Gagged and blindfolded, her hands bound cruelly behind her back, Alana Richardson huddled on the cot in the tiny bedroom where her kidnappers had left her, trying desperately not to cry. It wouldn’t do any good anyway, and would only make her feel worse, especially since she wouldn’t be able to blow her nose once she got to the blubbering stage.
Since crying was out, that meant she couldn’t let herself fall into despair. Which meant she couldn’t allow even a trace of self-pity to linger in her mind, either...even though her head throbbed where she’d been struck, she felt more than a little queasy from whatever it was they’d made her breathe in—chloroform, she’d bet—and her fingers were going numb from futilely trying to wriggle free from her bonds.
Fierce anger shook her, and a determination that she wasn’t going to give up. She wasn’t going to be a meek victim. She concentrated on remembering as much as she could about every minute detail related to her abduction...and her abductors. Committing what little she knew of them to memory, including those few moments at the beginning when she’d fought them. The men had been masked, but still...she’d drawn blood. She’d hurt one of them. Marked him.
DNA, she thought, her mind racing. Blood and skin under my fingernails?
She needed to remember that, along with everything else. So if—when—she escaped, she might be able to assist in bringing the men to justice. It was a long shot, but it was better than dwelling on the negative. It was better than imagining the worst...which she could all too easily imagine if she let herself.
Alana also had no idea what the men intended to do with her, although she could hazard a guess. She hadn’t been raped, though. Not yet. She would know, even though she’d been unconscious for some unknown amount of time. But she’d come to as she was being carried here...wherever here was. She’d been swathed in something before they’d removed her from the van. A blanket? A rug? Something that had made breathing difficult. But then her captors had dumped her on this cot and unwrapped her.
She hadn’t had an opportunity to make a run for it, though, because almost immediately rough hands had grabbed her, and she’d been gagged so she couldn’t scream for help, tied up so she couldn’t escape, and blindfolded. She wondered about the blindfold. All three men had been masked, so it wasn’t to conceal their identities. Could there be something here they didn’t want seen? Or just that they didn’t want her to know where she was?
But speculating about motives was fruitless at this stage, and a waste of time. Just as there was absolutely no point in second-guessing her decision to travel halfway around the world to Hong Kong for a job her parents had advised against taking...although she couldn’t quite help it.
“Richardsons don’t have to work for a living, darling.” How many times had her mother said that to her? She’d said it again last month as Alana was packing, adding, “But if you insist on working, what was wrong with your job at your father’s company? At least you had a title there. It’s ridiculous for you to work at such a menial job...for an actor, of all people. I don’t care if he is a good friend of Juliana’s.”
And her father had chimed in. “Yes, yes, I know your cousin Juliana vouches for him. But remember, she was an actress...just like her mother.” The supercilious way he’d said just like her mother had rubbed Alana the wrong way. Her aunt had been a renowned Shakespearean actress, and she hated her father talking about Juliana’s mother that way. Implying she hadn’t been good enough to marry into the Richardson family.
Then he’d added, “At least your cousin had the good sense to quit acting when she married the King of Zakhar.” As if Juliana hadn’t risen to the top of her profession by dedication, talent and incredibly hard work. As if she’d just been waiting for her Prince Charming to come along and take her away from all of that. As if Juliana’s marriage to one of the world’s wealthiest and most powerful men was the only thing she’d managed to accomplish that was worth anything in her father’s eyes—completely ignoring all the professional accolades Juliana had won, including two Academy Awards and a handful of Golden Globes.
“And why Hong Kong of all places?” her mother had thrown in. “With all those people.”
Alana had struggled with herself, then said as levelly as she could, “If you mean the Chinese, Mom, it’s their country.”
“Well I didn’t mean that,” her mother had huffed...but Alana had known she really had. Both her parents, in fact.
She wondered about that now, her mind veering off on a tangent. Her parents had tried to inculcate their values, their beliefs, in her. But she wasn’t—couldn’t be—like them. Maybe her uncle Julian had something to do with it, since she’d spent so much time with him after he retired. Maybe his influence had made the difference in shaping the woman she was. Juliana’s father was a Richardson, too, had been raised to believe Richardsons were a cut above, just like Alana’s own father. But maybe serving as a foreign ambassador for all those years had taught her uncle things about the world and its people her father had never learned.
Or maybe she should stop making excuses for why her parents were insular, narrow-minded and...and prejudiced. Maybe she should just accept it. Just as she had to accept she could fight the rope cutting cruelly into her wrists until they were bruised and bloody...but she wasn’t going to escape.
* * *
Jason Moore double-checked the harness strapped around him, making sure it was securely fastened.