He looked at the syringe in his hand. He had it right out in the open. Such was the environment in discos that a man could stand in a crowd, brandishing a poison injection, and testing the plunger just a bit.

Rita and her shapely, beautiful neck were just in front of him now. She was all neck to him, like a goose, or even a swan. A vein pulsed there.

He reached for her.

BANG!

Suddenly, to his left, the emergency door burst open. Large men surged in. The police! They pushed people to the ground, screaming and cursing. More and more of them came—five, ten, fifteen. A few had their nightsticks out, wielding them but not hitting anyone.

Across the club, another group stormed in through the front entrance.

Rita turned to see the commotion. Amazing! They were looking for her! Three policemen climbed over the barrier and into the VIP area.

Rita had moved away from the railing. The police were shouting at her.

The man dropped his syringe to the floor.

Mission aborted.

He kicked it under a table.

Suddenly the police were on him, surging past him, shoving him to the wall and out of their way.

The music stopped. The lights came on.

The man allowed himself to be pushed and shoved along, his hands in the air to show they were empty. He was one of many, a face in the crowd, someone who was simply here for a night of good times, no threat to anyone.

* * *

She did not know where she was.

For a long time, Elizabeth drifted in darkness, but then her thoughts started climbing up and out of the abyss.

They were confused thoughts, a mad jumble of images and ideas, and sensations and disembodied voices, all superimposed on each other. She recovered slowly. She felt how her lungs were filling with air, and then she began to do it consciously and with pleasure. She was breathing!

More clearly now she heard the car engine, and mingled with that, the sound of unfamiliar voices. Several men were speaking in a language she did not understand. She tried to open her eyes. Her eyelids seemed glued firmly shut. They were so heavy it was almost unnatural to lift them.

In the first moments, her vision was out of focus. It was like a photograph taken at night, through a rainy, foggy window. Everything was smeared and hazy and very dark. But with each successive moment of consciousness, her wounded brain began to put all the puzzle pieces together. Soon enough, the picture became clearer—resolving itself, slowly and inexorably, into something she did not want to see.

She found herself in a car full of strangers, driving through the night.