Fathom by L. Standage (spanish books to read .TXT) 📕

I licked my lips. My tongue felt like sandpaper. “A few days.”

“A few days? Did you plan on returning after the week or staying and playing a while?”

I looked at him in puzzlement. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He laughed again, and this time the others joined in.

“Told you she’d say that,” said the guy with the missing pinky.

“Who are you guys?” I asked as a horrible idea hit me. “Shouldn’t you be wearing police badges?”

The others laughed again, confirming my idea. They weren’t cops.

I shrunk deeper into the seat. My wrists ached and my worries shifted from being an arrested suspect to being a kidnapped innocent. I should have known; real cops wouldn’t have barged into the house like that.

I wanted to ask what was going to happen to me. Where were we going? Was I going to die? What did they want? But I could only cry. My tears ran hot down my face, and I couldn’t reach up to wipe them away. Was I ever going to see Samantha or my parents again? Was I ever going to be able to look across the ocean and dream about my future?

Probably not. Another jolt of terror twisted my stomach.

We continued driving downtown. The skyscrapers rose around us, the busy streets as distant as a movie on a television screen. I leaned my head against the back of the seat, my tears still falling like streams. Would my kidnappers dump my body in a ditch or bury me at sea?

Among all of these thoughts, I also couldn’t help thinking: why me? What did I do? Visiting the tide pools after hours wasn’t exactly a reason to kidnap someone. I hadn’t witnessed any crimes and hadn’t told anyone what I saw that night. I certainly didn’t harm anyone, much less kill anyone. These horrible men knew that. What did they want with me? I shuddered.

The car pulled into the underground parking lot of a huge, historic hotel. A terrified squeak escaped my throat. The man sitting to my left looked at me and smiled—a grim effect that only made his face scarier. The streetlights inside the parking garage glistened on his bald head.

“Oh, fear not, little one.” His accent was British. “We have no interest in harming you.”

I couldn’t tell if he was lying.

“So you’re going to let me go home?” The faintest, flimsiest shred of hope budded inside me. The man missing a pinky smirked.

Polo Shirt looked over his shoulder. “If you do exactly what you’re told, then perhaps.”

“Think we ought to take off the cuffs?” asked the British guy.

“Oh. Yeah, we better.” Polo Shirt tossed a set of keys to the back seat. The Brit unlocked the handcuffs just as we circled around to the hotel entrance. A valet approached.

Polo Shirt looked back at me. “If you scream, run, or struggle, you really won’t be going home.”

I nodded. Trying hard not to look scared—which I realized was futile since tears streaked my swollen face—I followed the men out of the car, up a set of stairs, and into the hotel. Luxurious upholstery, wide rugs, and marble floors furnished the lobby. High archways led to hallways beyond, framed with dark, carved molding. The windows looked like they had come from a bygone, fancier era. The glittering chandeliers and historic lamps cast cozy, golden light on decorative palms sitting in huge marble pots. The set of elevators we approached were old fashioned, lovely, and cold.

We stepped inside and Polo Shirt pushed the button with the number eleven. I closed my eyes, certain I was now a victim of human trafficking. The elevator lurched upward. The dizziness from fear and dread and a moving elevator turned my stomach. I couldn’t hold it back. My dinner came out. The three men cried out in disgust, leaping away from the pile of vomit I’d left in the shining, ornate elevator.

As soon as the doors opened to the eleventh floor, one of the men grasped me by the arm, stepped over the grossness, and led me down the long stretch of carpeted hallway. They stopped me at a door, and Polo Shirt knocked.

The door cracked open.

“You have her?” asked a voice from behind the door.

“Here,” said Polo Shirt.

Silence. “Enter.”

The men pushed the door open and pulled me inside. It wasn’t so much a hotel room as it was a penthouse apartment, complete with a sitting room and attached kitchen and dining area. The ceiling stretched at least two floors tall. I’d never been in a house this lavish, let alone a hotel room.

“Sit,” Polo Shirt ordered, pointing to a chintz couch. I sat. The Brit stood nearby, weapon drawn. I looked at the shining gun with a lump in my throat while twisting my perspiring hands together. Polo Shirt moved an armless chair to face me and stood aside. The guy with the missing pinky approached with two bottles of water. He drank from one of them with deep, steady gulps. Then he took the other, unscrewed the lid, and handed it to me.

“Drink,” he said. I shrank away. “Drink!” he shouted. I took the water bottle and choked it down, my throat sore from puking. Water spilled down my chin. I waited for some kind of drug to overcome me, but nothing happened. Pinky Guy watched me, then looked over at a fourth man standing in the corner who had let us in. The man appeared to be around forty or fifty years old, with a wide brow, fair hair, and clear eyes. He wore a dark blue tailored suit that looked like a custom Beverly Hills job. A suit…

His eyes surveyed me as he sat down in the armless chair beside me.

“Please, drink,” he said. “You must be thirsty.” I took another drink, getting more weirded out by the second. He stared at me for a moment. I didn’t feel any different. Why did they insist on me drinking water, if not to drug me?

He sniffed. “Why does it smell