Kidnapping a woman shouldnât be this aggravating.
Part of me is surprised we even managed to get her onto the plane. From the moment we grabbed her in that parking garage in Manhattan, sheâs been an absolute pain in the arse.
Most peopleâmost sane peopleâdo 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 will fight for his life or try to escape. Few are that brave.
And then thereâs this barmy lass.
Chatty, cheerful, and calm, she acts as if sheâs starring in a biopic about a beloved historical figure who died at the height of her beauty while saving a group of starving orphans from a burning building or some such noble shite.
Her confidence is unshakeable. Iâve never met anyone more completely self-assured.
Or one with so little reason to be.
She teaches yoga, for fuckâs sake. In a tiny mountain lake town. The way she carries herself, youâd think sheâs 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 donât know. I donât want to know.
Iâm curious about her fighting skills, though. She might not remember clobbering Kieran, but I certainly do. In all our years working together, Iâve 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 didnât serve in the military and has no formal combat or martial arts training. And thereâs 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. Iâve known her for all of two hoursâhalf of that while she was unconsciousâand Iâm ready to shoot myself in the face.
I take out my cell, dial the same number Iâve been dialing since we picked her up, and listen to it ring.
Once again, it goes to voicemail.
And once again, my sense that something is very wrong grows stronger.