Chapter Thirty

Red

Red would admit, as she moved through the night down the street in the skirt and heels, that walking wasn't her best decision.

With the soccer match on the televisions, the pubs were overflowing. Beer steins overfull. And the men's alcohol levels seemed to be maxing out.

She moved off the sidewalk and into the street, hugging close to the parked cars, angry at the fashionable shoe choice she had thought would help her align with Elena. Now, she was clack-clack-clacking along. Not another female in sight.

All she had to do was get up this street and turn left. It wasn't that much farther.

And yet.

A group of men drifted out of a pub door, surrounding her. Rowdy. Angry.

A drunk called out to her in Dutch, but she knew what he said by tone alone. Without Dutch language skills, Red wouldn't be talking her way out of this one.

Red rolled her eyes skyward. "Seriously? I mean, honestly, are you serious right now?"

Scanning for her best exit route, for the possibility of someone who might help her, Red realized that screaming would get her nowhere.

The streets echoed with yelling people. Her voice would just blend right in.

She looked behind her. Could she somehow backtrack?

Suddenly, from behind her came a man. He twisted, dropped into a squat, grabbed her wrist, wrenched her purse from her grasp, and dragged her over his shoulder. While yelling out something in inebriated Dutch that got him a rousing cheer, he started down the street.

It was the universal sound of an attaboy.

What should she do?

Red lifted her head enough to see the crowd of guys' fists pumping and following. She felt like a carrot hanging in front of a donkey, a lure.

They called out, and the guy called back. With his booming voice, Red thought of Jack and the Bean Stalk. "Fe Fi Fo Fum, I smell the blood of an American chick." Well, an American trying to get to Morocco to save the world.

There was menace in this guy's tone. But not completely. There was some chiding bro-speak. Hard to interpret—foreign language, foreign culture, and the testosterone that was ankle-thick from some kind of soccer victory on one side and defeat on the other.

Why was this man carrying her? Where was he carrying her?

Red wasn't going to fight—yet. She ran through a list of possible defensive moves and why they wouldn't work. She couldn't kick at him; his arm locked her calves to his chest. And her shoes weren't hard enough at the toe. She'd rethink her footwear another time. She couldn't slide from his shoulder; another massive arm reached across her hips, and his fingers circled into her pelvic girdle. If she twisted, he could dig in.

She decided her best defense was no defense. Red would dangle and think, saving her energy for whatever happened next.

When he put her down, it had to be in one of two ways.

One, he could throw her down. It would hurt—probably hurt like hell—but she could roll, get her shoes off, get her feet under her, and bolt. These alleys weren't a safe bet, but if she could get a car between her and this guy, even with his height, she could play cat and mouse with him all damned night long. Yes, that's what she'd do if he threw her.

Two, he could yank her legs and force her to slide down his body. Then she'd stay in his grasp. What would she do then?

The blood was rushing to her head. She could feel pins and needles as her arms fell long down his back. She wasn't tall enough, her limbs not long enough to grab between his legs for her signature "squeeze, twist, and pull," which made her male opponents leave their bodies in sudden shock and pain. She considered giving him a wedgie, but he'd probably just laugh. Maybe he'd laugh hard enough that he'd drop her?

As the revelers behind her started singing and brushing up closer to her. One reached out as if to grab her hair.

The giant lengthened his strides. He wasn't running. He was just gliding faster. It was like an adult walking along when it would take a child two steps for every one of his. This gave her a glimmer of hope, and then it made her think that he wanted her for himself—the prize he had snatched up.

He had done this before. The scoop was easy, natural, and fast. Who practices scooping up a woman like that?

Serial rapist?

He had her purse over his shoulder. He wasn't just trying to rob her.

The blood in her upside-down head sounded like a washing machine churning in her ears. She could go down the path of trying to remember how long it was safe to hang upside down before the pressure of her organs on her lungs caused hypoxia, but she thought that the bend in her waist was holding things in place.

And, too, that's not where her mind should be.

Focused, aware, processing, and coming up with defensive maneuvers.

The stream of men had become a trickle and then had run dry.

It was just the two of them now. And a dark street.

He stopped walking.

Here we go.