Dire Means Read Online Free Page A
Author: Geoffrey Neil
sarcasm.
The men ignored her, focusing instead on positioning the cart. They turned their backs to her and faced the closing door. The man beside the button panel suddenly pressed all twelve of the floor buttons and the elevator began descending.
“Nice move. We might reach the lobby by tomorrow,” Jackie said to their backs.
The struggling fluorescent light blinked off, leaving the elevator in total darkness. Jackie heard feet scuffle on the floor and the container bang against the elevator wall.
She got out half a gasp before a hand clapped a cloth over her mouth. Strong arms hugged her, pressing her arms to her sides while another set of arms grabbed her kicking legs and tamed them into submission. She and her attackers fell to the floor. A long snarl of unspooling duct tape cut through the sound of the struggle. They pressed her ankles together and bound them. She got off two arm swings, one landing on what felt like a man’s shoulder and the other slamming the elevator wall. Within fifteen seconds, her arms and legs were secured and a soft rubber ball gag was shoved into her screaming mouth before its rubber strap snapped tight at the back of her head.
After subduing Jackie’s sound and movement, the men lifted her and gently lowered her into the foam-lined cart. When they closed the lid and latched it, she heard only her own panicked breath racing in and out of her nostrils. She tried to kick the inner walls of the container as hard as she could with bound feet, but the thick padding softened each kick to a thump barely audible outside the container.
The elevator door opened on the Terra Fina Tower Building’s freight dock, its fluorescent lights flickering. The men pushed the cart out of the elevator and a short distance onto the enclosed bed of a grumbling armored truck. They swung the truck’s steel doors shut, producing a heavy clunk and then the truck jerked away from the freight driveway onto Arizona Avenue.
Business was good.
Chapter Five
TWENTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD Mark Denny thrived on order and predictability. His immaculate apartment was the epitome of organization. The key hook just inside his front door was worn down by key rings having slid on and off thousands of times over the years. Mark never lost his keys. The shoes he would wear the next day were always placed under this hook.
Each evening, his coffeemaker was preloaded and set to turn on at 6:43 a.m. so that his brew was ready to pour into his thermos at 6:58 a.m.—in time to walk to the car and exit his driveway by 7:00 a.m.
He dressed in clothes he had laid out on a recliner in his bedroom the previous night. His bathroom was sparse and spotless, and his kitchen sink never saw a dirty dish or utensil for more than a few hours, and never overnight. This perpetual order kept Mark comfortable.
He began his career as a support technician for a small support company in West Los Angeles. After a short stint there, Mark left the company to begin his own entrepreneurial venture with his best friend from college, Carlos Rais. They began their own computer service business named Combobulators. They visited homes and businesses, providing desktop computer support and repair for a small-business clientele.
While fixing printers, correcting Internet connectivity problems, installing software, and performing general maintenance, they developed a bond of friendship with their short list of regular clients. In a business where trust is critical for success, Mark and Carlos earned more confidence from their clients with each task they completed.
In the beginning, business was sporadic, and for two years they struggled. Despite the tight cash flow, they invested in some newspaper ads and asked clients for referrals to generate leads. Recently, their efforts paid off with rapid company growth and a waiting list for their services.
Their clientele grew to include a rather exclusive list of powerful Los Angeles entrepreneurs that included publishers,
The men ignored her, focusing instead on positioning the cart. They turned their backs to her and faced the closing door. The man beside the button panel suddenly pressed all twelve of the floor buttons and the elevator began descending.
“Nice move. We might reach the lobby by tomorrow,” Jackie said to their backs.
The struggling fluorescent light blinked off, leaving the elevator in total darkness. Jackie heard feet scuffle on the floor and the container bang against the elevator wall.
She got out half a gasp before a hand clapped a cloth over her mouth. Strong arms hugged her, pressing her arms to her sides while another set of arms grabbed her kicking legs and tamed them into submission. She and her attackers fell to the floor. A long snarl of unspooling duct tape cut through the sound of the struggle. They pressed her ankles together and bound them. She got off two arm swings, one landing on what felt like a man’s shoulder and the other slamming the elevator wall. Within fifteen seconds, her arms and legs were secured and a soft rubber ball gag was shoved into her screaming mouth before its rubber strap snapped tight at the back of her head.
After subduing Jackie’s sound and movement, the men lifted her and gently lowered her into the foam-lined cart. When they closed the lid and latched it, she heard only her own panicked breath racing in and out of her nostrils. She tried to kick the inner walls of the container as hard as she could with bound feet, but the thick padding softened each kick to a thump barely audible outside the container.
The elevator door opened on the Terra Fina Tower Building’s freight dock, its fluorescent lights flickering. The men pushed the cart out of the elevator and a short distance onto the enclosed bed of a grumbling armored truck. They swung the truck’s steel doors shut, producing a heavy clunk and then the truck jerked away from the freight driveway onto Arizona Avenue.
Business was good.
Chapter Five
TWENTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD Mark Denny thrived on order and predictability. His immaculate apartment was the epitome of organization. The key hook just inside his front door was worn down by key rings having slid on and off thousands of times over the years. Mark never lost his keys. The shoes he would wear the next day were always placed under this hook.
Each evening, his coffeemaker was preloaded and set to turn on at 6:43 a.m. so that his brew was ready to pour into his thermos at 6:58 a.m.—in time to walk to the car and exit his driveway by 7:00 a.m.
He dressed in clothes he had laid out on a recliner in his bedroom the previous night. His bathroom was sparse and spotless, and his kitchen sink never saw a dirty dish or utensil for more than a few hours, and never overnight. This perpetual order kept Mark comfortable.
He began his career as a support technician for a small support company in West Los Angeles. After a short stint there, Mark left the company to begin his own entrepreneurial venture with his best friend from college, Carlos Rais. They began their own computer service business named Combobulators. They visited homes and businesses, providing desktop computer support and repair for a small-business clientele.
While fixing printers, correcting Internet connectivity problems, installing software, and performing general maintenance, they developed a bond of friendship with their short list of regular clients. In a business where trust is critical for success, Mark and Carlos earned more confidence from their clients with each task they completed.
In the beginning, business was sporadic, and for two years they struggled. Despite the tight cash flow, they invested in some newspaper ads and asked clients for referrals to generate leads. Recently, their efforts paid off with rapid company growth and a waiting list for their services.
Their clientele grew to include a rather exclusive list of powerful Los Angeles entrepreneurs that included publishers,
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