I woke up tied to a chair, which, believe it or not, was good news. When men tie a woman to a bed, it is for only one purpose. Not that such a thing terrified me—nothing ever did—but men have a wretched habit of murdering women after raping them. I would venture, in the history of the world, that more women have died from crying after sex (rather than thanking the bastards who had forced it upon them) than soldiers have died in all of humanity's wars.

No, that wasn't the case here. No one had even stripped me naked. Though I could not account for whether any of the five men with whom I shared the large warehouse room in which I now was held had copped a quick feel when I was unconscious.

On that note, my head still throbbed, but it was clearing. It took a lot to knock me cold, even during the daytime. Whoever had unloaded on me must have used a piledriver.

It no doubt is evident to you that my strength diminished during daylight hours. I wasn't completely powerless during that time. My bones, sinews, and skin still were quite tough, but my speed, strength, and senses were only a fraction of what they were at night. Certainly, I was stronger than the average human during the day, and were my hands not cuffed behind my back, I easily could have bested any one of the men who guarded me, perhaps even any two. But not all five.

Death seemed to be my ultimate fate.

That would be true if I were the kind who gave up. None of my captors so far had noticed that I'd regained consciousness, and that fact gave me a chance to regard them with care.

If my guess was correct, only one seemed aware of what I truly was, the one who sat farthest from me with a pistol in his lap. No doubt he was the leader of this crew, and he looked frightened. Two others huddled off to my left, some twenty feet away, regarding something between them. My FO notebook!

My senses were not as keen as they were at night, but they were sharp enough that I could overhear the men's whispers, even from that distance. They seemed convinced the tiny pad was some sort of cipher or code book, perhaps one that provided the usernames and passwords for bank accounts or offshore investment funds.

True, it was a cipher to a treasure of great value, but not the one they imagined. I'd have to kill them for having soiled it. But who am I kidding? I was going to kill all of them anyway if they didn't kill me first.

My last two captors seemed the most agitated. One sat regarding his phone, and the other fiddled with a deck of cards. If I wasn't mistaken, the one with the cards was a police officer or a former cop. He had that look about him.

All of them seemed nervous, to one degree or another, and none of them had the looks of hardened killers. Another thing to my advantage. I didn't have the strength at that moment to snap my bonds, and if my internal clock was any indication—there were no windows in this wretched place to give me any hint—it was a little less than two hours to sunset.

Why hadn't these men yet killed me, or at least tried? Perhaps they had special instructions or were awaiting orders of some sort? Were they waiting on the arrival of someone? There always was the chance they simply were trying to find their nerve, but men who do that tend to talk a lot. These men were not.

It didn't matter. I was alive, which meant I had a chance to get out of this. I just needed to keep those idiots from killing me until sunset.

That meant one of three things. One, win them over. A lofty goal, but not out of the realm of possibility. Two, just keep them talking and nervous about the consequences of their actions. Three, the one I liked least, goad them into shooting, stabbing, or smothering me in such a way that a spark of life yet remained in me. Once the sun set, all would be set aright.

That last one truly was a risk. If the man sitting farthest from me did in fact know what I was, as I was convinced he did, he would know that a gunshot to the brain or heart would probably be the only thing to kill me.

There were other ways, but people sometimes were squeamish about such things. None of these men were strong enough to bludgeon me to death, and I saw no swords, axes, or saws in the room. So at least I would be spared from decapitation.

Would I survive a gunshot to the brain, or a stake through the heart? It was possible but unlikely.

"So, anybody up for a fuck?" I asked the room.

Keeping them humping was not a notion that I relished. But neither did I imagine I'd find any takers for my offer. Human males are conditioned to expect females to fear them. My very presence sometimes elicited anxiety in men for the sole reason that I was not afraid of them. Such anxiety usually was not a thing upon which the average man could place his finger. But I wanted these men to know there was no fear in this room except for their own. Because there was not.

"Don't talk to her," said the man with the pistol.

"How much are they paying you guys?" I asked.

No one spoke.

"Why do you think he doesn't want you guys talking to me?" I said, motioning toward the man with the gun. "It's because your bosses know I can beat whatever penny ante price they are paying you."

The man with the gun shifted, a look on his face between anger and fear. For a moment, I thought he might level the pistol at me. Then he stopped.

I paused and listened. The sounds of bustle outside were faint but obvious. We still were in the city. A gunshot would be noticed. Another advantage.

The man with the gun again began to speak, but I looked over to the men with my notebook. "You're not going to figure out my code without my help," I told them. "And I'm not just gonna give it to you."

"Shut the fuck up," the man with the gun repeated.

"You'll give us whatever we decide to beat out of you, bitch," said the man with the phone. It was the first he'd spoken. This clearly was the bully of the group.

The two men with my notebook shared a high five and a few congratulatory whispers over my confirmation of their theories. I focused on the bully.

"I'm sure you can beat anything out of your 12-year-old girlfriend, you cunt," I said.

A beating might work to my advantage. I didn't register pain the same as a normal human, and I could survive any sort of violence they threw at me for two hours, as long as there was even a shred of life left in me when the sun set.

And the man with the phone, the child beater, I'd seen his kind before. There were some men for whom the inflicting of fear and pain is the very point, and he might lead the others to lose track of time while they took their pleasure in abusing me.

Of course, the idiot with the gun knew he had to kill me before dark. Why was he waiting? Was it simply for things to die down outside the building so he could use his pistol? That didn't make any sense unless he specifically was ordered to use a gun. They seemed to be waiting on something, but what?

No doubt I soon would find out.

In the interim, and to my great joy, the child beater took the bait. The oaf tossed his phone on the table and made a great show of rising ponderously to his feet, like daddy taking off his belt. But the man with the gun shut him down.

"Sit!" was all he said.

The child beater gave him an angry look and began to pace about as if to defy his boss and to frighten me, glaring my way all the while.

"Cunt," I mouthed. I repeated the taunt a few seconds later, and then again.

"Ryan, take John outside," said the man with the gun.

The cop rose, motioned for the child beater to walk in front of him, and took no shit when the man did not. He merely stared him down until the man stalked out of the room, like an angry schoolboy.

So, my prodding hadn't worked. But the men with my notebook had continued to whisper. The words were so low now that I could only make out one here or there. I watched and listened.

After another five minutes of relative silence, a phone rang, and the man with the gun virtually jumped out of his skin before pulling the device from his pocket and answering it. He stepped out of the room as he began to talk, and I caught very little beyond, "Yeah, we're here ...."

The boss had left the room without saying anything to the two men who remained. Once he was out of the room, the two looked at me.

"I'm not gonna tell you how to decipher that," I called out. "But I'll buy it from you."

The smaller of the two men scooted over, and the big one followed. Both glanced to see no one could see them.

"How much?"

"For the book and my freedom?"

"No, no, no ...," said the small one before I could continue speaking. "You're not going anywhere."

"Then what the fuck do I need the book for, champ? Your friend there is going to cap me in a few, and I think you know that."

The larger man looked the other way, as if shame suddenly had gripped him. The smaller began to speak and then stopped.

"What are they paying you?" I asked. "Five grand? Ten? ... to do a murder? And why do you think it has to be before dark? Because that's when my inheritance kicks in. If I'm dead before then, my asshole uncle gets everything." Once I began to lie, it was like a smooth river.

The man again moved to speak, but I continued.

"Five million, each. Just get me out of here and ...."

The big man made a hissing sound, and his eyes went wide.

"No," said the small one.

"You are two big strong men, and you will still have me."

"Get the fuck away from her!" hollered the boss from the far side of the room.

I whispered to the men as they stepped away, "At least let me live until after dark, so my fucking uncle doesn't get shit!"

The boss pulled the men aside the moment he reached them. "What did she say to you?" he whispered.

"Twenty grand ain't enough," the shorter man said.

The boss made a disgusted noise. "It was a shitload of money three days ago."

"For doing a murder?" It was the first time the larger man spoke.

"Look ... I can get a little more, maybe out of my end."

"This fucking bitch is loaded," hissed the little one. "Why else would anybody go to all this trouble?"

I could barely see the boss's face, just enough to get a gander at the look of fear and avarice that no doubt was struggling inside him. It might well be that he knew what I was, but not every lackey knew everything. There were various levels of knowing for men like him.

"Five million, each," I called out in a loud voice.

All three men looked over, and I spoke again.

"Five million, each. My inheritance comes in at just past sundown."

A look of giddiness flashed across the face of the boss.

"Five million ... each," he said.

"Except for the child beater," I said. "He doesn't get shit."

"He's not going to ...."

"That's your fucking problem."

"I don't know shit about any inheritance," said the boss.

"Do you really think the guys paying you would tell you about that? Anyway, it doesn't matter. My mom already left me plenty."

A moment of silence followed, but I felt not a shade of concern. The boss was talking about taking the money. That was always the next step before actually taking it. And from the look of the fellow's face, he'd allowed himself to forget what I was, if indeed he knew at all.

"Five million, each."

"No. Child beater gets not a penny."

He looked at the other two.

"Sold," he said, in a voice that suggested he was in control of things. "Um, how ...."

"Look, guys. I'm not carrying it with me."

The small man raised my notebook.

"The banks in Hong Kong won't be open until 8:00 tonight. I have enough in my bank here in Chicago to give you a down payment, but ...."

"No, all at once." The boss seemed to want to say something more. The man really had no idea what he was doing.

"We'll need a laptop with the right software," I said. "Any banker, or fund manager, or investment professional will have one. Even an accountant. You know anybody?"

"I'll need to ...." The man pulled out his phone.

"And I'll need some sort of assurances that I walk away after you get the money."

The boss gave me an annoyed look, but the other two men in the room had moved away and were conversing in jubilant whispers.

"Okay then?" the boss asked. "What?"

"Right before we make the transfer, you take me somewhere. Somewhere public." I saw a moment of doubt. "There are five of you, and you'll still have ahold of me."

He turned and began to dial a number as he walked toward the door.

It wasn't over yet. I was playing two games. Get them to keep their eyes on the money until nightfall. But play them against one another. It wasn't out of mere spite that I insisted on excluding the child beater. I suspected all the men were armed. If I caught a stray bullet, no big deal. As long as they tore into each other beforehand, it kept them from thinking about me.

Twenty minutes later, the boss returned with the cop and the child beater in tow. All three men looked stoked and happy. None spoke to me when they returned, but the child beater didn't give me a hateful look. Clearly, the man had not been told I would give him nothing. I almost laughed.

The three men were on their phones, as were the two who had stayed with me during the last third of an hour. As if by some unspoken agreement, each had moved to his own section of the large room.

They were making their plans on how to get the money and what to do with it once they had it. It was about 70 minutes before sunset. I almost felt bad for them.

No, I lie.

I pondered whatever spanners might yet be thrown into the spokes, and there were many. I noticed over the next minutes that the boss sent several calls to voicemail. No doubt his employers were checking on what was transpiring.

Might the big bosses send someone else out? Might they come themselves?

I wasn't surprised at all that there were no blood drinkers present. My fellows still would be in hiding from the daylight. Might one or more of them wait until the very last minute to swoop in, just to make sure the deed was done? Or, perhaps, they might arrive at the final moment and do it themselves.

I wasn't worried. I had a pretty good internal clock that usually could calculate the arrival of nightfall and sunrise with better than fair accuracy. With every passing minute, the advantage crept in my favor.

These men were fools not to kill me right away.

Well, the bosses had screwed up. It's the problem when you hire such work done. A group of hardened criminals probably just would have killed me right away. But my captors, if I wasn't mistaken, were otherwise law-abiding men who'd been offered what seemed a lot of money to do something wicked, but who still had some semblance of consciences.

It wasn't that they weren't dangerous. They might yet turn on me. But unlike professional criminals, men such as these calculated each and every thing they did to assess risk, and when they did that it gave their consciences a chance to creep in.

I replaced that conscience with greed, something to which these men already had proven themselves susceptible, and it gave them an easy out. Of course they were going to take the money.

Not long after, the boss shut off his phone and walked over to where I was bound. He bent over slightly, a good 10 feet away. "I know what you are," he whispered. "I know all of you have money. If you fuck with me on this, I will blow your fucking head off."

I said nothing, just looked at him, my eyes as sweet and innocent as I could make them.

"A guy I know is coming over here now with a laptop wired with everything we need to do a funds transfer. He's bringing five more men with him. And we're all armed. Don't fuck with me on this."

He already said that last part, but I didn't point it out. I said instead, "I just want to go home. Give me some reassurances, and things will go like clockwork."

He seemed to think for a moment, and then went back to where he'd been standing. The phone soon was against his ear again. I couldn't quite make out what was being said.

Hmm. Ten armed men was a lot of firepower. But I'd faced worse. And I'd opted not to mention that I wasn't paying these five new fellows a penny. Of course, I also neglected to tell the boss that I wasn't paying anyone anything. He'd find out soon enough.

Twenty minutes later, the child beater moved to the center of the room, shut off his phone, and slowly began to dance a tiny jig, pumping his arms in an especially inept fashion. He soon let out a howl, "Five. Fucking. Million. Dollars!"

"What the fuck are you howling at, cunt," I sneered. "You're not getting shit."

The man's gesticulations stopped, and his hateful gaze fell upon me. "What the fuck did you say?"

"You're not getting shit, child beater. It's five million for everyone, except you."

A sick smile slid across the man's face, but it faded when he looked about and saw the expressions of his comrades. He moved to speak, but his voice cracked. "Jeff," he finally croaked, "what the fuck?!"

"Fucking cunt," I said just loud enough for him to hear.

He charged at me, a look of murder in his eyes. When he did, the cop pulled out a pistol and shot the man once in the back of the head. The child beater dropped to the ground not five feet in front of me, dead as the day is long. The smell of his blood made me tremble.

His four comrades moved his body in silence, looks of grim determination and resignation on their faces. Another twenty minutes later, the boss took a call, went outside, and soon returned with a frumpy looking man with a computer case and a go-bag of some sort. He began setting up the material on the nearest table. There were a handful of men with him, the B Team apparently.

Very little was said as the preparations were made. The frumpy man, who appeared to be an accountant of some sort, had just pronounced things done when the loud slamming of a door sounded in the distance. There were a number of shouts and angry voices.

Moments later, several men entered the warehouse room. At their lead was a tall thin man of about 30 years, wearing a sport coat. He locked his gaze on the boss and began to shout something at the man. It was only then that his gaze fell upon me.

"What the fuck is she still doing alive!" His words were in the form of a hysterical scream.

At that moment, the evening surge hit me.