As if illegal kidnapping isn't trouble in itself?
Mind you it's absolutely clear that this woman, Farida, is completely petrified of her husband and son. She clearly lives by THEIR rules.
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JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
Erica Sinclair - Flight Plan (M/F)
Mind you it's absolutely clear that this woman, Farida, is completely petrified of her husband and son. She clearly lives by THEIR rules.
Dear @LunaDog, I'm afraid, that's the case. But in tomorrow's episode, we will see what unfolds in the Bronx.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
I can hardly wait dear @Jenny_SJenny_S wrote: 2 days ago Dear @LunaDog, I'm afraid, that's the case. But in tomorrow's episode, we will see what unfolds in the Bronx.
Dear @Caesar73, it's only today and a wakeup, but I'm sure you'll enjoy the ride.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Jenny_S wrote: 2 days ago Dear @Caesar73, it's only today and a wakeup, but I'm sure you'll enjoy the ride.
About that I have no doubt!
The drive down to the Bronx is all sodium-lit streets and the occasional flash of headlights off the Volvo’s hood.
The further south they go, the more the storefronts turn into iron-gated repair shops, muffler specialists, and hand-painted signs promising “Best Tires in Town” in both English and Spanish.
Nowzad’s Bodywork sits on a corner where the pavement is stained with oil and rainwater pools in uneven dips.
The shop’s corrugated metal door is down halfway, leaving the smaller side entrance lit by a buzzing yellow fixture.
The smell of solvent and hot metal hangs in the damp night air.
Erica eases the Volvo against the curb. For a moment, they just sit, eyes scanning the scene.
Through the wire-reinforced frosted glass of the entrance door, blurred shapes shift in and out of view - two people, maybe three, moving with the easy rhythm of men who think they’re safe behind their walls.
Dance leans forward, one elbow on the dash, studying the building like it might confess its secrets if he stares long enough. “Lights are on,” he murmurs. “We’ve got movement inside.”
Erica’s gaze fixes on the door.
She can almost hear her own pulse over the distant bass of a car stereo from down the block.
She turns to Dance, the silent nod between them an agreement in its own language. She wants to move.
Dance opens his door slowly, as if not to startle the night, and steps out. Erica follows two paces behind, every muscle tuned tight, the smell of motor oil and dust filling her lungs.
They cross the short stretch to the entrance.
The wire-glass shimmers under the overhead light, the shapes beyond it still shifting - unaware that trouble is about to walk in.
“You let me do the talking,” he says, his voice low but leaving no room for debate. “In that world, men talk. Women follow.”
Her first instinct is to argue, but she swallows it.
She knows he’s right.
This isn’t about pride, it’s about getting through that door without raising every hackle inside.
“You lead, I follow.”
She tucks her hands into her blazer’s pockets, her entire posture shifting to that of a passive companion.
~~~
The further south they go, the more the storefronts turn into iron-gated repair shops, muffler specialists, and hand-painted signs promising “Best Tires in Town” in both English and Spanish.
Nowzad’s Bodywork sits on a corner where the pavement is stained with oil and rainwater pools in uneven dips.
The shop’s corrugated metal door is down halfway, leaving the smaller side entrance lit by a buzzing yellow fixture.
The smell of solvent and hot metal hangs in the damp night air.
Erica eases the Volvo against the curb. For a moment, they just sit, eyes scanning the scene.
Through the wire-reinforced frosted glass of the entrance door, blurred shapes shift in and out of view - two people, maybe three, moving with the easy rhythm of men who think they’re safe behind their walls.
Dance leans forward, one elbow on the dash, studying the building like it might confess its secrets if he stares long enough. “Lights are on,” he murmurs. “We’ve got movement inside.”
Erica’s gaze fixes on the door.
She can almost hear her own pulse over the distant bass of a car stereo from down the block.
She turns to Dance, the silent nod between them an agreement in its own language. She wants to move.
Dance opens his door slowly, as if not to startle the night, and steps out. Erica follows two paces behind, every muscle tuned tight, the smell of motor oil and dust filling her lungs.
They cross the short stretch to the entrance.
The wire-glass shimmers under the overhead light, the shapes beyond it still shifting - unaware that trouble is about to walk in.
“You let me do the talking,” he says, his voice low but leaving no room for debate. “In that world, men talk. Women follow.”
Her first instinct is to argue, but she swallows it.
She knows he’s right.
This isn’t about pride, it’s about getting through that door without raising every hackle inside.
“You lead, I follow.”
She tucks her hands into her blazer’s pockets, her entire posture shifting to that of a passive companion.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
In a way THIS is what this whole superb story is about. A woman from within 'that world' refusing to just merely 'follow' just what she is being told to do. Instead of just accepting the fate that has been 'decided' for her, she's having the temerity to expect to be able choose for herself!
And then Mr Dance IS a man to follow in a situation like this, he sure knows just what he's doing.
Dear @LunaDog, thank you so much for the compliment. You're right. This is Merjem's story of breaking away from the archaic structures her family is still caught in.
And she managed to find help from someone who doesn't take no for an answer - and, if need be, can call on the right people to provide the extra muscle.
And she managed to find help from someone who doesn't take no for an answer - and, if need be, can call on the right people to provide the extra muscle.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Sounds like Erica and Dance are on the right Track. And Erica does the sensible thing. Taking the cultural Pecularities into account. Question is: Will they be in Time?
Dear @Caesar73, hang on and find out. They are getting closer now.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Rolling his shoulders back, Dance steps up to the steel-framed door and raps twice - firm, deliberate, the kind of knock that suggests a man used to being answered.
“Hello!” His voice carries enough gravel to sound like authority, not a question.
There’s the scrape of something metal against concrete, muffled voices, the shuffle of feet.
A bolt draws back, and the door swings open to reveal Ahmad Nowzad.
He’s a lean, leather-faced man in his mid-fifties, with eyes like flint and the posture of someone who’s spent a lifetime expecting trouble.
The smell of machine oil and bondo clings to him.
His overalls are streaked with grease, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his sinewy elbows.
Behind him, lit by the harsh white glare of overhead fluorescents, stands a younger echo of the father - taller, heavier in the shoulders, but with the same sharp cheekbones.
Muhammad.
He leans against a battered workbench, phone in hand, thumb scrolling without looking up.
“Yes?” Ahmad’s voice is clipped, wary. “We close now.”
“Sorry for the late call,” Dance says smoothly, “but I heard you might be the right man to talk to.”
He lets the pause work, then adds, “I own a ’74 Chevy Chevelle SS. Just picked it up, but she needs a lot of bodywork.”
That gets Muhammad’s attention.
Business calls!
His eyes flick up from his phone, curiosity replacing boredom.
He taps at his screen, searching, and steps forward to show his father a glossy image of the car on Google - all muscle and chrome.
Ahmad studies it, his expression unreadable, then grunts and swings the door wider.
There might be money to be made.
“Come.”
Dance steps inside with a nod, and Erica slips in behind him, head slightly bowed, playing her part as the woman reluctantly tagging along, her interest elsewhere.
The smell hits first - a sharp cocktail of acetone, oil, and heated metal.
The shop is a cavern of shadows and harsh light, a floor dusted in a fine grit of paint particles and rust flakes.
Two cars sit on lifts, skeletal under their stripped panels.
Tool chests line one wall, drawers left half-open like mouths mid-sentence.
Chains dangle from a ceiling hoist.
Somewhere deeper in, a radio murmurs in a language Erica doesn’t understand.
To the right, a cramped office with a greasy window offers a view of the shop floor.
Beyond that, a narrow passage leads to the back - a door half-ajar showing nothing but darkness behind it.
Dance launches into small talk about the Chevelle, his tone easy, technical - enough to pass as a car enthusiast.
Ahmad listens, nodding occasionally, Muhammad chiming in with a comment about replacing quarter panels.
Erica lets her gaze drift seemingly without focus, playing the role of just another bored companion.
Neither Ahmad nor Muhammad pays her more than a passing glance.
Then she tugs lightly at Dance’s sleeve to get his attention.
“Excuse me, sir,” she says in Ahmad’s direction, her voice pitched with polite blandness. “Could I use the restroom? I’m starting to get a headache from all the fumes in here.”
Ahmad’s mouth tightens in irritation. “The toilet.”
He jerks his chin toward the rear.
“Past the office, second door left,” Muhammad adds without looking up again.
Erica offers a murmured thanks and steps toward the passage, the sound of her moccasins soft against the grit-covered concrete.
Behind her, Dance’s voice picks up again, smooth and unhurried: “Anyway, I could bring her in for an appraisal. No rush - just want the best hands on her.”
The fluorescents fade behind her, replaced by a cooler darkness. The hum of the shop drops away, swallowed by the narrow corridor.
~~~
“Hello!” His voice carries enough gravel to sound like authority, not a question.
There’s the scrape of something metal against concrete, muffled voices, the shuffle of feet.
A bolt draws back, and the door swings open to reveal Ahmad Nowzad.
He’s a lean, leather-faced man in his mid-fifties, with eyes like flint and the posture of someone who’s spent a lifetime expecting trouble.
The smell of machine oil and bondo clings to him.
His overalls are streaked with grease, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his sinewy elbows.
Behind him, lit by the harsh white glare of overhead fluorescents, stands a younger echo of the father - taller, heavier in the shoulders, but with the same sharp cheekbones.
Muhammad.
He leans against a battered workbench, phone in hand, thumb scrolling without looking up.
“Yes?” Ahmad’s voice is clipped, wary. “We close now.”
“Sorry for the late call,” Dance says smoothly, “but I heard you might be the right man to talk to.”
He lets the pause work, then adds, “I own a ’74 Chevy Chevelle SS. Just picked it up, but she needs a lot of bodywork.”
That gets Muhammad’s attention.
Business calls!
His eyes flick up from his phone, curiosity replacing boredom.
He taps at his screen, searching, and steps forward to show his father a glossy image of the car on Google - all muscle and chrome.
Ahmad studies it, his expression unreadable, then grunts and swings the door wider.
There might be money to be made.
“Come.”
Dance steps inside with a nod, and Erica slips in behind him, head slightly bowed, playing her part as the woman reluctantly tagging along, her interest elsewhere.
The smell hits first - a sharp cocktail of acetone, oil, and heated metal.
The shop is a cavern of shadows and harsh light, a floor dusted in a fine grit of paint particles and rust flakes.
Two cars sit on lifts, skeletal under their stripped panels.
Tool chests line one wall, drawers left half-open like mouths mid-sentence.
Chains dangle from a ceiling hoist.
Somewhere deeper in, a radio murmurs in a language Erica doesn’t understand.
To the right, a cramped office with a greasy window offers a view of the shop floor.
Beyond that, a narrow passage leads to the back - a door half-ajar showing nothing but darkness behind it.
Dance launches into small talk about the Chevelle, his tone easy, technical - enough to pass as a car enthusiast.
Ahmad listens, nodding occasionally, Muhammad chiming in with a comment about replacing quarter panels.
Erica lets her gaze drift seemingly without focus, playing the role of just another bored companion.
Neither Ahmad nor Muhammad pays her more than a passing glance.
Then she tugs lightly at Dance’s sleeve to get his attention.
“Excuse me, sir,” she says in Ahmad’s direction, her voice pitched with polite blandness. “Could I use the restroom? I’m starting to get a headache from all the fumes in here.”
Ahmad’s mouth tightens in irritation. “The toilet.”
He jerks his chin toward the rear.
“Past the office, second door left,” Muhammad adds without looking up again.
Erica offers a murmured thanks and steps toward the passage, the sound of her moccasins soft against the grit-covered concrete.
Behind her, Dance’s voice picks up again, smooth and unhurried: “Anyway, I could bring her in for an appraisal. No rush - just want the best hands on her.”
The fluorescents fade behind her, replaced by a cooler darkness. The hum of the shop drops away, swallowed by the narrow corridor.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Thought that might grab their attention!
And if this is just where they're holding poor Carrie, surely amongst all of the other dangers that she's currently exposed to, are all those chemicals floating around in the air here doing her respiratory organs any good?
I can hardly wait to read the next Chapter! Great Work, Dear @Jenny_S
Dear @LunaDog, I promise, we will find out soon.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much for this wonderful compliment. The next episode will land tomorrow morning. Hang in there, my friend.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Believe me my dear Friend! I will!Jenny_S wrote: 2 hours ago Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much for this wonderful compliment. The next episode will land tomorrow morning. Hang in there, my friend.