“Shut the fuck up,” says the driver, standing again and pointing his gun at me.

A firearm has been aimed at me for the last twenty minutes, although it was in the hands of Jameson Crouch. I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. My skin crawls and acid climbs the sides of my throat. I can’t control the trembling of my body. Alexander and Crouch are arguing in the corner of the half-built room where they’ve taken me. Just like they argued in hushed tones on the drive to this place. They were in the middle seat of the SUV. I was in the back, lying down on my side as instructed, a gun leveled at me from its place in Crouch’s hand.

The fact that they’re arguing now is good, right? They’re unraveling. My gut tells me they were in over their heads the second they kidnapped me from the Times. They didn’t plan this. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision and now they don’t know what to do.

The bad part? They can’t just let me go now.

I know too much. I’ve now been kidnapped by the deputy mayor and a powerful union boss and they have an explosive secret to hide. Power and money are at stake. I know they leaked emails about the governor. I know they planned to have the Times in their back pocket.

On the ride over, I promised them if they just pulled over and set me free, I would never tell anyone about this. They would never hear my name or see me ever again. I swore on my life. But those vows fell on deaf ears. I was only told to shut up. I’m not a human being to them. I’m nothing but a problem to be solved.

This is bad. This is bad.

I can’t help but try again, though. Now that the use of my hands has been taken away, I feel tragically powerless and it spurs me into begging, even though I hate the pitiful tone to my voice. “Please. It’s not too late to let me go,” I shout across the empty concrete room to Crouch and Alexander. “You’ve scared me. That was the goal, right? To scare me into keeping my mouth shut about what I know? Fine. I was already planning on it. Just let me go. Please.”

Behind my back, I start to twist my wrists, hoping to subtly loosen the shoelace. The driver used one of those thin, starchy dress shoelaces, I realize, looking down at his matching shoe. They’re not great for knot tying. If I can get loose and run, there is a chance this man won’t pull the trigger. He didn’t sign up for this—it’s there in his nervous movements. The conflicted way he continues to look at me.

“What’s the plan?” whisper-shouts the driver, shifting in his wingtips. “The longer we’re here, the greater the chance of being found. I don’t want to be found with some tied-up girl, man. I’ve got a family.”