Hope Bonnarro Part 2

I wake up with pain in my wrists and heels. My head is spinning, being jostled around somewhere. Even though I open my eyes, I can’t see anything but darkness—the movement tells me I’m in the trunk of a car. I’ve done drills with Steve on how to escape a moving vehicle. First, I need to reach the front of my bra where I hide a small blade sewn into the front padding.

My tied hands make the movement difficult, but I manage to reach the hilt of the blade. I feel the car stopping and pause my attempt—they can’t know I have it in my bra or I’ll lose my chance to escape. The trunk opens, and the same man who grabbed me before pulls me roughly toward him. Others stand around with weapons drawn, every cell in my body telling me to stay quiet and wait for the right moment.

He carries me into a house. I see a couple tied to the couch—the woman crying and the man with severe injuries on his face. I’m taken upstairs and thrown onto a bed. The man smiles wickedly before his hands touch my thighs. I try to escape his touch, pulling my legs away. He climbs on top of me—I slam my head forward, hitting his forehead. "Get off me!" I scream loudly.

"You bitch!" His slap is brutal, my head turning from the impact, teeth cutting into my cheek.

"GO TO HELL!" I scream, unable to contain the rage burning in my veins.

"Are you crazy?" someone yells behind him. A gunshot follows. I twist on the bed to face a second man.

He’s wearing a dark jacket with the symbol of the Boston Mafia. They’re not our enemies—why are they kidnapping me? Nothing makes sense. I shake my head, trying to understand what’s happening. The man holsters the gun and looks at me with weariness, like he doesn’t want to be doing this.

"Don’t take it personally, Hope," he says like he knows me. "These are the new Boss’s orders. Stay quiet if you don’t want to get hurt, understood?"

"My father will kill all of you," I growl. "You bastard!"

"If you don’t shut up, I’ll tape your mouth shut."

"GO TO HELL!" I shout as loud as I can.

He shakes his head and grabs a piece of tape, slapping it over my lips.

I inhale sharply with hatred. The man takes the injured one away, leaving me locked in the room. I glance around—beige and brown decor, couple-style furniture, two windows indicating we’re on the ground floor. I hear the woman’s screams, the sounds of things breaking, disturbing voices describing what they’re doing to her.

She’s being raped, and her husband is being beaten.

Fear creeps in like a weed. If I let it take hold, I’ll die in this place. I wasn’t raised to be a helpless damsel, and I’m not about to start being a coward now. They’ve tried to kill me too many times inside my own home for something like this to paralyze me.

I reach into my bra again, tugging the blade free with my fingertips, gripping the acrylic part. First, I press the sharp edge against the rope around my wrists. I try to ignore the woman’s cries of pain—I need to focus. The rope finally snaps, and my hands are free. I quickly untie my heels.

I stand up, noticing my ballet flats are gone, the cold wood floor pressing against the soles of my feet. I place my ear to the door, gently test the handle—it’s locked. I wedge a chair against it and move to the window. A vine coiled along the staircase beside it will be my way out. I check to make sure no one’s outside. The houses have their lights off, the street lit by lampposts.

I grip the vine, grabbing the branches and wood. I plant a foot on the ledge and carefully begin climbing down. The men’s voices drift up like ghosts. I step onto the green grass, look around again, seeing no one on the porch. I’m about to run when the door opens. I swiftly hide behind the bushes. Two armed men step out and scan the area.

They light cigarettes and start smoking—it doesn’t look like they’re going anywhere for a while. Staying hidden in the bushes, I slip out quietly, sneaking into the neighboring yard, heart pounding in my chest. Luckily, the fence dividing this house from the one behind it is wooden, with garbage bins lined up next to it. I climb up silently and leap over.

A dog stares at me and starts growling. I raise a hand toward it, silently begging it to stay quiet. I assess the length of its chain—about two meters. Slowly, I back up into the bushes. I keep walking, the dog following. When it finally barks, I sprint toward the front of the house and run down the street in the opposite direction. I hide in alleyways, trying to get as far from the house as I can. I need to find a phone.

At the end of a street, I see a couple standing outside their house. I run to them when I spot a phone in the girl’s hand. They both look to be around twenty, like me. I stop, glancing back. She looks at me in alarm, and the guy steps in front of her protectively.

"Please," I beg, nearly breathless. "Can I use your phone?"

"What for?" she asks, suspicious. "Are you okay?"

"No," I answer, dizziness washing over me as I stumble to the sidewalk. "I need... to call my dad." I reach out. I have no idea where I am or if the men have realized I’ve escaped. My foot aches and my arms sting from the scratches in the bushes. "Please," I plead again.

"Okay," the guy says. "Use mine." He hands me his phone.

I dial my father’s number, praying he picks up. Tears blur my vision, the dizziness worsening, nausea twisting my stomach. For now, I don’t hear any cars or footsteps behind me.

He answers on the second ring. I breathe in relief.

"Little bird to the nest." I use our secret code so he knows it’s me.

"Hope!" he shouts, desperate.

"They’re men from Boston," I tell him. "I don’t know where I am, help me, Dad." My voice breaks, chest tight, and I cry in fear. "I’m exposed on the street."

"A team is coming to get you, we know your location, stay hidden, don’t hang up, everything will be fine, my princess." His words are fast and firm.

"It’s a guy’s phone," I warn, startled by the screech of car tires. I turn and see a black Mercedes speeding toward me at the end of the street. "They found me."

"Run, Hope," he commands.

I stand again, pain shooting through my heel.

"Run!" I yell at the couple. "If you want to live."

I bolt with the phone in hand. I can’t hear my dad anymore. The pain in my foot intensifies with every step. The car gets closer—I toss the phone into the yard of one of the houses, the call still active. If they catch me, they’ll end the call. Even if I’m far from the house, my father will still be able to trace the general location.

A sharp blow to the back of my head knocks me out.