Ford's family has a couple of scooters plugged in and ready to go, so we hop on and chase each other down the little two-lane road that takes us to the market. The little town is really cute and the market is amazing—teeming with people, colorful foods and arts on display, the stalls too numerous to count.
Ford explained that this little town is at the intersection of the coastal highway and one of the main thoroughfares coming in from the mountains, so even though the town is not that big, the market is large enough to meet the needs of the surrounding areas.
We walk in, and I glance up at Anthony, who stands head and shoulders above everybody here. He sticks out like a sore thumb with his classically American features, and he looks decidedly uncomfortable.
I take a little more pleasure in that than I should.
“You should maybe work on your face,” I say, laughing. “You look like every American tourist, ever.”
He looks down at me, eyes wide. “How the hell am I not supposed to look like an American tourist?”
“I dunno. Weren’t you spec ops or something equally nefarious? Aren’t you guys supposed to be able to blend in anywhere?”
“I was more a pointy end of the stick guy, not a blend in and gather intelligence guy.”
“Huh. Disappointing,” I tease him, tapping my chin. “Maybe work on your poker face then.”
He rolls his eyes at me, and then…yes. His dimple.
New goal: get Anthony to show me his dimple at least once a day.
We wander past the stalls, and I try out my terrible Thai. The locals let me go on for a bit, then switch to English when they realize that’s a language we have in common. It’s only a little humiliating.
We find a stand with delicious grilled fish and fresh vegetables, which we eat with our fingers as we walk through the crowded marketplace.
After taking a minute to wash off the fishy bits, I get Anthony to try on a straw fedora, and it looks perfect on him. He stops to pay for the hat, and I get distracted by the marigolds. It's such a nostalgic feeling to see an entire bank of marigolds at the flower stand. It reminds me of Diwali, my mother’s favorite holiday.
We were all given fresh orange clothes every year for the celebrations. My mother drove our housekeepers crazy, wanting the house to be sparkling clean.
By the time she was done decorating the house in rangoli patterns and marigolds, you could hardly sit or step anywhere, and I loved it. My brothers and sisters were a little less impressed and complained about the smell of the flowers and the rice powder that always seemed to get underfoot, but I thought it was so special and bright.
As I’m refocusing on the vendor, I sense a large presence behind me. Assuming it’s Anthony, I grab a marigold and turn around.
My eyes track upward, and I smile. “Oh, sorry. You're not Anthony.”
He grins, but there's something off about it. “No, I am not.”
With a chill up my spine, I realize a little too late that I'm surrounded on all sides. Anthony is forever stressing the need for situational awareness, and here I am, my mind thousands of miles away, thinking about old family traditions as a small group of men get the drop on me.
Before I can even do anything, say anything, hell, make a damn noise, someone steps up behind me and puts their hand over my mouth and nose. Immediately panicked, barely able to breathe, I struggle in silence as they move me through the crowd, my feet not even touching the floor.
Two stalls down, they drag me into an empty stall with a false back. Seconds ago, I was in the mass of humanity, and right now, I can barely breathe in a dark alleyway. They continue dragging me to a panel van waiting at the alley entrance with white exhaust chugging out of its tailpipe.
I resist, twisting away from my attackers as much as I can, remembering Anthony’s order to fight as hard as possible. I dig in my heels, losing my sandals along the way. Even with the sharp gravel digging into my soft, over-pampered heels, I fight, punching out where I can.
One hit lands in someone’s groin, and they drop me, giving me enough leverage to tear away from them. I’m barely on my feet before I’m tackled from behind.
Scrambling on my hands and knees, I crawl until I am pulled back into the air, hands all over me. Breathless, I kick out, wrenching my hips as they shove me into the back of the van.
Oh God, where are they taking me?
I take a ragged breath and scream as loud as I can, and I don't see the fist coming for me until it's right there.