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This part might be a little short too, but I promise, we're driving closer to some action.

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Chapter 12. The dark room

It was dark. How long has she been here? Doesn't matter. Her mind was so confused. After finding herself stuck in a car with Oliver Mercier, an uncatchable trafficker of European scale she was after for years, a gun pointed at her, Rita was fighting a horrible headache. At least, she knew where the kid, Eric, was. Actually, right next to her, tied to the same gas pipe. He was sobbing endlessly, whenever he wasn't sleeping, and it had a calamitous consequence on her thinking process.

At first Oliver was hanging around, blabbering about their past ties and his sweet vengeance. A bell rang deep down her brain, but it was so far away, one of the first memories she could guarantee being real. And then even Oliver left, leaving them alone in a dark empty room with just a heater creaking from time to time and a feeble sunbeam making his way from the time-worn roof to the dusty floor. Eric wouldn't talk at all. Poor child. She started talking to him, choosing reassuring words, maybe trying to encourage herself as well.

But then all the crew showed up, dragging an unconscious man along. She almost cried, surprised by the thought it could be Sherlock Holmes. But it wasn't him. Thank God. Wait, no! It was another victim. And it was horrible. Oliver's idea of cruelty was perverse and sharpened by experience.

What's worse, they did it in front of a ten-years-old kid. And they took away the injured man, and spent hours drinking in front of their victims, laughing, just like normal people do, but they were not normal. They were torturing a child. At that point of time, Rita didn't even care about herself. Her natural instinct was to protect the boy. Maybe because her maternal instinct finally decided to come out, maybe because he seemed so desperate and so like her at this age. The rage blinded her for a moment; her nails furiously dug into the core of the ropes. A dash of blood dripped on her palm. Useless. Those knots were too tight.

After what seemed like days but were mere hours, the men left them alone again. Such a scary and yet comfortable silence. She sunk into a troubled dream, where she was about to grasp something important but the thought vanished in the air. Some words flooded out her mouth: "It will be okay. He will come for us. You'll see." Who? Who should show up to save them? She tried to be more precise, but the only image she could get was Sherlock's grinning face. Somehow, knowing that he had her pocket-watch was reassuring. His whole presence was reassuring, as if she always knew him.

New pictures sprouted in her feverish mind: a black-haired silver-eyed boy giving her a small device, stating in his usual arrogant manner "It's a really old stuff, do not ever lose it or I'll never talk to you again!" When was it? He looked so young! And yet she was certain that he was her senior.

A door creaked and a light bulb crackled while turning on. It was Oliver. "Hello, you two. Had a nice sleep?" He barked an unpleasant laughter. "You should be happy, we're having guests. So I don't need you anymore, honey." His last words were addressed to the girl.

She couldn't suppress the anger of her voice: "What are you doing to the kid?"

"He'll be my shield." His eyes were crazy, absolutely crazy with hate and cruel joy. Eric wasn't reacting at all, probably in a deep shock since last night. "Gentlemen!" Two strong-arms entered the room. They quickly untied the boy and Oliver grabbed his collar. The poor child didn't make any attempt to resist. Rita struggled with rage, only to get her wrists hurt more. "I leave Victoria to you."

All three men smirked dangerously, as Oliver was walking out with Eric. But she didn't see anything anymore. The name he gave her was like a long-awaited thunder in the clouded sky. Victoria. This name. Her name. How could she forget?!