As I awoke, my head felt fuzzy and my vision was blurred. Where was I? The foreign ramblings of a male drifted back to me, though I didn't concentrate long enough to understand. I realized I was in the back of a vehicle, possibly a van, by the sudden stops and bumps. How did I get here from the press conference I had been attending?

A short time later I was closer to consciousness and memories started fading back, some unwanted.

I had been sitting peacefully at a press gathering in London with my father, a member of the U.N. When the conference was over at noon, I made my way to the restroom for refreshment. Suddenly, two pairs of hands were grabbing me; one set pulling my legs, the other my arms. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was a voice softly saying, "Cherie, just rest," then screaming, "Drive! Drive!"

I shuddered at the recollections. The voice speaking now was not the soft voice from earlier, but harsh and raspy. With my deep knowledge of the French language, I understood another man was shouting directions to the driver.

A grainy Plexiglas window stood between the men and me, like a taxi layout. The window seemed dense but it blocked neither the speaking nor the sight of them. I looked out the tinted back window, relieved my captors had not blindfolded me.

Assuming I was still in London, the condition of my surroundings had decreased greatly. Children wore dirty, patched clothes and played in the streets, oblivious to the passing vehicles and noise. Stray animals roamed the trash-covered sidewalks while walking vendors yelled the names of their products. The truck lurched to a stop as a small dark haired boy ran into the street.

“Get in,” said the driver gruffly. The boy scrambled to the entrance before the Plexiglas window. But the passenger-man was behind him and forced him behind the window into my space, binding his hands. The dark haired child was young, and looking excited to be in a different landscape.

I wondered why he was excited and where we could possibly be going. My family! They would have to notice my absence and start looking for me! But how long would it take them to find me? How long could I last here?

The boy moved with the van as it ran over holes and cracks in the road. Suddenly he turned to me and rambled off a quick phrase in French. I cleared my throat and quietly said, “My name’s Skye. Do you know where we are going?”
He told me his name, Luc, and glanced out the window. According to him, we were nearing a small town called Clichy. We weren’t sure what the men were attempting: kidnapping for ransom or torture. If he had met the men before, he didn’t say.

The sun began to lower in the sky toward the horizon. The van traveled around street corners and through dark alleys at an alarming speed. The driver acknowledged the speed but did not slow down until the van reached a dimly lit warehouse in the middle of the town. I considered it odd that two kidnapees would be taken to a warehouse that wasn’t obscured from wandering eyes.