Irreparable Harm (A Legal Thriller) by Melissa F. Miller
Chapter 33
Leo came to. The back of his head throbbed. He sat up to rub it and whacked his forehead against something hard.
He was someplace quiet, dark, and small.
He touched the surface beneath him. Thin, rough carpet. Raised his arms bit by bit until they hit metal. Spread them wide, trying to get a sense of the contours of the area. Slightly curved, smooth.
He shook his head, tried to summon his memory through the dull pain permeating across his skull. Panic was not an option. Survival followed calm thinking. Think.
He’d walked Sasha and Naya to the building, given Sasha his gun, and was about to punch out the side window of the thugs’ car when something or someone hit him from behind.
The car.
His eyes began to adjust to the blackness. He could make out the luminescent paint on an emergency trunk release, added to newer cars by manufacturers who didn’t want to be sued when some kid crawled into dad’s trunk during a game of hide and seek and couldn’t get out. He was in the trunk of a moving car.
And Sasha had his gun. He inventoried his pockets. Cell phone and wallet were gone. He had his keys and Sasha’s spare condo key. Nothing else.
He needed a weapon. He searched every inch of the space with his hands. He didn’t know how much time he had. He wanted to hurry, but he forced himself to making slow, small passes so he wouldn’t miss anything. The trunk was empty.
The car careened around a bend, throwing him sideways. He braced himself against the bottom of the trunk and his hand scraped against the fastener on the cover to the spare tire well.
He rolled onto his stomach and folded his legs as best he could into the space behind him, his feet touching the outer wall of the trunk on the driver’s side. He propped himself up on his elbows, braced his feet against the trunk, and scrabbled at the fastener with both hands. He pried the cover open, steeled himself against disappointment, and tossed the cover to the side.
He ran his hands over the rubber of the donut and down into the center. Wedged inside the spare was the thin, metal rod he’d hoped to find. He traced it with his hands to its hooked end. Relief flooded his body in a wave as he popped the tire iron free. He hefted it once, twice, and then set it down to continue his inspection.
In the back right corner of the well, Leo felt a hard plastic rectangular object. It had a handle. Toolbox, maybe?
He hoped so. There were plenty of serviceable weapons in the average tool box. He could do a lot of damage with a hammer or a wrench—even a screwdriver. He swung the box out and up. Placed it next to the tire iron.
The car was slowing. A series of thumps jostled Leo. Up. Then down. Speed bumps. They were in a parking lot.
He fumbled with the clasp to the box. Flipped the top open. It wasn’t a tool box; it was a roadside emergency kit. He pulled out a set of jumper cables, three flares, a plastic rain poncho, and a reasonably heavy flashlight. He shoved everything except the flashlight back into the box and returned it to the well.
As the car came to a stop, he turned onto his side, held the tire iron in one hand and the flashlight in the other. The driver killed the engine. Leo tensed, ready to spring, and waited for the trunk to open. Minutes passed. No car door slammed. The trunk did not open.
Leo waited some more. Still nothing. He listened to his own breathing over the tick of the engine contracting and cooling down, but he heard no other sound. What was the driver doing?