Chapter Eight

Juliette

France

Saturday 2:09 p.m.

T his time when Juliette tried, her eyelids fluttered.

Her butt was numb. Pins and needles burned her feet where they'd fallen asleep.

She desperately wanted to stretch her back, but now that the medication the Russian shot into her blood stream was fading, she wasn't quite as self-pitying. She actually had a will to live, fight, and survive. And Juliette knew, once she moved, there was the chance that another syringe might pop out of the guy's pocket.

Juliette shifted her eyes to the right at the door. Then left. The men had switched places again. The one with the jeans was sitting next to her now. He had his phone in his hand, the time read out said 2:09. It had been hours of driving.

Where were they taking her? Surely, they wouldn't be crossing borders with her slumped here in the back seat.

Why would they switch twice?

There must be a strategic reason.

Juliette had read a lot of thriller and suspense novels. They were the English language novels her dad had on his book shelves. In the months when they were getting ready to move from Lebanon to the United States, Juliette had read them to improve her English. She had lived in Pennsylvania for a few years, and in Toulouse for a few years as her dad had moved their little family around for his research. That's why she could speak those languages. Though, Juliette's first language was Arabic. Her mother had insisted on it, according to her dad.

Her English had turned out to be remarkably good. She had no trouble following the plots of the books. Some of the language was strange to her, the military speak and spy jargon. Other than that, she felt quite fluent.

Now, she thought back to those books, trying to think of a character that had been in a place like hers. Awake, pretending, and escaping. She came up with a few, but they had skills she didn't, like coordination, physical strength, and a buddy on their radio.

Okay, let's figure this out. Why would they switch drivers twice in less than four hours?

Juliette thought about water. She often thought about water, but this time it was a pool, not the ocean. She thought she might be having another memory. Long thin brown legs stretched out under the sun. A large striped umbrella overhead. The blazing heat of the sun and children screaming far below her. She blew a whistle, and everyone got out of the pool. Then she climbed down a ladder and a different girl had smiled and climbed up in her place. "See you in a half-hour," she said. They'd switched to let their eyes rest and to keep their minds sharp.

Juliette would bet that was why the Russian's had switched places and thus roles, as well. One would drive, and the other would watch for her to move. Or maybe they expected a tail to roar up behind them, as if that were truly possible.

She'd been passed out for a long while, Juliette bet that two things were happening: the jeans guy was getting focus-fatigued, and that he'd mostly discounted her since she's been incapacitated.

The car slowed.

She wondered if they were coming to another stop.

If the jeans-guy wasn't watching, she might be able to spring out of the door this time.

"Damned construction," the driver said. "Check the app, how long will we be in this?"

There was a pause, then blue jeans answered, "Twenty minutes delay. It's mostly an orange line. It says about a minute of red."

A minute of red. There were good things and bad things about a minute of red. The car would be going slowly. The car couldn't chase forward. There would be lots of eyes in the area. All good things. She couldn't tell, unless blue jeans announced it, when they were hitting the red. She had nowhere to go once she was out of the car.

They had guns.

They also had her purse. She could see it there by blue-jeans' foot. Without it, she'd have no phone, no credit cards, no identification, and no money. The strap wasn't visible. If she grabbed at it, the guy would grab back at her, like he did when she reached for her safety belt.

She still had her safety belt in place. That was the first thing that she needed to change.

Juliette's hands dangled on either side of her folded body. As slowly as she could, she slid her fingers toward her boot. When she got them that far, she kept her upper arm still, bending her arm, she slid her hand up her leg under the drape of her hair. When her fingers reached her knee, she stilled to reassess.

She held her breath as she made the micromovements, appreciating the roughness of the road jostling the car and covering the shift of her body as she brought her right elbow in, tight against her thigh, up onto the seat where she could press some of her weight into it. And there she was stuck. Her breasts were resting in her lap. There was no space to slide her hand through to her hip. No joint that would allow her to bend where she needed to.

Perhaps a bump in the road.

Or a swerve of the car.

She waited patiently for either, primed, ready to take advantage of it.

She could hear the sounds of construction trucks with their low rumbles. Men shouted instructions back and forth to each other, but those voices were quite a distance from the car. And Juliette was a little afraid that if all she did was yell and call attention that the men would shoot the someone who might step forward to help her. And once they got away, that she would face their retaliation. In the back recesses of her memory a glimmer of what retribution felt like snaked out of a dark pit.

The car slowed.

Slowed.

Slowed.

This was it. Her minute of opportunity.

If only there was a bump. Or one of the voices sounded closer.

The car slid forward again, picking up speed.

Juliette had missed it.

Now what was she going to do?