind her back with rope that bit deeper into her skin every time the van lurched and she instinctively tried to catch herself.
Everything hurt. Her shoulder throbbed in time with her pulse.
Her knee felt wet, probably bleeding under her shorts.
The tape over her mouth made her want to gag, made her hyperaware of every breath she had to drag through her nose.
The air in the van was hot and stale, thick with the smell of diesel fumes and old rubber.
Don't panic. Count. Track. Stay present.
The techniques she'd learned in hostile territory came back automatically.
Left turn. Approximately forty-five degrees based on how her body shifted against the wall.
Speed maintaining, they weren't worried about being followed.
Another right. Sharper this time, maybe sixty degrees.
She tried to build a mental map, tried to calculate how far they'd traveled from Ghost's street.
Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Time felt slippery.
The van hit what felt like a pothole and Rachel flew upward. For a split second she was airless, suspended, then gravity slammed her back down. Her ribs connected with something hard, a wheel well, maybe, or a bracket mounted to the floor. The impact drove every bit of air from her lungs.
She gasped, fighting to pull oxygen through her nose while her diaphragm spasmed and refused to cooperate. Her vision went gray behind the blindfold. Panic clawed at her throat. Breathe. Just breathe.
Her nose whistled with each inhale. Not enough air. Never enough air.
Slowly, painfully, her lungs started working again. Short, shallow breaths that didn't require her ribs to expand much.
Laughter drifted from the front of the van. Male voices, casual and relaxed like they were discussing weekend plans instead of the woman they'd just violently abducted.
"She's gonna be good and banged up by the time we get there."
Amusement colored the words. Like her pain was entertaining. Like she was a piece of cargo that might arrive damaged.
"Like it matters," another voice added, this one rougher, older. Smoker's rasp. "Not like she needs to be in one piece."
Rachel's fingers curled into fists despite the zip ties cutting into her wrists. She focused on that sensation, nails digging into palms, the specific sharp pressure points. Pain she could control. Pain that was hers to choose.
Her mind was already working through the variables despite the fear trying to short-circuit her thoughts.
Three distinct voices so far. Van layout suggested military surplus, no seats in the cargo area, ribbed steel flooring designed for easy hosing, what felt like an anchor ring mounted to the wall near her left shoulder.
They'd grabbed her with professional efficiency but they were talking openly now.
Either they didn't care if she heard or they didn't plan on her being able to tell anyone.
Neither option was good.
"She know where she is?" A new voice, younger than the others. Twenties, maybe.
"She will soon enough. Doesn't matter." The rough voice again, closer to the cab. "Get her there, get paid. That's the job."
Paid. Contract work. Hired muscle, not the people actually running the operation. That information might matter later.
If there was a later.
Movement shifted in the van. Boots scraped across metal flooring, coming closer. Rachel forced herself to stay still, forced her breathing to stay even despite her heart slamming against her ribs hard enough that she could feel it in her throat.
"Bet she's scared." The voice was close now, almost directly above her. Male, mid-thirties from the timbre, with an edge of cruelty that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. "Not so tough now, huh, sweetheart?"
The kick came without warning.
His boot connected with her ribs just below her breast, a precise strike that drove what little air she'd managed to recover straight out of her lungs.
Pain tore through her torso, sharp and immediate.
Rachel's body wanted to curl inward, wanted to protect itself, but the zip ties at her wrists kept her from moving.
She didn't make a sound. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Another nudge, gentler this time but still deliberately cruel, rolled her onto her back.
The plastic zip ties dug into the steel floor beneath her, supporting her full weight.
The edges cut into her wrists, slicing deeper.
The angle wrenched both shoulders backward.
Fire shot up her arms. Behind the blindfold, her eyes watered involuntarily.
Don't react. Don't give them anything.
"She fought hard back there," the voice continued, conversational now. Discussing her like she wasn't even there. "Saw her file before we moved. Always poking around where she doesn't belong. Think she'll still have some fight left when we hand her over?"
Someone laughed, short and mean. "She won't get a choice."
Rachel's pulse kicked against her throat. She could feel it throbbing there, rapid and uneven. Her mind spun through everything she knew, everything she'd uncovered in those files. Arms deals. Corruption networks. Names of officers who should be in prison.
They knew who she was. Knew what she did. Which meant they knew she'd found something worth killing for.
The van jerked right again and Rachel's forehead cracked against what felt like a metal bracket mounted to the wall.
The impact was immediate and sickening. Her vision went white behind the blindfold, then gray, then started to tilt even though she was lying down.
Nausea surged in her stomach, bile rising in her throat.
Concussion. Possible. Stay conscious. Have to stay conscious.
She blinked hard behind the blindfold, fighting the dizziness, fighting the urge to throw up because with the tape over her mouth she'd choke on her own vomit.
Don't think about that. Don't think about drowning in your own,
The van's movement changed. Deceleration. They were slowing down.
The engine dropped to an idle, rough and diesel, vibrating through the floor beneath her, then cut completely.
Rachel went still. Forced herself to breathe slowly, quietly through her nose. Outside, doors slammed. Voices picked up, muffled through the van's walls but urgent now. Moving with purpose.
Footsteps approached the rear doors.
The doors groaned open on rusty hinges and cooler air rushed in. It hit her sweat-dampened skin with enough contrast that goosebumps rose on her arms immediately. Late afternoon. The air smelled different, less city, more industrial. Oil and rust and something chemical she couldn't place.
They'd been driving for... twenty minutes? Thirty? Her sense of time had fractured somewhere between the beatings.
Before she could brace herself, hands grabbed her ankles and pulled.
Rachel’s body slid across the van floor, her zip-tied wrists scraping against the ribbed metal. Every ridge caught the plastic, ground it deeper into already torn skin, then she was falling, gravity taking over for a split second before her knees hit gravel.
The impact was immediate and brutal. Sharp rocks bit into her kneecaps through her shorts. She felt the skin split, felt the warm wetness that meant she was bleeding, felt gravel embedding itself in the torn flesh.
Fingers clamped around her upper arm, hard enough to bruise, hard enough that she felt each individual digit pressing into muscle, and hauled her upright.
The world spun. Her knees barely held her weight. Blood ran down both shins, warm and sticky.
"Move." The word was punctuated by a shove between her shoulder blades.
Rachel stumbled forward, blind and disoriented. Her feet scraped across what felt like dirt and gravel mixed together. No street noise. No traffic sounds. No voices except her captors. No birds. No wind through trees.
Wherever they were, it was isolated.
The boot caught her in the ribs before she registered movement, a solid strike just below her ribcage that folded her in half. Air ripped from her lungs. She tried to cry out but the duct tape turned it into a muffled sound that was worse than silence. Pathetic. Weak.
Get up. Have to get up.
But her body wouldn't cooperate. Each attempt to breathe felt like knives scraping against bone. Her legs wouldn't hold her. She was on her knees again, the gravel biting deeper into already torn skin.
"Get up."
She couldn't. Couldn't make her legs work, couldn't coordinate movement when everything hurt and she couldn't see and couldn't breathe properly and—
Fingers twisted into her hair and yanked.
Rachel's head snapped back. Her neck cracked audibly. Pain shot from the base of her skull down her spine. Her scalp burned where he was pulling, forcing her to her feet through sheer agony. Strands of hair tore free.
She stumbled, trying to find her footing, but the ground beneath her feet changed without warning. Dirt became concrete. The temperature dropped several degrees, enough that she felt it immediately on her bare arms and legs.
They were inside now.
The acoustics shifted. Her ragged breathing echoed off walls instead of dissipating into open air.
Footsteps multiplied, became harder to track.
A low mechanical hum pulsed somewhere ahead, steady and industrial.
The smell changed too. Rust and old oil and something metallic and sharp that reminded her of blood.
Warehouse. High ceilings. Concrete floors. No insulation. Somewhere no one would hear her scream.
They shoved her down and her tailbone hit metal. The chair didn't give at all, bolted to the floor. The impact sent shockwaves up her spine, made her teeth click together.
Rachel twisted instinctively, testing the zip ties at her wrists, searching for any slack she could exploit. Nothing. The plastic held firm, the edges sharp and unyielding where they'd already cut into her skin.
Rough hands grabbed her legs and forced them apart. More plastic zip ties bit into her ankles as someone secured them to the chair's front legs, pulled tight enough that the plastic edges dug into bone immediately. She'd have marks within minutes. Probably bleeding within an hour.
Rope followed. Thick and coarse, scratching against her bare arms as they looped it across her chest and around the chair's back.
They pulled it tight, pinning her arms to her sides, compressing her ribs until every breath became a conscious effort.
Her chest couldn't expand fully. Each inhale was shallow, incomplete.
Rachel forced her mind to slow down, forced herself to take breaths that didn't require her chest to move much.
Panic would kill her faster than her captors would.
She'd seen people die from positional asphyxiation in conflict zones, watched their lips turn blue, watched them struggle and fail to get enough oxygen.
Knew what happened when the body couldn't breathe.
Don't think about that. Focus.
She tested the restraints methodically. Shifted her wrists to check for give, the zip ties just cut deeper.
Flexed her ankles against the ties there, they bit into bone but didn't budge.
Tried to determine if the rope around her torso had any slack at all, no.
They'd done this before. Known exactly how to secure someone so they couldn't move without causing themselves more pain.
New footsteps entered the space. Different from the others, measured, controlled, confident. Authority in the rhythm. Dress shoes on concrete, not boots.
"Easy, gentlemen." The voice matched the footsteps. Male, educated, calm. The calm of someone completely in control. "No need to break her. Not yet."
The hands on her shoulders fell away. Boots scraped backward, giving him space.
"Let's keep this civil."
Civil. The word was almost funny. Rachel's ribs screamed with every breath, her wrists were bleeding where the zip ties had cut through skin, blood ran down both legs from her knees, and they'd beaten her like a training dummy in the back of that van.
But she didn't laugh. Didn't react at all.
The blindfold came off in a single rough pull that caught strands of her hair and yanked them free.