2. Under Orders
Chapter two
Under Orders
My knees ached where they pressed against the damp concrete floor.
The cold seeped through the wool of my maternity dress, chilling my legs.
I stayed still, planted just inside the metal door.
The rough cloth blindfold blocked everything.
The empty room magnified every small noise.
Two pairs of rubber-soled boots paced in restless, echoing circles around me.
“Don’t let her freeze up, man,” one of the men muttered. The voice came from somewhere to my left. “Her hands are turning purple back there.”
“I’m handling it,” the second voice replied.
The rhythmic scuff of his boots stopped.
He stepped directly behind me, close enough that the harsh stench of stale tobacco clinging to his jacket invaded my nose.
I waited for a blow. Instead, metal scraped against plastic.
A pocketknife sawed through the rigid zip ties digging into my wrists.
The thick bands snapped with a loud clack and clattered onto the concrete behind me.
“Keep the blindfold on if you know what’s good for you,” the man standing over me warned.
“You don’t want to see us, and we don’t want to look at you,” his partner agreed.
I pulled my arms forward, obeying the command. I did not touch the cloth over my eyes. Seeing their faces would give them a reason to bury me. My wrists throbbed. Blood rushed back into my numb, pale fingers, bringing a painful, prickling heat.
My hands shook. Pushing through the sting, I pressed both of my palms flat against the front of my cashmere overcoat.
I cradled my stomach, sheltering the baby. The thugs resumed their pacing, their boots scuffing over the cracked floorboards.
“Man, this place is freezing,” the thug on my left complained. “Did anyone check if the space heater works in the back room?”
“Forget the heater,” the man behind me snapped. “Just babysit the asset until we get the call that the cash dropped.”
The asset.
My stomach rolled, the foul smell of sour water rising from the floor drain.
They viewed me as a paycheck. Tobias had the money.
He would transfer whatever they wanted the moment they made contact.
I lowered my chin toward my chest and focused on the rhythmic sound of their boots scraping the floor.
My hands were free, but there was nowhere to run. I stayed on my knees. The two men continued their loose circle around me.
The steady scuff of their rubber soles broke when a plastic bag rustled on the far side of the room. I tilted my chin, tracking the sound through the blindfold.
Footsteps approached my left side. The boots echoed against the bare walls. A paper deli bag hit the concrete right next to my knee with a solid thump. The sudden noise made me flinch backward.
My hands dug into the cashmere overcoat covering my stomach. The thick, cloying scent of fried meat and grease wafted up from the wrapper. It mixed with the foul odor of the floor drain, making me gag. I swallowed hard, fighting my dry throat.
“I ain’t cleaning up if she throws up,” the man on my left muttered.
“She’s not going to throw up,” the second man said. He paced a few feet away, coins jingling in his pocket. “Just give her the food and tell her to finish it.”
“Here. Bodega sandwich and a plain cheese Danish. Eat it,” the first man demanded.
The smell of the cheap takeout flooded the room, mixing with the damp mildew. I had not eaten anything since breakfast at the estate. I had to eat to keep my child safe. Even knowing that, the mere scent of the dense, oily meal made me gag.
I shifted my weight against the unforgiving concrete. The cold floor bruised my knees through my maternity pants. I dragged my palms down the front of my coat, trying to steady my trembling fingers.
“I’m not hungry.” My voice rasped in the echoing space. “Please, can I just have some water?”
The second man stopped pacing. He stepped closer, looming over me.
“We didn’t bring any water. You get what we bought.”
“I can’t stomach the grease,” I pleaded, keeping my head bowed to appear submissive. “Just a cup of water from the sink.”
“Look, lady, we were strictly ordered to keep you alive. If you pass out, it’s a headache for us. Eat the food for the kid’s sake, and stay quiet.”
His blunt logic sank in. Ordered to keep you alive. I was nothing more than living collateral.
Tobias had the ransom money. These men just wanted an easy, bloodless exchange.
I turned my head toward the paper bag on the floor. Refusing their demands would only give them a reason to hurt us. I needed to force the food down, keep my strength up, and wait for my husband to pay them.
I felt blindly around my knees, my fingers scraping against the rough floor.
“Where is it?” I whispered.
My knuckles brushed the rough paper of the deli bag. I dragged it toward me. The crinkle of the cheap bag was deafening. I dug my right hand inside, bypassing the greasy wrapper of the sandwich, and closed my fingers around the rigid plastic film of the pastry.
I pulled it out, leaving the torn bag on the concrete. The artificial, sugary scent rising from the wrapper mixed sickeningly with the sour stench of the stagnant water. I squeezed my eyes shut beneath the blindfold, fighting the sudden urge to gag.
I swallowed hard.
I pressed my left palm flat against the curve of my stomach.
A tiny, distinct bump nudged my hand. A kick.
The single movement cut through the nausea.
He will pay them. I pictured the vast numbers in the Vandeveer accounts. Tobias will pay them whatever they ask, and we will go home.
“I’m right here,” I whispered toward my coat. “I promise, Mommy’s right here. We’ll get through this.”
I kept my left hand planted over the baby. I raised the pastry to my mouth. I clamped my teeth down over the edge of the plastic wrapper and jerked my right hand backward. The film tore with a sharp rip. The stale, crumbly dough of the cheese Danish brushed my bottom lip.
I took a large bite. The dense pastry tasted like sawdust. I chewed. I swallowed the dry lump, forcing it down. I took a second bite, then a third.
The pacing stopped.
“She’s actually eating it,” the man on my right observed. “Good. Saves us the trouble of force-feeding her.”
“Go check the perimeter around the back alley,” the second man ordered. “I’ll watch the door.”
“Yeah, alright. I’ll be back.”
Rubber soles squeaked against the concrete, moving away from me. The heavy metal door groaned on its hinges and clicked shut, leaving me alone with the man guarding the exit as I forced another bite down.
The minutes dragged by in echoing silence. I kept my knees planted against the cold concrete. I waited for the second thug to return from the perimeter, terrified to make a sound.
Then, a deep cramp tore through my stomach.
I doubled over. My fingers went slack. The empty plastic pastry wrapper slipped from my grip and fluttered onto the concrete floor.
A blistering itch erupted across my collarbone. The burning sensation crept upward, crawling over the skin of my neck. I brought both hands up, forgetting to keep my arms over my stomach. I dragged my fingernails across my throat, scratching at the sudden, rising hives.
My tongue swelled, growing thick and clumsy against the roof of my mouth.
Oh God. Walnuts.
The cheap cheese Danish. The bodega bakery case. It had to be cross-contamination or hidden nut extract in the dough.
I opened my mouth to pull in a breath, but the air caught. A tight, high-pitched whistle echoed in the empty room. The sheer, terrifying absurdity of the situation eclipsed any remaining fear. I didn’t have my purse. I didn’t have my EpiPen.
My baby was going to die on a dirty concrete floor because of a cheap pastry.
“Help,” I wheezed. I clawed at the side of my neck, fighting for a breath. “I can’t… allergy…”
Footsteps rushed toward me. The rubber soles skidded against the floor.
“Hey! Keep your hands off the blindfold!” the thug shouted. He hovered somewhere to my left. “I said keep it on!”
“Nut allergy…” I gasped. The whistling sound in my throat pitched higher. “I can’t… breathe…”
The door banged open on the far side of the room. The second man stepped inside, his boots thudding against the concrete.
“What the hell is wrong with her?” the first thug demanded, his voice cracking. “Hey! Look at me! Are you choking?”
I pitched forward, catching my weight on my palms. The rising hives burned fiercely, but my shaking arms were the only thing keeping my chest off the floor.
“Holy shit!” the second thug yelled, crossing the room in three long strides. “Look at her neck! What’s going on?”
“She can’t breathe!”
I gasped, desperate to draw air through my swelling throat. The darkness of the blindfold made the vertigo worse. The room spun around me, the concrete floor tilting beneath my hands.
“Call Doc!” the first man screamed. “Call him right now, tell him to get his ass down here with a kit. If the boss finds out about this, he’s going to put bullets in our heads!”
The men panicked around me, but breathing had become impossible. My chest heaved against my empty lungs. Only a thin, ragged wheeze escaped my lips. Every attempt to inhale took all the strength I had left.
“Where the hell is he?!” the first thug shouted into a cell phone. He paced the cracked concrete in erratic, frantic circles, his rubber soles squeaking loudly.
“Tell him to drive faster!” the second man yelled from the exit, his own boots echoing in the empty room. “She’s choking to death!”
A severe wave of dizziness washed over me. Nausea churned. I needed to see. I brought my trembling hands up to my face and dug my fingers under the edge of the cloth blindfold.
“Hey! Leave that alone!” the first thug bellowed.
I ignored the command. I gripped the fabric and yanked it upward. The material scraped over my forehead and snagged in my hair before pulling free.
I blinked against the sudden, blinding glare. A single bare bulb hung from a network of exposed metal pipes across the ceiling.
The bleak details of the cold safehouse sharpened around me. Peeling paint clung to the cinderblock walls. A rusted floor drain sat in the center of the room, surrounded by puddles of stagnant water. The entire space blurred out of focus, pitching violently.
“Her lips are turning blue, man!” the thug near the metal door screamed. He abandoned his post and rushed toward me.
A cold sweat broke out across my face, plastering stray strands to my skin. Black spots swarmed the edges of the yellow light, closing in until I could barely see. I planted my palms flat against the concrete floor, trying to hold myself upright.
My arms shook. I collapsed onto my side. My shoulder slammed into the damp concrete. My legs went limp, sprawling across the grit. The chill of the room seeped through my maternity dress, biting into my cheek.
I stared at the metal grate a few inches from my nose.
I am failing my baby.
The thought pierced through the suffocating fog. I dragged my right hand over the rough floor, clawing at the concrete to keep myself anchored. My fingers slipped. I didn’t even have the strength to make a fist. I was fading.
“She’s going down!” the first man yelled. His boots stomped into my blurring vision, stopping inches from my face. “Hey! Look at me! Stay awake!”
“Doc’s coming!” his partner shouted. The chaotic roar of their overlapping voices overwhelmed me. “Just keep her breathing, man!”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?!”
The world collapsed into darkness as I gasped for a final, useless breath, the frantic screams of the men ringing above me.