her voice to be polite and diffident, she asked, “Who are you?” A little rapport with her kidnappers could never hurt.
They stared back at her in stony silence. One of the men was seated beside her, between her and the driver. Which ruled out her making a dive for the steering wheel and maybe putting the van in a ditch.
“Why did you kidnap me?” she added.
Still nothing.
She debated starting up a one-sided conversation with these men to provoke them to talk, but ultimately decided she would be better served acting scared to death and letting them lead the conversation wherever they wanted to.
She craned her head to peer out the front window and saw a ribbon of interstate highway stretching away in front of the van. The sun seemed to be overhead, so she had no means of working out what direction they were going. But it confirmed she’d been unconscious for a while.
She realized her elbow was lightly rubbing the arm of one of the bad guys. Based on his build, she thought it might be Goldeneyes. Subtly, she shifted away from him. If she wasn’t mistaken, she heard him exhale in irritation. What did he have to be irritated about? She wasn’t his freaking girlfriend. And she wasn’t about to cozy up to some homicidal terrorist.
Except, when they finally stopped at a rest area near a truck stop, that same homicidal terrorist was the one who helped her out of the van and steadied her elbow for a second while blood flow returned to her legs. Yup. Definitely Goldeneyes. He was the tallest and broadest of shoulder of the whole bunch.
He muttered in unaccented English, “Don’t try anything, or my companions will shoot this place up and kill everyone here.” Oddly enough, he sounded almost apologetic when he made his threat. What was the deal with this guy?
He also was the one who guided her over to the ladies’ restroom, parked outside the door and said gruffly, “Two minutes, and then I’m coming in after you.”
She went inside and checked quickly to see if there were any other women in there whom she could ask for help. The place was empty except for her. Damn.
But there was a window on the far end of the long bay of toilet stalls. She eyed it critically. It was small and high, but she might be able to squeeze through it. At least it was worth a try.
She climbed up on the nearest sink to the window and punched her fist through the screen covering it. The actual window was mounted on a hinge that swung out, and she forced it wide-open. It was awkward aiming her arms through the small opening while jumping up, but she managed to land her waist on the sill. Pushing against the outside wall with her hands and kicking her legs, she wriggled through.
She fell headfirst and caught herself with her arms, rolling into a somersault.
Yes. Free.
She jumped up and took off running as fast as she could. A large field of mowed grass separated her from the truck stop—and other people—perhaps a quarter mile away.
She sprinted for all she was worth. Her breath came in huge gulps, and pounding blood roared in her ears. Must. Get. Away. Her thighs burned and her lungs screamed for air, but she pumped her arms hard and kept on going for all she was worth.
She was about halfway across the field when, without warning, something huge and heavy tackled her from behind, landing on top of her and knocking the breath out of her. She gasped frantically for air, but none came.
Dammit. She’d never even heard him coming.
A hard hand plastered over her mouth, which did nothing to help her regain her breath.
A male voice snarled low in her ear, “You and I are going to stand up. Then you’re going to turn around and walk back to the van and climb in, all nice-like and cooperative.” Hot breath wafted over her ear as her captor leaned close to add, “And if you don’t, I’ll knock you out and carry you back to the damned van.”
A detached voice in a far corner of her mind registered that he hadn’t threatened to kill her. But in the abrupt rush of adrenaline that accompanied the return of her ability to breathe, she ignored the voice and thrashed wildly beneath him.
She managed to get turned over on her back, but he was significantly bigger and stronger than she was, and apparently a trained wrestler. He flattened her with demoralizing ease. Their bodies pressed together in what would be a blatantly sexual fashion under any other circumstances.
As it was, she held herself rigid beneath him and did her best to ignore the way his thighs pressed against hers, the bulge of his crotch against the junction of her legs, the way his hard stomach pressed into hers and how her breasts smashed against his chest.
Goldeneyes, indeed.
She stared up at him in shock. Either his tackle or their struggle had knocked his baseball cap and sunglasses off, and she got her first good look at him.
If one human being could look any less like a violent criminal, this guy was it. His hair was a sun-tossed mix of brown and gold, nearly the same color as his eyes. His skin was tanned, his jaw chiseled, his features classy. All in all, he looked like he belonged on Martha’s Vineyard, wearing chinos, a polo shirt and a white cricket sweater, sailing a boat on a crisp summer day.
Her brows twitched into a frown. She’d pegged all of these guys as Iranians from their use of Farsi. But this one didn’t look even remotely Persian.
“Who are you?” she breathed.
“Get up.” With a quick flex of powerful biceps, he popped to his feet. He had a crushing grip on her hand and gave a hard yank on it now, dragging her upright.
He frisked all her pockets and then did a weird thing. He checked her neck for jewelry. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Making sure you don’t have a wallet with any identification in it or dog tags on you,” he muttered.
Realization smacked into her, like a slap across the face. He didn’t want any of the other terrorists to figure out her real name. If that was the case, then this wasn’t about her being a Medusa at all. That was a relief, at least. Although it still left behind the glaring question of what in the world these guys wanted with some woman who worked with little kids.
With a quick jerk, he twisted her arm up and back behind her, shoving her along in front of him, back toward the rest stop building. The van was out of sight on the other side of the structure.
“What’s your name?” she gasped.
“Amir.”
“Baloney,” she blurted. “That’s not your name. You’re named something preppy like Chad or Blaine.”
He gave a warning tug on her twisted arm that was just shy of painful.
“You really should set me free,” she tried. “I guarantee you don’t want to face the criminal penalties when you guys get caught. All the law enforcement authorities will already be out looking for me. You’ll never get away with this. If you let me go right now, by the time I can get over to the truck stop, call the police and wait for them to respond, you guys can be long gone. A clean getaway.”
“The others will come out of
