24. Iris
Iris
I t doesn’t matter how many police shows, true crime podcasts or thriller novels I’ve devoured, nothing prepares me for how it feels being locked in the boot of a car.
Images of Brent and his bullet wound flash through my mind, only to be replaced by the burning front of the warehouse with kids inside. The two scenes play on a loop, making me tremble.
I’m on my side, my knees hugged into my chest and my head rests on something cold and hard. If I shift positions to find some sort of relief from the discomfort, it only causes new pain elsewhere.
The car travels at speed, meaning I feel every bump, every swerve. Metal vibrates beneath me, the sound of tyres on bitumen a constant growl. The air is hot and stale, each breath catching in my throat. I can taste rubber and the smell of fuel burns my nostrils.
The space is so small it feels like it’s shrinking, the walls inching closer with every kilometre. My heart hammers in my ears, too loud, too fast. I try to count my breaths, to think of something logical, something that will keep me calm. But all I can think is, this is how people die .
After what seems like a lifetime, the car slows to a stop. I take advantage of the silence and start kicking my feet hard at the side of the car. I don’t know where I am, or if anyone is around, but if there’s any chance someone can hear me, I’ll take it.
The boot pops open and I’m blinded by the sunlight after being trapped in the dark. When my eyes adjust, I’m staring down the barrel of a gun.
‘Shut up or you’re dead,’ Matteas says. I can’t see anything beyond him and there doesn’t seem to be any other cars or people around based on the silence—and the fact Matteas is so brazenly pointing a gun at me.
‘W-what do you want from me?’ I splutter, my throat dry from the air in the trunk and the days spent in the warehouse.
‘I said shut it.’
He slams the boot back down and my world goes black again. We must have been at the meeting place because a second person gets in the car.
I strain to hear the voices of Matteas and Gregor. My back is pressed against the central flap that can be pulled down to access the boot from the back seat.
I shift onto my back and press my ear closer to the flap.
‘They’ll meet us at the safe house,’ Matteas says. ‘Are you sure this will work?’
There’s a long beat of silence. ‘No. But we have no other options. We need to keep her alive.’
The last line should fill me with relief but as the engine starts up again and my head rattles against the hard surface, I sob.