A Harmless Little Plan (Harmless #3)(11)

“You go anywhere near it, they’ll know. Whatever surveillance you’ve got going on, theirs is better.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I reply, mocking his own words. As I speak, I crack open a cut on my lip, blood tainting my words.

“The more time we waste talking the harder this mission becomes,” he points out.

“Then shut up and move.”

“Move where? How the hell can we get you within yards of your apartment? They’ll see us coming a mile away.”

I spin through all the conceivable ways I can attack my own place. Beach? Bribe the security guard? Can’t do rooftop. Can’t dig a tunnel and get in.

And then it hits me.

I give Silas a hopeful look. “I have an idea.”

“It better be good.”

“It is. It involves gold bikinis and margaritas.”

“Even better.”





Chapter 5





Lindsay



They have to feed me.

Right?

Unless they plan to kill me in the next couple of hours.

If they’re not feeding me, is that a sign? Or are they just assholes who don’t care about feeding me? My stomach gurgles. Then it makes an epic sound, like wet boulders being dragged through mud with air pockets.

Muffled voices provide a strange background sound. None of their words is distinct, but the accumulation of them stacks up to create a ribbon of sound. Whatever they’re planning for me, they’re not tipping their hands.

I’m left without a voice, without a way to get out, and without Drew.

Time keeps changing. I’m on the bed again, but sitting up against the headboard, my hands in front of me in a zip tie. It’s better than having them behind me. Hurts less.

That’s how I measure time now. Through pain. Less pain = easier to pass time.

Time slows when the pain increases.

I can’t think forward, either. If I anticipate time, think about the future, the pain increases, too.

Mental pain.

Mental pain that will soon convert to physical pain.

What are they going to do to me?

As I move, my hair tickles my neck. Because I’m living with my skin on fire, every nerve quick and ready to react, even a gentle touch like strands of hair against my skin feels horrible. My mind keeps playing through memories of the video I’ve seen of what they did to me.

My gut tightens. I’m close to throwing up.

If they’re going to torture me and kill me, I wish they’d just do it.

But then again, if I draw this out long enough, Drew may have enough time to find me and save me.

Which path do I choose? If I open my mouth and provoke them, I can get out of this no-man’s-land. I’m stuck waiting for them to act.

I’m at their mercy on multiple levels.

You get to a point after a while when any outcome is better than no outcome at all. Where any choice is better than not choosing.

Where inaction turns you insane.

And being stuck in your own head, a prisoner to your scrabbling mind, can be worse than death.

There is a book on Drew’s nightstand, crooked and jutting out. It’s on top of a stack of books. I twist just enough, scooching over, moving slowly. I’m bored out of my mind and anything – anything – is better than staring at the ceiling and envisioning my own death.

My fingers gain purchase on the book and it drops onto the bedspread.

The title:

Jane’s Military Aircraft Recognition Guide You have got to be kidding me.

A laugh bubbles up, coming out like a snort, a choked gasp, the sound of disbelief and betrayal and the surreal in one bundle of air. I didn’t expect Eat Pray Love, but are you kidding me?

My very last book I ever read will be this.

I’m pretty damn sure my friend Jane isn’t the one who wrote it.

Jane.

Where’s Jane now?

And then I wonder: seriously, Drew? This is your bedtime reading?

I have so much to learn about him.

A pang of sadness, of regret, powers through me at that thought.

I’ll never get that chance. Ever. I’ll never learn about his domestic habits. Does he snore? What does he wear to bed at night? Does he like the room warm, or does he open the window? Is he a spooner? What’s his favorite breakfast?

What’s it like to just spend time together living? Boring old daily life sounds like heaven – literally, heaven – to me right now.

I glance at the damn book. There’s an airplane on the cover.

If you told me I’d stay alive, I’d read that book cover to cover every day.

My stomach growls again, the gurgle painful. I look at the bedside clock.

Seven minutes have passed since I last looked.

My eyes drift to a tiny, fuzzy gray thing behind the clock. It looks like a piece of velvet, stretched tight. It’s the color of my old cat, the color of ashes mixed well from a wood stove. The gray is buried in wires from the clock. Whatever it is, I can’t reach it.

Someone in the other room shouts. All the blood drains out of my hands. My heart speeds up like a scared horse.

They’re going to kill me with fear. Not their hands, or other body parts, or weapons.

Good old-fashioned fear.

What are they doing? How can I leave a clue for Drew? I start to move toward his nightstand. Hopefully he has a pen and something I can write on. My breath draws in and out, like the wind on dry corn husks. I curl the back of my tongue so it doesn’t sound so loud.