"Thank you," I replied, amazed by how little my voice was shaking. I reached calmly for the orange juice and began raising it to my lips, then with a flick of my wrist I tossed the liquid into his face and darted for the door.
In my head, it worked flawlessly. I saw him collapse to the floor as the citric acid set his eyes burning. I saw myself finding the guard outside sleeping on his chair and, after stealing his gun and handcuffing him in place, making a daring escape. Unfortunately we weren't in a movie. This was real life.
Instead of falling, my captor let out a short hiss, and one hand flew up to his eyes, but he was obviously well trained because despite his temporary blindness, he moved to block my path. In retrospect, it was a pretty stupid plan; there was only one place I could go and he knew it. But desperation is a powerful emotion and I only had two words running through my head at that moment. Get away.
I ploughed right into him. He must have weighed at least double what I did, but that didn't stop me from trying to fight. I let loose with everything I had, pounding his chest, his stomach, his neck. I landed a few good blows, but they barely seemed to register. It was like punching a mattress. The heavy muscle that coated his body absorbed everything. I shifted my focus, trying to strike him between the legs, but by that time his eyes were open once more and he blocked my attacks with ease, seizing my arms and pinning them together with one giant, meaty hand.
"Nice try," he said with a smirk. "Now, my turn." And then with almost derisive casualness, he flicked back his arm and struck my face with a colossal backhand. I spun through the air, my vision flaring white as I slammed into the floor. The impact knocked all the breath from my lungs.
"Eat," he said. "The boss wants to talk to you, but it may be a while." He glanced down at the now empty cup. "I guess you're going thirsty until then."
And with another smirk, he pulled the door closed behind him.
I crawled over to the wall and propped myself up against it. My whole head was ringing, and my cheek felt like it were on fire. It would be a lovely shade of purple in a few hours. Great plan, Sophia. Just beat up Mr Universe over there and make a breezy escape. That'll work a treat.
I knew I should probably eat, but just glancing at the sandwich made my stomach turn. How could I think about food at a time like this?
I desperately wanted to retain my composure, but that encounter had really driven home the hopelessness of the situation. I began to cry; fat, salty, desperate tears that flowed like a river down my face. I was utterly helpless. Escape was not an option. Whatever they wanted from me, they were going to take. The only question was how they would go about it.
* * * * *
Somehow, I managed to fall asleep. I don't know if it was the lingering effect of the drugs, or my body's way of trying to cope with the situation, but the next thing I remember is waking up to some sort of commotion in the hall outside.
I had no idea what it meant; the walls were thick and the sounds indistinct, but at this point, I assumed that any activity was probably bad. It signalled that we were progressing on to whatever happened next. I desperately wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to go. My chest felt impossibly heavy, and my heartbeat was like gunfire in my ears.
There was a brief lull, but after about thirty seconds of silence the lock jangled once more. I braced myself. The door flew open...
... and in stormed Sebastian, a sleek black pistol in his hand.
My stomach turned a cartwheel.
His face was a picture of desperation, fear etched into every line on his skin. Seeing him again made my whole body ache, the wound left by his letter tearing open inside me once more.
His eyes were wild, almost insane, but they lit up as they fell upon me. "Sophia," he cried, taking three quick strides and lifting me into the fiercest hug I'd ever experienced.
As he wrapped his body around mine, everything surged inside me. I finally let myself feel the full magnitude of the situation. I found that I was crying again. My chest shook with great heaving sobs, incoherent thanks spilling from my mouth. He was warm and strong and radiated control, and I buried myself deeper against him, as if his body could somehow shield me from everything I was feeling.
He took my reaction in his stride, holding me close and stroking my hair softly. "I know, I know. It's okay. I've got you."
His touch was soothing. His presence washed over me, filling me with that primal sense of security. I knew things were a long way from being okay, and I still had more questions than I knew what to do with, but at that moment, I'd never been more relieved to see another person in my life.
After some time, the flood finally began to ease and I found myself able to speak again. "Can we get out of here? I can't be here anymore."
"Of course."
As I pulled away, he caught sight of my face and his expression hardened. "Did they hurt you?"
"Well they did this," I said, gesturing to my cheek where I assumed a bruise was blossoming, "but that was mostly my own fault for trying to do a runner."
"None of this is your fault, Sophia," he said, sounding impossibly sad.
He led me out into the hallway. Somehow, I'd gotten into my head that Sebastian had done this alone, James Bond style; but, of course, that was ridiculous. Waiting for us outside were five hulking men, sporting earpieces and stubby black guns. Their crisp suits and grim expressions made them dead ringers for my visitor from before. If I hadn't known any better, I'd have guessed they were on the same side. Maybe all the world's evil organisations shop at the same rental agency. Rent-A-Thug.
But even my inner monologue's attempt at wit couldn't bring a smile to my face at that moment. Seeing them all standing there, alert and armed to the teeth, really drove home exactly what kind of shit I had embroiled myself in. They had guns, for Christ's sake. I'd never seen a drawn gun in real life before. Australian firearms laws are notoriously tough, so it's just not the kind of thing we are exposed to. But here were five men, carrying pistols as casually as if they were newspapers; and judging by the way they handled them, they were perfectly comfortable putting them to use. I couldn't see any sign of struggle in the hallway, but I doubted my captors had just invited Sebastian and company in for afternoon tea. Blood had been spilt here somewhere. Blood that, in a roundabout way, was on my hands. I shook my head rapidly, trying to clear the image. That kind of thinking would do me no good.