She fell silent for a long moment before seemingly getting her bearings. “Well, unfortunately for you, he wasn’t alone in the back of that vehicle, rapist or no.”
Holy shit. This was about the guy in the vehicle? Coma guy? Bowie didn’t even know his name. In retrospect, that was kind of fucked up. Maybe she had a point.
Javier tilted his head. “And that was…”
“Dima Yakhontov. My husband,” she snarled.
Javier shrugged, tone bored. “Was he his bodyguard or something? Because, if so, he was shit at his job, and that’s not on me.”
Damn. Bowie knew what Javier was doing. Keeping all the attention on him, keeping the guns trained on him. But it was useless. It wasn’t like Bowie was going to MacGyver his way out of the ropes she’d tied him with. He was stuck in that chair until Javier or his kidnapper decided otherwise.
“Bodyguard? Do I look like somebody who would be married to a common bodyguard?” she asked, almost sounding more offended at that slight than her husband’s predicament.
Javier huffed out a sound that was almost a laugh. “I have no idea, miss. I just know that you kidnapped my boyfriend and dragged him to this building that’s probably giving us all lung cancer as we speak. If you’re going to shoot me, just do it. But Bowie goes free first.”
“You don’t get to dictate terms for how this ends,” she snapped. “You have no leverage.”
Javier made a gesture like the floor was hers. “I’m here. If you got something you want to say, say it.”
Bowie felt her move away from him, heard her heels clicking on the cement floor. The other men’s guns never wavered, staying trained on Javier. What the fuck was the plan? Had Javier really shown up there, unarmed, alone, to offer himself up as some kind of human sacrifice? Fuck.
“My husband is a very rich man. Rich and respected, but more than that…he is feared. He spends his days networking with presidents, diplomats, even a few royals, procuring whatever it is they need.” She scoffed. “At least he did. Until you.”
Bowie tried to piece together her twisted tale but she was a bit all over the place. What exactly was it a man like that could be procuring for somebody like Giordano? Bowie doubted it was anything good.
“When he had no ID, everybody just assumed he was a nobody. I had to hear from Giordano that his son was gone and my husband was rotting in a hospital bed, brain dead. Machines are keeping him alive.”
Javier arched a brow. “You ever ask yourself what your husband was procuring for Giordano that night? Or any night? Your husband’s friend was a serial rapist, kicked out of numerous countries. The only thing that kept him out of prison was his father’s connections with the embassy.”
“I know exactly what my husband does. He gets rich men the company they need without all the hassle of a relationship.”
“He’s a pimp?” Bowie asked, unable to keep the disgust from his voice.
“Not a pimp. He doesn’t trade girls on a street corner like some commoner. He only keeps the finest men and women out there. Beautiful. Educated. Clean.”
“Yeah, lady. That sounds like a pimp to me. Unless, of course, the people he was procuring weren’t there by their own choice. Giordano didn’t like willing participants. He liked hurting people. Did your husband happen to specialize in procuring him victims?” Javier asked, voice strained.
Bowie thought he was going to puke.
“What does it matter? You’re a murderer. A thug. Your uncle is a gun runner. Do you somehow think you’re better than him?” Her pacing grew more frantic. “When I return to Russia without him, I go back to being nothing,havingnothing. My husband is only valuable to me when he is awake, which I’ve been assured is an impossibility now thanks to you. You’ve taken everything from me.”
Javier once more raised his hands. “So, do something about it. Shoot me. But let him go.”
“Did you really think I was going to let him go?” she sneered.
Javier shook his head. “No.” His smile made Bowie’s blood run cold. “Did you really think I was gonna come alone?”
Bowie couldn’t see what was happening behind him, but he’d seen enough movies to recognize the sound of guns cocking. He prayed they weren’t the big, scary guns belonging to the three Russians. He felt himself start to breathe when the commotion behind him ceased and the three men were shoved, unarmed, into the light.
Three people appeared behind Javier, guns in hand. Angelo, Sylvia, and Hurley. Sylvia? She looked far more comfortable with a gun in her hand than Bowie could ever have imagined and not a hair out of place. God, he loved his family.
Javier gave the woman a pointed look. “Drop the gun before they drop you.”
Bowie’s pulse raced as he felt the gun up against his skull once more. “You shoot me, I shoot him.”
“You’re dead either way,chica,” Angelo cautioned.
Bowie swallowed as he felt the gun twitch against the back of his head. He didn’t want to die. This had all seemed somewhat surreal until right then.
