TWO
DECLAN
Kidnapping a woman shouldn't be this aggravating.
I'm 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—most sane people—do one of three things when you kidnap them: they cry, they beg, or they shut down completely, paralyzed by fear. The rare ones fight for their lives or try to escape. Few are that brave.
And then there's this barmy lass.
Chatty, cheerful, and calm, she acts as if 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. Noble shite like that.
Her confidence is unshakable. I've never met anyone more completely self-assured.
Or one with so little reason to be.
She teaches yoga, for fuck's sake. In some tiny mountain town by a lake. The way she carries herself, you'd think she's the Queen of England.
How the hell does a twentysomething yoga instructor who barely scraped through college, has never had a long-term boyfriend, and looks like she raided 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 there's no indication in the thousands of selfies on her Instagram page that she knows how to do anything other than eat kale, bend like a pretzel, and strike a pose in good lighting 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 for all of two hours—half of that while she was unconscious—and I'm ready to shoot myself in the face.
I take out my cell, dial the same number I've been dialing since we picked her up, and listen to it ring.
Once again, it goes to voicemail.
And once again, the feeling that something is wrong settles heavier in my gut.