The coarse bite of the white rope was a constant, burning reminder of her miscalculation. Maya had thought she was clever, skimming the cash from the drop and hiding it where the crew would never think to look. But they didn't need to look; they just needed to find her.
When they first cornered her in the safehouse, they hadn't bothered with pleasantries. They hauled her into the center of the room, yanked her arms behind her back, and wound thick white cotton rope tightly around her wrists, forearms, and elbows. Another length secured her ankles. Standing there, defenseless and trembling, she held out for as long as she could.
But when the enforcer pulled out the heavy roll of silver duct tape, her resolve finally snapped.
"Locker 42. Westside Transit Hub," she blurted out, her voice cracking. "The key is taped under the bench opposite the lockers. It's all there. Every cent."
The Restraint
The leader of the crew just smiled—a cold, dead expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Appreciate the cooperation, Maya," he murmured.
She expected them to cut her loose, to take the information and run. Instead, rough hands grabbed her shoulders and shoved her face-down onto the bed's heavy red quilt.
The nightmare was only just beginning.
They weren't taking any chances. One of the men grabbed her bound ankles, forcing her knees to bend, and looped another length of white rope through the bindings on her wrists. They pulled the ropes taut, arching her back painfully into a strict hogtie. Every muscle in her shoulders and thighs screamed in immediate protest.
Then came the silence. A wide strip of industrial silver duct tape was slapped forcefully over her mouth, wrapping back to catch her hair. The heavy adhesive sealed her lips shut instantly, reducing her frantic pleas to muffled, wet whimpers.
Tying Up Loose Ends
The slam of the front door echoed like a gunshot, leaving Maya completely alone in the stifling heat of the room.
She twisted uselessly against the mattress, her wide, terrified eyes darting around the empty space. A heavy layer of sweat broke out across her forehead and cheeks, making the edges of the duct tape itch against her skin. The physical pain of the ropes digging into her flesh was excruciating, but it paled in comparison to the dread gnawing at her mind.
As she lay immobilized on the red bedspread, her thoughts raced through the grim calculus of her survival:The Timeline: It was a thirty-minute drive to the transit hub. It would take them an hour, tops, to secure the bag and verify the count. The Stash: The money was exactly where she said it was. They wouldn't be returning out of anger over a lie. The Reality: In their line of work, you don't leave witnesses. You don't leave someone who knows your faces, your methods, and your vehicles alive in a motel room.
Maya let out a ragged, muffled sob through her nose, her chest heaving against the tight bindings holding her in place. She had given up the cash to save her life. But as the clock ticked away, a chilling realization settled over her in the quiet room: they weren't going to let her go. They had just left her there for safekeeping, securely packaged, until they had the time to return and permanently tie up the last loose end.
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