TWO
DECLAN
Kidnapping a woman shouldn't be this bloody aggravating.
I'm half surprised we even managed to get her onto the plane. Since we grabbed her in that Manhattan parking garage, she's been an absolute pain in the arse.
Most people—sane ones, anyway—do one of three things when subjected to a traumatic experience like kidnapping: they cry, they beg, or they shut down completely, paralyzed by fear. The rare person fights for their life or tries to escape. Few are that brave.
And then there's this barmy lass.
Chatty, cheerful, calm—she acts as though she's starring in a biopic about some beloved historical figure who died at the height of her beauty saving starving orphans from a burning building. Or some such noble shite.
Her confidence is unshakable. I've never met anyone more completely self-assured.
Or anyone with so little reason to be.
She teaches yoga, for fuck's sake. In a tiny mountain lake town. The way she carries herself, you'd think she was the Queen of England.
How the hell does a twenty-something yoga instructor who barely scraped through college, has never had a long-term boyfriend, and looks like she buys her clothes at a Tinker Bell estate sale get so confident?
I don't know. I don't want to know.
I am curious about her fighting skills, though. She might not remember clobbering Kieran, but I certainly do. In all our years working together, I've never seen anyone take him down.
I hate to admit it, but it was impressive.
I know from the background check I ran on her that she didn't serve in the military and has no formal combat or martial arts training. And judging by the thousands of selfies on her Instagram, she doesn't know how to do anything other than eat kale, bend like a pretzel, and strike a pose in good lighting while wearing tight, revealing athletic gear.
He was probably distracted by her tits.
Or maybe it was her legs.
Or maybe it was that cocky grin she likes to flash, right before she says something that makes you want to put your hands around her neck and squeeze. If only to get her to stop talking.
The sooner this is over, the better. I've known her all of two hours—half of that while she was unconscious—and I'm ready to shoot myself in the face.
I pull out my cell and dial the same number I've been calling since we picked her up, listening to it ring.
Once again, it goes to voicemail.
And once again, my sense that something is terribly wrong only grows stronger.