Don't let him hurt Eva. Say anything, do anything. "What do you want?" He moves closer and I want to back away, but he threatens her, threatens to ruin her face.

He stands against me. His gun touches my face, his hand is in my hair. His touch is oddly, disturbingly gentle. "What do you think I want?" He moves his hips pressing them into mine solidly.

I stare at him. The knit wool conceals so much. All I can see is his mouth and his dark blue eyes, eyes that have a fire deep inside. I've seen that fire before, when men look at other women. I've never felt the heat directed at me. But now I feel scorched.

"You, or her?"

He can't be serious. I don't care if they've cut the power, downed security. Someone will come. "You can't. The police will be here soon." He says that they don't matter, and I must answer. He moves against me again, dry humping, asking which will it be, me or Eva?

What can I say? She's so young, so fragile. I have to protect her any way I can. And he can't really mean it. He must be playing mind games with me. So I agree. "All right." Yes, me for her. Anything he wants, whatever he demands, as long as Eva is safe. Now he's won, he's wrung out surrender. It will be enough, he'll leave us alone.

"You remember this. Remember you agreed. It's not rape if you agree."

I see him smile, finely cut lips curling in pleased triumph, and I know.

Sweet Jesus, he means it.

The other men are back from the vault, calling to him. He answers, "I got mine. Let's go." He roughly takes hold of my shoulder and shoves me toward the door. I'm so numb that I go several steps before deciding that if I'm going to die, I want to die where I'm sure they'll be able to find my body and give me decent burial. That's when I balk.

I stiffen, trying to twist out of his grasp, but he must have been expecting some form of resistance. He hangs on grimly, fingers biting deep into my shoulder, and he smacks the butt of the gun down on top of my head. My teeth click together and light flashes across my vision as the pain bursts through my head.

He jerks me back to face the interior of the bank and raises his gun. He's aiming toward the other customers, muzzle zeroing in on my niece, sprawled on the floor. "I can still get her from here, Scribe."

"No! For God's sake, don't!"

"You'll be good? I ain't got time to play right now." One of the other men is unlocking the padlock, releasing the chain that binds the door handles. They both go into one of the sacks, no evidence left behind.

"Yes, I'll be good. I won't try to get away."

"Boy! Now!" The leader's voice is sharp, authoritative.

Again he pushes me, and I don't hesitate. I hurry to the door just ahead of him and we slip out. The moment that we hit the pavement a dark panel van pulls to a screeching halt beside us and I am manhandled up into it, the others following.

I end up crouched on the floor, the others on benches across the sides of the van, and we peel out. Rubber screeches. We slam around corners and I find myself thrown back and forth, landing against various sets of legs. During one turn, I'm thrown near the back of the van. She's safe now. He can't hurt her. But he can hurt me. I think of all the men and women and children lying in shallow, unmarked graves, drifting in rivers and lakes while their families wait and suffer for years. Better for them to know and be sure. Better to be over quickly. And who knows? I might survive.

I lunge for the door and grab the handle, managing to pop it open, and it swings out. I intend to launch myself head first onto the pavement that rushes away behind us. They won't stop and come back for me, not in the middle of an escape, and I might survive.

But they're on me before I can throw myself out. One of them hangs from a cargo strap, leaning out to capture the loose swinging door and close it as the other three swarm all over me.

I've never fought before, aside from a few school yard scuffles in elementary school, before 'be a lady' was drilled in too firmly. I'm hopelessly overwhelmed of course, but I'm making them work. This is my only chance, while we're still around people. If I'm taken anywhere isolated...

I twist and kick and claw. I try to use every trick of self defense and dirty fighting I've ever heard of. The biting doesn't do much good: their clothing is too thick for me to inflict anything but bruises, and they know enough to keep their hands out of the way. Before my arms are captured I manage to peel skin off the back of someone's hand with my nails.

I can hear the leader growling, "Boy, get this little bitch under control, now!"

"Hold her down." The young man who took me straddles my waist on his knees, reaching inside his jacket. As he does so the man holding my left arm immobile with one big hand reaches down with his free hand and squeezes my breasts roughly.

I'm looking at him upside down, and even with the ski mask I can tell that his expression is ugly. "We got time to get us some?"

He doesn't see it coming. Suddenly the young man with the dark blue eyes has smashed a fist into his face. Blood seeps through the knit and thick streams run down over the wounded man's lips. "Fuck! What are you..." He's knocked backward, and I'm half crushed at his assailant grabs his shirtfront and punches him twice more in rapid succession.

"That's enough!" The boy pauses at the voice of authority, fist cocked back, trembling with the strain of not carrying on. At last he shoves the other man away. His knuckles are bruised and not all the blood on them is from his victim.

"Motherfucker laid hands on my woman!" he growls. Something in that tone of voice, some finality, makes me redouble my efforts to escape.

Amazingly enough, the wounded man grabs my arm again, with both hands this time. Blood is dripping off his chin by now. I feel several warm drops hit my face. It's the closest I come to screaming during the abduction. "Christ, man. You broke my fuckin' nose. I din' mean anything."

"You know damn good and well she's mine! Don't try that shit again or I'll denut you with a dull knife. Now hold her." He reaches back into his jacket, and removes a plastic zip lock bag. He opens it and removes what looks like a simple, folded piece of cloth. He leans over me, moving it toward my face.

I turn my head away, but he grabs my hair and jerks it back. Then he presses the cloth over my mouth and nose and holds it there. I go very still, breath locked tight inside my lungs. The interior of the van is very quiet.

He's staring down at me, not leaning too close, I realize, because he doesn't want to catch a whiff of whatever he's soaked that cloth in. I hold my breath for several more seconds. I used to do this as a child, watching the sweep of a second hand around a clock face, trying to see how long I'd last. Or I'd do it in the pool, eyes open underwater, nostrils stinging with chlorine, waiting to burst to the surface for that first whooping gulp of oxygen.

He's patient, he doesn't move. My lungs are burning, my throat feels like it's sealing. My head is already swimming when I can't hold back any longer and draw in the first gasp. The world tilts immediately. My limbs go boneless quickly, and dark grey fog begins to creep into my mind. He's murmuring to me. "That's it, breathe. Just a little more. It'll be easier if you sleep." Then the fog rolls in thicker, and I quit trying to hold my head over it. I breathe, like he said, and the world slips away.