Free Donna Joy Usher - Chanel 02 - Goons 'n' Roses by Donna Joy Usher

this were so good.
    They forced us down the stairs, flicking on a light when they got to the bottom. I was trying to be brave, but my body had other ideas and little whimpers were escaping from my mouth. Martine looked back over her shoulder at me; her eyes were bulging, but she smiled bravely. I felt so stupid. I had dragged her into this mess and she was the one holding it together.
    ‘I think there has been some sort of mistake,’ I said. I was trying for bright and cheerful, but the trembling in my voice totally ruined it. ‘You see we were just trying to find my mother.’
    The tall one let go of Martine and kicked two fold-out chairs towards us. ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I’ve been sitting all day, I’d rather stand.’
    He grabbed me by my orange arm, flinging me effortlessly into the chair. I winced and clutched at my pathetic appendage and he grinned maliciously at me. Either he had some sort of genetic disorder or his teeth had been filed to points. I was guessing it was the latter.
    ‘Thanks big boy,’ Martine said, taking the seat beside me. I couldn’t be sure but I think she fluttered her eyelashes at him.
    ‘Vat do you vant?’ the man holding the shotgun asked.
    ‘I told you,’ I said, ‘we’re looking for my mother.’
    ‘Who sent you?’ His English was halted and heavily accented.
    ‘Nobody sent us,’ Martine said. ‘Lorraine got taken today and we thought she might be here.’
    The three of them spoke for a few moments; a low rumble of foreign dialect.
    ‘Vy?’
    ‘Why was she taken? We have no idea,’ I said.
    ‘No,’ he said angrily, gesturing with his hands, ‘vy vould you tink she vas ere?’
    ‘I saw a man come here this afternoon,’ I said. ‘He was one of the men who took her.’
    They continued their conversation, their voices getting more heated. The Shark was throwing his arms around and Shotgun Man was trying to calm him down. The Third Man wasn’t saying much, but he was watching me with an expression bordering on creepy.
    They finished their argument and The Shark wrestled our handbags from us. They tipped the contents out and started pawing through them. The Third Man pulled out a knife and used it to cut the all-cotton lining of my Gucci handbag. He started to feel underneath the lining.
    ‘That’s a Gucci Soho,’ I said to him, ‘you don’t go slashing a Gucci Soho.’
    ‘It’s just a bag,’ Martine said to me.
    ‘It’s the nicest bag I’ve ever owned.’
    ‘Well, hopefully it won’t be the last bag you ever own.’
    That put it into perspective.
    After they had given her bag the same treatment, The Shark went up the stairs and came back with some cable ties and a roll of Duct Tape. They pulled our arms behind our backs and tied them with the cable ties. The hard plastic dug into my skin. That was going to hurt later.
    I don’t think the seriousness of the situation really hit home until they went to Duct Tape my mouth.
    When I was a little girl I watched old Mr Gates, one of the local farmers, try to stuff a bit into a horse’s mouth. The thing had bucked and kicked and reared and screamed, while froth came out of its mouth and steam out of its nostrils. But in the end it had stood panting, its head drooping, and it hadn’t protested as that piece of metal had been shoved into the back of its mouth.
    I never stood a chance.
    I threw my head from side to side, rearing away from them. Shotgun Man grabbed my ponytail and held my head still as The Shark shoved the tape over my mouth. The fighting had taken its toll and I snorted air in through my nose, trying not to panic. Asphyxiation on Duct Tape in a Las Vegas dungeon was not how I wanted to die.
    I looked over at Martine who hung forwards in her seat, hands tied behind her back, gag firmly in place.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I tried to say, but it came out as muffled nonsense.
    They dragged us to our feet and down a corridor lined with doors. They took Martine into the first room and me into the