'You've got just one chance here, Rachel,' the guy who'd hit her said, pinching her cheek between his thumb and forefinger.

She nodded dumbly. She didn't know what the hell was going on. But she did, deep inside. Ever since Ellie had asked the favor as she called it. If she was honest, she'd almost been expecting something to happen.

'You've got something you're holding for your friend Ellie. She probably forgot to tell you, but it doesn't belong to her.' His voice had a patronizing tone, as if he was talking to a small child or a puppy. 'It belongs to us and we'd like it back.' He smiled at her. 'Right NOW,' he screamed into her face, his breath smelling of eggs.

She jumped backwards and banged into the kitchen table.

'I don't . . .'

Those weren't the words he was looking for. No sentence that he wanted to hear started with those words.

He didn't give her a chance to finish whatever pathetic denial she was about to come out with. He raised his arm and backhanded her across the face sending her sprawling to the floor. She lay on the cold tiles, quietly moaning, not daring to move. The cold felt good against the hot stinging pain that was burning up the side of her face, consuming her whole head. He kicked her—only gently really—in the ribs with the pointy toe of his boot. More to get her attention than hurt her.

Did he think she might forget he was there?

She gasped and scrambled into a sitting position, shuffling away from him on her ass, her skirt catching and riding up over her athletic thighs. He followed her across the room, keeping his groin inches from her face, a faint smell of stale urine and cigarettes lingering on his faded jeans.

'Wrong answer, chula.'

He crouched down in front of her; the toe of his boot pressed hard up against the gusset of her panties, and grabbed her by the throat. He started to squeeze, broken fingernails sharp on the soft skin. She couldn't breath. She got both her hands on his wrist and tried to prise his hand away. He dug his fingers deeper into the side of her neck, shutting off the blood flow.

She tried to say something but his grip was too tight; it just came out as a strangled cry in the back of her throat. She tried shaking her head from side to side but he grabbed a big handful of hair on the top of her head, wound his fingers into it and held her still.

'You know something,' he said and laughed. 'I'm a lying son of a bitch. I said you only get one chance, but I'm gonna give you one more.' He let go her hair and held up his index finger and wagged it in front of her face. She followed it with her eyes and wondered idly how he managed to get so much dirt under his fingernails, the bizarre thought coming from nowhere. 'But this really is the last chance. Understand?'

She stared at him, unsure if she was expected to answer. He cocked his head like he wanted one and when it didn’t happen he grabbed her hair again and nodded her head up and down for her, each downward push choking her harder against the hand crushing her neck.

Up, down, choke; up, down, choke . . .

Behind them she could hear the other guy going through the kitchen drawers. The choker smiled his cold smile at her again and prodded the toe of his boot into her, like he was trying to polish it.

'It sounds like José is looking for something in there, doesn't it?' He laughed in a way that turned her stomach more than the feel of his boot did. 'In the drawer I mean, not in there,' he said, working his toe further in between her legs.

'She's got some expensive knives,' José said with real appreciation in his voice. 'Some of those Japanese ones they use for Sushi.'

The guy holding her nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. 'I know the ones you mean. You can do really thin slices with them.'

'That's the ones. I think it's called a Yan-something.'

'A Yan-something? Strange name for a knife.'

José shrugged. 'Slopes are strange,' he said as if that explained it all.

'You know, I don't think we're going to need them,' the guy holding her said. 'Are we?' He released his grip very slightly on her throat.

She shook her head violently from side to side. He seemed satisfied. He let go of her hair and dropped his hand from her throat. He stood up, his knee joints clicking, and stepped away. The pair of them waited while she coughed and spluttered as she drew air back into her screaming lungs. She looked up at them. The one called José was still holding one of the knives. She recognized it instantly. It was called a Yanagiba, the most popular knife used in Sushi restaurants the world over. As they'd said—very sharp, very good for thin slices.

'You didn't give me a chance,' she said, her voice cracking. 'I was going to say I don't have it here.'

The two guys looked at each other.

'You are so impatient,' José said and jabbed the other guy in the arm with his finger. He grinned. 'Why didn't you give the lady a chance to finish? You just wanted to shine your boot with some of those lurve juices, you pervert. Look at all the time you've wasted.'

The other guy shrugged. 'Shit happens.' He looked down at his boots. 'Didn't even get a good shine, either.'

They both started laughing. She looked from one to the other. They were completely insane.

'Okay, enough fooling around,' the first guy whose name she still didn't know said. 'Where is it?'

'I wasn't happy with it in the house so I moved it.'

They both nodded to let her know they were with her so far.

'It's in a storage unit I've got. I had too much furniture when I moved here but I didn't want to throw it out . . .'

The first guy held up a hand to stop her. 'Okay, okay, we get the picture. Just tell us where it is.'

She gave them the address and José wrote it down on a piece of paper.

'Now all we need is the key.'

She nodded. 'It's upstairs. I'll get it.'

The two guys looked at each other as if to say: can you believe this joker?

'Nice try,' the first guy said. 'Go with her José.'

She led the way upstairs and José followed her. She wasn't even surprised when he goosed her on the way up. They went into her bedroom. She kept the key in the nightstand drawer. There was something else in there as well—her Kel-Tec P-32. She'd bought it two years previously when her neighbor's husband had been shot during a home invasion. She'd gone to the gun store the next day. The guy had recommended the P-32 because of its light weight, small grip size and light trigger pull. She'd spent a few hours at the range and then it had sat in the drawer ever since. She knew the seven round capacity magazine was full.

She could come clean and tell him it was in there. Let him open the drawer and take the key and the gun. That would be the sensible thing to do. It would demonstrate a huge amount of cooperation and that had to increase the chances that they left her alone and didn't hurt her. Didn't it? Hurt her any more, that was. Or any more seriously.

But could she trust them? Were they totally focussed on the money and that was all? Or were they garden variety psychopaths who wanted to have a bit of fun as well. Fun, as in torturing her just for the sake of it. The guy right behind her now, the one whose eyes she could feel on her ass, had seemed very taken with her sushi knives. Maybe he was a knife aficionado. Perhaps he prepared sushi on a regular basis and had never been able to afford quality knives. He might want to try them out—and not just on a piece of raw tuna. She could hear them laughing and joking: Hey José, try out that knife on the bearded clam; slice it up nice and thin so we all get a bite.

It was a hell of a gamble. But so was the other alternative. To grab the gun and shoot the guy. Then what? The guy downstairs was sure to have a gun as well. He certainly had more experience using one than she did. But he'd have to come up the stairs to get her and that would give her the advantage. She could phone the police from the bedroom.