I won't be able to pick him out of a line-up. She thought to herself.
They were in the back of a truck, and it sounded like they were driving down a freeway. It was large, and empty. A young man and a young woman.
She was a teenager, with bleach-blond hair. Her brown eyes sparkled with mascara, eyeshadow and eyeliner. However, what truly shone, was the duct tape across her mouth.
The young man grinned, his unshaved face contorting around sharp cheekbones. His eyes were hidden behind sleek, black sunglasses, and his hair was tucked beneath a kerchief.
I have to do something! She tried to move, but her limbs were bound tightly in many places. All she could do was wiggle, an that wasted precious energy. I must stay awake! I must!
Frrrp! The tape came forcefully off her arms. He tossed a pad of paper and a pen onto her lap. Then, he retreated into the shadows. Silence numbed her senses, and she stopped crying. There was a clicking sound. It came from the darkness, not from the truck.
"That was the safety. It's off now."
The girl squirmed, as she felt him approach her from behind. His breath was warm on her neck, and smelled oddly of cologne. And then, something hard nudged her in the back. What is that?
Quickly, a tanned arm covered in dark hairs, well-muscled, pulled the duct tape from her mouth.
"Now, repeat after me."
She nodded, reluctantly, while wincing at the pain.
"Is that a gun in your pocket or are you happy to see me?"
"Is that -- Is -- is that a gun in your pocket or... or, are you - happy to see me?"
And, because she was drunk, she actually laughed.
"Oh, you think I'm funny, do ya, lass?"
The girl abruptly went silent.
"Don't worry, it's a gun at your back. I prefer my women to have a little bit more experience, if you know what I mean." He paused, and a hand groped at her lower back, and then moved further down. "Where is it..."
She squirmed and screamed, thoroughly not enjoying her birthday. A hand clamped her mouth shut.
"Shush, we're on the freeway, darling."
His left hand, presumably, was holding the gun against her back in a phallic position. And his right hand, which had been groping at her lower back and buttocks, was over her mouth. However, he held something in it. Tucked under his thumb, was a rectangular, black piece of --
That bastard has taken my wallet from my back pocket! she realized, and she took a bite out of his hand.
"Ahh!" he yelled, dropping the wallet. "Oh, if you want to play it that way, I have a rubber in my wallet up front!"
She grimaced at the thought.
He opened her wallet, and pulled out her ID. And he read the details, "Oh, you're not under age!"
She smiled, "That's my fake ID, shitface."
He pulled out her driver's license, which said she was seventeen. He grinned, "Well, Brittany, we're almost at the Canadian border. And you aren't a minor over there!"
Brittany rolled her eyes, "What's this paper for?"
"A ransom letter." The man stated, manner of factly.
They can trace hand-writing, you oaf!
"And you're gonna write it," he assured her. "Mr. Vossian always picks the young ones, and those that party in your part of town are always stinking rich."
The man's eyes glazed over, and he mused, "I think you'll fetch a good fifty thousand. Maybe sixty, all in one piece."
Dread and frustration swept over Brittany, as the duct tape went back around her mouth. And she began to write, as the truck pulled into a stop. Without it moving, she wrote smoothly. And he even made her sign it, imitating the exact signature that was on her student card.