Getaway Car [HS]

Chapter Four

The duct tape fastening her wrists together has turned her hands numb behind her back from the prolonged lack of circulation, fingertips buzzing with the static sensation, or lack thereof, it causes.

Waking up to the room surrounding her is nothing short of disorienting after what occurred in the interrogation room of the police precinct. Where is she? What is this place and why does she hear a crinkling sound beneath her feet when she shifts them on the floor?

The room she squints at against the bright lighting that greets her on the other side of consciousness is empty and huge. Those are the first two things that come to mind. The windows are boarded up, whether it be to trap her in or as a defense against storms from the last owner that abandoned the property, she doesn't know, so the light source comes from the ceiling, not outside.

There are more important matters at hand other than the boarded-up windows and harsh lighting when she fully opens her eyes to take in her surroundings.

The first alarming sight to start with could be the clear plastic sheet laid out on the floor beneath the chair she's bound to. Similar to the material old ladies use to cover their couches, it crinkles and squeaks from the pressure of her sneakers when she starts to jerk in her restraints. Considering her current situation, she doesn't want to think about why there's plastic covering the floor. It's hard not to be bombarded with mental images of it—her blood splattering on the floor in a pattern of dots and lines forming an intricate painting, the sound of the gun firing before everything goes dark, her body thumping to the floor...

She thinks, however, that the most unnerving sight to take in must be the men standing in a straight row in front of her.

There are five of them. None of their faces are covered like the masked man's was, but they are wearing gloves like his and that simple detail makes her blood run cold.

They aren't planning on letting her leave this room alive, are they? It doesn't take much thought on her part to put two and two together. The plastic on the floor, the gloves, and the boarded windows that block her only potential escape route. This is a murder scene. All that's missing is a body, a weapon, and the blood.

She starts from the left and makes her way to the end of the line of men to take in everything about them the same way she did with the man last night.

The first of them is shorter than the rest, only by a small margin but it's the thing she notices to set him apart. The next is blonde, though she thinks, judging by the dark roots creeping up the carefully styled hair, that it's unnatural. Then, there's a handsome man standing with his gloved hands in the pockets of his black jeans covered in tattoos, but he doesn't resemble the man she met yesterday. After him, it's another young man with shortly cropped brown hair and eyes to match the chestnut strands.

None of them would seem intimidating in a normal situation. They have handsome faces that'd likely have her tripping over her words and blushing from making eye contact with them if not for the circumstances of how they're meeting.

It's the fifth man that truly startles her.

First and foremost, he stands out from the group as the oldest. His hair is slicked back from his face and buzzed on the sides with streaks of natural grey cutting through the dark shade that must have been ten times as vibrant fifteen or so years ago. Like the others, he has an appeal that'd have her tripping over her words, albeit in a suave silver fox sort of way, if he weren't brandishing a knife on his hip.

Most of the group has a range of lighter eye colors going from something as light as pale blue to a medium shade of brown. His, on the other hand, are a hue so dark they appear black to her. The hand resting on the hilt of the knife sheathed at his belt twitches with the realization of her waking in front of them and, as though roused from a stagnant trance by her consciousness, his lips curve into a smile.