Fancy name for the Mafia. Basically run southern Italy. But why grab an American in Barcelona, what’s the point? They make billions of euros a year on drugs, graft. This is more trouble than it’s worth. And the care these people have taken, the resources, this feels like a government-level operation. But they haven’t asked me for anything.”
“Maybe some Eastern European is getting into high-end trafficking.”
She squeezed his arm. “I wondered, maybe it’s you they want.”
“An NSA drone? I doubt it.” Brian shook his head as if he hadn’t even considered the idea.
He was probably right, she thought. How would the Russians even know who he was?
“Becks?”
“Yeah?”
“Think there’s any chance she gets out on her own?”
Oddly enough she’d barely considered the possibility. These people had proven how good they were. The only mistakes they’d made—Dropbox and a couple of fingerprints—were too small to count.
Kira was smart and reasonably well-disciplined. But Becks had never seen any evidence she had a killer instinct. Why would she? She was a nice girl from a nice middle-class family. It wasn’t like they’d been teaching her to pick locks or shuck handcuffs.
Anyone who would kidnap you and threaten to kill you in public wouldn’t be much nicer once he had you to himself. Take any chance that came your way. But for most people, the natural instinct was to wait, appeal to the kidnapper’s humanity. Until too late.
“Anything’s possible.” She wondered if she sounded as discouraged about the prospect as she felt.
Then their phones vibrated.
30
Somewhere in Spain
Thump. Thump.
The footsteps came up the stairs, a heavy male tread. Rodrigo.
Kira pushed herself up against the wall. The tip of the nail dug into her waist. The bag with the acetone and lighter waited beside her hip. Not much of an arsenal, but it would have to do.
At the top of the stairs the steps stopped—
Turned around. Halfway down, a heavier thump as he stumbled. A muffled Spanish curse.
No. Kira could read Rodrigo’s drug-addled mind. Torn between his idiot lust and Jacques’s warnings.
A few minutes later she heard him on the steps again. More slowly this time. Again he stopped at the top.
Was she ready? If she failed he’d kill her. Even if she succeeded… if the others came home too soon… if they hadn’t left a car… if she couldn’t start it…
No.
She had to try. No excuses.
“Rodrigo! That you?”
“Sí.” The door muffled his voice.
“Come on then.”
The steps turned down the hall. Toward the closet. Toward her.
She reached for the lighter, flicked the little metal wheel—
Nothing. No. She tried again. This time the flame came up, bright and strong.
She slipped the lighter back in the plastic bag, next to the nail polish remover. The bottle cap was loose but still on. She didn’t think he’d notice the smell if she uncapped it, but she couldn’t risk it.
The deadbolt clapped back. Rodrigo stood in the doorway.
She had to stay in control. Make him listen. If he just jumped her, she’d lose both ways.
“Lilly made me take a shower. They’re selling me.”
He shrugged. She didn’t have to fake her shiver. “Do you have any coke?”
He nodded.
“Then come on, let’s do it. Time to party.”
He looked less enthusiastic than she’d expected. She feared he might leave. He ran his tongue over his upper lip nervously, came to her, offered her the bag of white powder. He’d showered too at some point but still stank of sweat. Was he so terrified of Jacques?
But then Jacques was terrifying.
“You first.”
He reached in with a dirty fingernail, snorted a bump, a big one. She followed. She kept the hit small. Still, she felt the drug’s power. Her heart chopped into another gear. A dry metal taste filled her mouth. Her blood sparkled. The world was brighter. Clearer. Even in here.
“That’s good.”
He did another hit. The coke seemed to give him courage. He leaned in to kiss her. No. She put a finger to his lips.
“Stand.”
Am I really doing this?
“Sí?”
“Stand.”
He stood. She pulled off the belt, unbuttoned his jeans, pushed them down halfway. His penis was half-hard. And uncircumcised. And thick but not very big. And smelled terrible. God no. She’d have to take antibiotics like her dumb suitemate Janice who’d gotten frisky in New Orleans—
Focus.
She took him in her mouth. His erection was fading. He was more flaccid than hard now and stank of stale sweat and something worse. She wanted to gag. But if she couldn’t make this happen—
“Coke dick,” he said.
Coke dick? Was that a thing? She spat on her hand, tugged at