Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (12 page)

“Do not move or scream,” the tall man said. Without waiting for Caro's response, he put away the knife, got out of the car, and climbed into the front seat. She immediately reached for the door handle. But there wasn't one. It had been torn off.

A buzzing started between her ears, as if bees were flying inside her skull. These men had tried to steal her bag at the Sofia airport and they'd probably burgled her room at the Ustra—but why?

My icon.
It was quite old, but she'd assumed its value was sentimental. So why had they kidnapped her
and
the bag? Why hadn't they knocked her to the sidewalk and stolen the icon? Or did they want Uncle Nigel's passport with its odd clues? What if these creeps were mixed up in the Bulgarian mafia and were escorting her to an underworld boss?

Rivulets of perspiration streamed down Caro's face. She cut her gaze to the plaid bag—had she packed anything that could be used as a weapon?

The tall man gunned the engine, and the car jolted into traffic. Teo grabbed Caro's hair. “Hurts, yes?” he said, then let go of her hair and shoved her against the window.

“Asshole.” She jerked the duffel into her lap and folded her arms around it.

The driver laughed and glanced over his shoulder. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Georgi Ivanov. My comrade is Teodor Draganov. But you may call him Teo.”

“And I'm the bloody queen of England,” she cried, sounding braver than she felt. “Stop the car.”

“I cannot do that, Your Majesty.” Georgi steered the Dacia down a side street and angled into a parking garage. The first level was crammed with vehicles. Why had the men picked this place? Were they going to change vehicles or drag her into the building? An echo rose up as the tires slapped over the concrete segments and screeched around corners. Only a few cars were on the second tier; the third was empty. She wiped her sweaty face and glanced out the window. No cars, no people, no one to hear her scream.

Georgi parked beside a dirty plaster column. Caro glanced at Teo. He rubbed his scalp, grimacing as wiry hairs broke loose and drifted. She turned back to the window.

She felt a little shaky and took a deep breath, then she inched toward the window. Georgi got out and opened her door so swiftly that she lost her balance. She veered forward, arms windmilling, and crashed to the pavement. The duffel landed beside her with a terrible, final thud. She expected Georgi to brandish his knife, but he stepped to the front of the Dacia and beat on the hood.

“Stop acting like girl!” he yelled at Teo.

Caro pressed her lips together, feeling a steely determination take hold. She was going to die, but these thugs weren't getting her icon. She'd rather fling it over the ledge. Her hands shook as she tucked the duffel's strap across her shoulder.

Footsteps shuffled closer. Georgi yanked Caro to her feet and towed her around the car, to the open trunk. She bent her knees and pulled hard in the opposite direction, trying to throw him off balance. She heard a scuffling noise behind her, then something crashed against her head. Pain spilled through her skull and the pavement sloshed forward, a solid wave of gray, then the light sputtered and went out.

 

Caro awoke in a dark, foul-smelling place, and wherever that place was, it was moving. Her nose twitched as she breathed in petrol fumes and an underlying stench of dirt and decay. The back of her head throbbed. Had she fallen into a cave? Where the hell was she? Her hand shot out and hit something hard. Chunks of memory floated up. A door without a handle. An open trunk. Men in jogging suits. They'd knocked her out and stuffed her into the damn trunk.

The brakes squealed, and the car stopped abruptly, slinging her backward. A hard edge poked into her back. She reached around and felt a rectangular object. Her fingernails scratched over the surface. Nylon. Her bag. In the distance, she heard honking horns and sirens. Muffled voices seeped from the deepest part of the trunk. Those bastards were listening to music.

She pushed her hand along the bag, searching for the zipper. She couldn't find it, couldn't get inside. And she needed a weapon. She'd packed her uncle's pens, right? She finally found the tiny metal zipper, slid it open, and reached inside the bag. Her fingers brushed over plastic and a square edge.

Okay, good. Her icon was still there. So the men hadn't looked inside the bag. If they weren't after the icon, then what? Maybe they knew it wasn't going anywhere. She couldn't just sit here while they drove to a secluded spot. She had to find a way out.

She thrust her hand deeper into the bag, and her knuckles grazed what felt like a long, cylindrical object. Her thumb passed over a tiny knob. She pushed it, and a circle of light filled the bag with an eerie red glow. Her uncle's pens lay in the bottom—maybe she could stab Georgi in the eye or pick the lock. Not too long ago, the
Observer
had published an article about women and safety, with a sidebar on how to escape from a trunk. Digging into the backseat was one option, and kicking out the brake lights was another. Newer cars had glow-in-the-dark tags.

Caro didn't see one. Not a good sign. She wasn't sure if she could pick the latch with an ink pen, but she had to try. She grabbed a pen, then swept the light around the trunk. Dirty blue carpet. Brown metal roof. Plastic bag filled with jewelry. A child's stuffed bunny. A brown fedora with a crease in the rim, just like Uncle Nigel's.

She jolted. The light wavered and hit a gray, waxen figure with long, dark hair. A mannequin? But why would a mannequin have blood splattered on her jacket? Caro leaned closer, trying not to breathe in the stench. The woman's throat was slashed, stringy tendons hanging down. She was dead, dead, dead.

Caro choked down a scream and scrambled to the far side of the trunk. The woman's hair was caked with blood. All of her fingernails were torn. She was naked from the waist down, with bite wounds along her thighs, and her heels had been sliced open.

Caro winced. Uncle Nigel's Achilles tendons had been severed. And he'd been bitten. She aimed the light over the jewelry, the bunny, and the fedora. It was definitely Uncle Nigel's. The men in the front seat had killed and tortured her uncle; they'd done more to this woman. And they would do the same to her.

The Dacia moved at a sluggish pace, then stopped abruptly. She stuffed the pens into her jacket, then aimed the beam of light at the latch. She didn't see a lock or any type of safety mechanism. This was an older Romanian car, not a Land Rover. The Dacia probably didn't have an automatic trunk release. If it did, it would be connected to the lock by a cable. She looked for one. Nothing.

She put the penlight into her mouth and scooted to the other side of the trunk. She pressed against the dead woman and began ripping up the carpet. The light moved over a bundle of wires and thick cables. She followed one to the trunk latch and pulled hard.

It didn't budge. She rubbed her palms together and grabbed the cable with both hands, wrenching as hard as she could. The cable bit into her palm. She ignored the pain and tugged again. If she didn't get out, she would end up raped and butchered. She pulled again.

Nothing happened.

Okay, one more time, Clifford.
She slid her hands along the cable, moving closer to the latch, and braced her feet against the side of the trunk. Then she yanked as hard as she could, ignoring the sharp, searing pain. Pull, pull, pull.

She heard a click, and the lid creaked open. Light spilled around her, stinging her eyes. She scrambled to her knees. Traffic was at a standstill, except for the far lane, where vehicles moved in a blur. The Dacia inched forward. Had the kidnappers noticed the open trunk?

She shoved the penlight into her bag. Then she slung the strap around her chest, bandolier style, and waited for the Dacia to stop. But it kept going.

She grasped the metal edge of the trunk and rolled out. Her feet hit the pavement and she skidded. The car behind her slammed on its brakes. The Dacia stopped, too.

Caro looked under the car. Teo's black tennis shoes appeared. She pulled the pens out of her pocket, then scuttled into the next lane and crouched between two vans. Her pulse thrummed as Teo walked to the back of the Dacia and slammed the trunk shut. He glanced around, straightening his sunglasses, just another cool dude with a penchant for white makeup and dead broads. Then he headed in Caro's direction.

The back of her neck tingled. If she didn't move, the rat bastard would find her. Gripping a pen in each hand, she hurried into the next lane. A taxi honked and hit the brakes. The driver shook his fist.

“Help me,” Caro yelled. “Please help!”

Teo jumped onto the hood of a blue Skoda and vaulted to the next car. He was gaining on her. Cars began honking, and a man stuck his head out his window and yelled. Caro ran to the far lane and waited for a gap in the traffic. A cold hand closed on her shoulder and yanked her around. She looked up into Teo's face.

“You sad bastard, leave me alone!” She stabbed a pen into his hand.

Teo stretched his arms like a swimmer and dove toward her. Caro stepped aside and jabbed the other pen into his neck. He tottered on one leg. She lunged forward and pushed him into the far lane.

A white truck honked, but before Teo got his footing, the vehicle rammed into him and sucked him under its wheels. His sunglasses spun up into the air. There was a crunch and the brakes whined. The rear tires stopped on Teo's lower back. Dark blood jetted up, pulsing onto the asphalt.

People climbed out of their cars and pressed closer. A taxi driver elbowed his way through the crowd, yelling in broken English, “She pushed him!”

Caro shook her head, and then she remembered she was supposed to nod. “He kidnapped me. And there's a dead woman in his trunk. He's driving a brown Dacia.”

A man in a black sweater charged forward and took her photograph with his mobile phone. She started to run, but he locked his arm around her neck.

“Let me go. You don't understand,” she cried. “He tried to kill me.”

The man in the black sweater tightened his grip and shouted, “Police!”

His arm pressed hard against her windpipe. She couldn't breathe. Spots whirled in front of her eyes. She pinched his hand, digging her nails into his flesh, and he jerked her to the side. In the distance, she heard someone call her name. Georgi? No, the accent was wrong.

“Caro?” the voice called again. She recognized the heavy Yorkshire accent.

Then Jude pushed through the crowd and lunged at the man in the sweater. There was a crack, and the man tipped forward in a dead faint. Caro felt a warm hand clamp down on her wrist. Jude pulled her up and led her around the truck, across the boulevard. Then she remembered about Phoebe and shook off his hand. He'd been outside their flat that night. Now he was in downtown Kardzhali. He was everywhere he shouldn't be.

“What's wrong?” Jude's forehead wrinkled.

“Leave me alone!” She ran down the sidewalk. Maybe he was in league with those men in the Dacia. If not, why the hell was he here? She cut around a corner, only to stop abruptly and vomit into the gutter. When she looked up, Jude stood two feet away.

“Why are you always turning up?” she cried. She stepped backward. In the distance she heard sirens.

“Calm down,” he said. “I followed your taxi, and—”

“Why? Are you a stalker?”

“I'm trying to keep you alive.” He pointed. “My car is around the corner. We need to go.”

“I don't need you. I can take care of myself.” She balled up her fist and slugged him in the jaw.

“Bugger.” Jude staggered backward, rubbing his cheek. Behind him, Georgi rounded the corner and pulled off his sunglasses. Jude turned. The two men glared for a long time, making Caro wonder if they were exchanging signals. A smile cut across Georgi's angular face, creasing the white ointment. As he started toward them, the sun skidded out of a gray cloud and shone down, glancing off the asphalt and filling the alley with sharp light. Georgi dropped to one knee and held up his hand, fingers spread into claws.

Caro took off in the opposite direction. She heard footsteps, and then Jude spun her around. She started to hit him again, but he caught her hand and slung her over his shoulder.

“Put me down!”

“Not on your nelly.” Gripping her tightly, he jogged across the street and turned down an alley.

She let out a sharp cry and pummeled the back of his leather coat. “I forbid you to take another step, you ruddy punk.”

“I'm not going to harm you, I swear it.”

Something in his voice broke through her panic and she quit struggling. He carried her into a parking lot and stopped in front of a white Fiat. In one smooth motion, he slung open the passenger door and shoved her into the seat. Then he leaned over and fastened her safety belt.

She immediately unbuckled it.

“Are you mad?” Perspiration ran down his face, and a bruise was forming on his jaw where she'd clipped him. At the end of the alley, police cars flashed by.

“You and that damned Bulgarian man know each other,” she said. She was too frightened to cry. She was in survival mode. She started to climb out of the car, ready to fight, but he pushed her back.

“Hold still.” He jerked up the hem of his jeans and pulled down his sock. “See the scars?” He pointed to his heel. “My Achilles tendons were cut. Both of them. Just like your uncle's.”

Her vision blurred as she stared at the jagged red lines. The police hadn't released details about Uncle Nigel's murder. “How do
you
know what happened to my uncle?”