3. Kiki

Chapter 3

Kiki

I blink, trying to adjust my eyes to the dim interior of the van. Four pairs of eyes blink back at me, each reflecting the same mixture of confusion and apprehension that I'm sure is plastered all over my face.

Managing an awkward wave, I pick myself up, dust myself off, and slide onto a bench seat in the most suspicious-looking vehicle since the one in Silence of the Lambs.

For a long while, we ride in silence, broken only by the occasional sniffle or shaky breath.

I have no idea where we’re going or what’s going on. One minute I was on the run with the stone-faced Deputy Marshal Johnson, fleeing yet another secret identity in the middle of Podunk, Nowhere, the next I’m riding on a dirt road through thick woods in a sketchy van surrounded by a group of women who look about as trauma-dazed as I am.

Who are these women? Should I ask, or should I just mind my own business?

The confusion in the air is so thick you could slice it with a machete.

Riding with a bunch of shell-shocked fellow passengers is unexpected. I wonder if they’re all in WITSEC too. I glance around. There's a gaunt African American woman with dark circles under her eyes, a woman with auburn hair and green eyes that seems vaguely familiar, a woman with a wicked burn scar all down the left side of her face, and a redhead with a riot of corkscrew curls and a smattering of freckles across her nose.

Mustering up some classic Kiki Karaprtyan nerve, I cross the aisle sliding next to the woman closest, the redhead. She’s humming something under her breath and by all appearances, she’s the one least likely to be further traumatized by a stranger making conversation.

"Uh, so...I guess we're all in the same boat. Or van, as it were," I wince only slightly at my lame attempt at an icebreaker. "Any clue what's going on?"

She glances around at the others then leans in conspiratorially. "Your guess is as good as mine. The guy who brought me here wasn’t very talkative. He was mostly annoyed by me which is typical. I tend to have that effect on people. Annoying, I mean. Probably because I talk too much and don’t know when to shut up. I can’t really help it. I mean, I try, but for some reason I just babble on like a wind-up doll. Especially when I’m nervous. When I’m nervous, you can forget it. I go on and on. My grandma used to call me Chatty Cathy. Which is weird because my name isn’t Cathy, it’s Steph…” She must realize she’s babbling because her words taper and she grimaces apologetically. “Sorry. I’m nervous. All I know is the basics about the dating program."

I blink. Once. Twice. Please tell me she's joking. "Dating program?"

She shrugs. "Yeah, apparently we're going to some off-grid remote location with a secluded population.

"Secluded population? What does that mean, exactly?"

Steph’s voice lowers. "Apparently, it's some kind of hidden town. Full of men of another race and culture who are eagerly awaiting women to…you know..."

I let her words sink in a minute then finish them for her, "Date."

Steph nods. "That's what it sounds like. To see if we're compatible. Some sort of matchmaking thing, I guess."

I let out a snort of disbelief. “It sounds like eHarmony meets Survivor.”

This has got to be a prank. A twisted, cosmically unfunny prank. I'm running for my life from a brutal and bloodthirsty drug cartel and the Marshals stick me on a cross-cultural version of The Bachelorette?

I glance out the window, taking in the dense forest whipping by. We're definitely in the mountains, probably the Blue Ridge range, given that we're in Kentucky.

My mind starts to conjure images of the kind of men who might inhabit a secluded mountain town. Burly, bearded, flannel-wearing lumberjack types. Or inbred, toothless hillbillies straight out of Deliverance.

I shudder. But then again, is that really worse than what I'm running from? Maybe the Marshals are on to something. At least in some backwoods town, I'd be far away from the reach of the Vega family. It's so crazy it just might work.

The woman is talking. Still. Not sure what she’s saying since I tuned out a few minutes ago, but I catch something about full agency and returning to our lives in thirty days if it doesn’t work out. Heck, after the last seven months I've had, thirty days in a remote village sounds like a Club Med vacation. It’s the part about returning to our lives that stings. Since I’ve got nothing to return to.

As if on cue, a collective gasp ripples through the van. I whip my head around, following everyone's gaze out the front windshield. My heart leaps into my throat.

We're careening towards a sheer cliff face, the rocky wall filling the entire view.

And we're not slowing down.

Panic seizes me. We're going to crash. Instinctively, I grip the seat bracing for impact and wondering if this is some kind of sick WITSEC idea of retiring witnesses. Just as I'm about to start a string of frenzied Hail Mary's, the solid rock seems to ripple, like a mirage in the desert heat. And then, it splits wide open, revealing a gaping chasm.

I stare in awe as we shoot into a long tunnel, the rock walls blurring past on either side. Beside me, Steph is chattering under her breath. The other women are silent, gripping their seats with white-knuckled intensity just like I am.

The tunnel seems to go on forever, winding deep into the heart of the mountain.

Finally, the van rolls to a stop. Still in the tunnel, but in a well-lit portion. A stooped old man with a craggy face, a long yellowish beard, and a wide-brimmed felt hat, hops out of the driver’s seat, opens the back of the van, and calmly instructs us to exit the vehicle.

We file out one by one, blinking in the bright light. As I try to get my vision to focus, I hear gasps and shrieks, and I'm pretty sure one of us faints.

And then I see it. Them. Whatever you want to call the hulking masses of fur and muscles.

Muscles…and…fur…?

No way. This can’t be real. I fell asleep in the van and I’m dreaming.

But nope. As I pinch myself, HARD, I realize I'm wide awake. It’s real.

Kiki, you're not in Kansas anymore. Or New York, or any version of reality you ever thought existed.

I recall Chatty Steph’s words—a secluded village…another culture…to see if we're compatible. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

As my brain grasps for purchase, a bouquet of flowers is suddenly thrust in my sight line and I look up into the furry face of an eight-foot tall shag carpet with arms. Slightly hysterical laughter bubbles up inside me but when I open my mouth, what comes out isn’t a laugh. Nope. It’s a top-of-my-lungs screeching wail that would make a B-movie scream queen proud.