Eleven

Chapter Twenty: A Cup or Two

"Line up under the counter," the deep voice barked next to my ear, and I cringed away from his iron hold. "Cellphones out. Drop them in the bag we bring around. Don't even think about using them."

"Sang," Victor's voice called from closer than I expected, but I couldn't see him from the way I was facing. "It's okay."

I didn't miss the hitch in his tone.

"It's not okay," I mumbled to myself, fighting against the arms locking me in. It was futile, like banging toothpicks against an elephant's leg and expecting it to move.

I wanted to punch him in the groin, or flip him over my head—but my arms were caged against my sides with no room to even wiggle, let alone reach up and grip his ears.

"That means you too, darlin'," the man spoke to me, tightening his grip as he started herding me towards the bank tellers' mahogany counter and holding out his palm. "Phone."

I breathed out sharply through my nose, wondering if I could get away with ringing one of the boys' emergency lines before handing over the phone. But I didn't think there would be enough time, and Mr. Iron Grip would definitely notice.

"I can't," I tried to reason with him, struggling my shoulders against his hold to show him. "I can't reach it like this."

"Don't be cute," he snapped, tightening his hold to the point of pain. "Which pocket is it in?"

A hand started groping the front pockets of my pants, and I let out a yelp as he moved to the back. "Hey!"

"Where's your phone, darlin'?" He pressed threateningly, voice turning gruff as his hand lost patience. "You have two seconds before I take it out on your little boyfriend."

"It's...it's in my top," I admitted, swallowing around a lump as I pulled my hips as far away from his as I could. The wiggling didn't help, and his arm had an iron grip around my torso. "Please, don't—"

His gloved hand slipped into the top of my shirt before diving into my bra, tugging out the phone with ease as I went ramrod straight against him.

"Nice pockets," he remarked with a light snicker. My stomach rolled. "Now get down there with the rest of them, and I won't make an example out of you."

His hand shoved hard against my back, and I pitched forward before landing hard against the marble floor next to a few of the other hostages.

"Hey, put it down!" A new voice yelled, before the smack of skin against skin rang in my years. I whirled around onto my butt, watching Victor's head pull back from the force of the punch as his phone was knocked clean across the floor. "You motherfucker! Think you can call the cops on us?"

"Put him with the others," the tall man dressed in black and a ski mask ordered. I recognized the voice, shivering when I saw he was the one who had held me.

The other man pushed Victor forward, grunting when my husband stumbled towards our makeshift huddle. I sucked in a breath, leaning forward to meet his burning eyes.

I got through, Victor's look told me, and I almost crumpled against the marble floor in relief. He was able to get a message out to the boys.

I just hoped it was enough.

I nodded, scooting back against the marble floor until I could lean against the tellers' counter. The men in ski masks were buzzing around the room, chaining up doors to the outside, and using a key to lock the inner doors. My heart sank as they worked efficiently, doing the silent communication thing I was so familiar with as half of them hovered around the steel vault.