THE TUMULT IN the parking lot had reached near-deafening levels----everybody was shouting over one another and barking orders, sirens were blaring, helicopters were hovering. The four of them were each placed into a separate unmarked black SUV. Slowly the vehicles started to move caravan fashion. A chopper flew overhead, trailing the convoy. Soldiers jogged alongside the procession, holding their machine guns in ready positon. A series of large vans passed them going the other way on a narrow road, heading back toward the dock, presumably to transport the occupants of the other yachts. But why?630Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJqlXMaiY3u
"I'm an American citizen and I have rights!" Mischa shouted at the driver and the soldier seated next to him on the front seat. "I demand to know what I'm being arrested for!"
They didn't respond. They didn't even look back at her.
They pulled into the same airport at Nice where the actresses had landed only two short days ago, the Aeroport Nice Cote d'Azur. But this time it was lined with military vehicles and armed soldiers. Mischa was hustled into a small plane, where she was placed in a seat and her handcuffs were fastened to something else, locking her into the chair. Then a black bag was forced over her head.
"Do you really need that? For God's sake, I'm handcuffed and....."
"Tais-toi!" someone shouted in Mischa's face.
She heard others board the plane. Her friends. She heard sobbing. Was it Rihanna? She couldn't be sure. For all she knew, the sobs were her own.
She couldn't be sure of anything right now.
They sat in shocked silence. Mischa could hear the rapid breathing of her friends, all of them bound, blindfolded and without a clue.
Then some more men jumped onto the plane and said something that she missed. The plane soon moved down the runway, lifting high into the air moments later. Less than two days after arriving in Monte Carlo, brimming with anticipation, the four actresses were leaving in handcuffs and black bags over their heads, with absolutely no idea where they were going or what was happening.
"Ladies, you've got rights!" Mischa called out. "Demand a lawyer! Demand someone from the em...."
A blow to her chest, a flat palm knocking the wind out of her. Her head slammed against the wall. She was woozy for a moment but she had to think, to focus. Focus? On what? Nothing made sense.
It seemed like they were in the air for ninety minutes. But where were they going?:
Paris, Mischa assumed. After their landing, they were released from their seats and marched down a flight of stairs, wearing nothing but a robe, nothing underneath, nothing under her feet.
A mistake, Mischa told herself. A misunderstanding.
She walked in darkness, a hand like a slab of iron clutching her arm, into another car. The car was blaring a siren, which echoed similar sirens from the other cars in the caravan. She thought of so many things----Sebastian, Drake, Zoe, Hania, Ziggy Stardust, her dog, what in the world could have possibly happened----and lost track of time. The only thing she noticed was that the car never stopped, hardly even slowed down, during the whole trip.
Then they stopped. A door opened. There was a blast of warm air, and she was being manhandled again, forced out of the car, stubbing her bare toes on asphalt. A soldier on each side of her kept her from falling. They were carrying Mischa as much as she was walking.
First asphalt, then tile, the interior of a building. From tile to an elevator. They climbed three stories by her count. Nothing but darkness through the black bag. Her wrists were abraded and one of her shoulders was cramping from her hands being held behind her back for so long.
More tile. Then a room, a very cold room. Mischa was forced into a chair, her cuffed hands placed behind the back of it, and locked down.
She smelled aftershave, body odor, sweat. She sensed the presence of others in the room. One? Two? She couldn't be sure. A door opened and shut several times. People entered and exited. They whispered and they conferred. In French. But was she even in France?
Someone lit a cigarette. The tobacco blend smelled like----a Parliament! Her brand! Good God, had these bastards taken her things along with her to---wherever this was?
Her head was pounding and her heart was racing. The silence was worse than the chaos on the dock.
And then the black bag was ripped off her head....630Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1WGxeFbIY2
