SAVANNAH
I wakeup to cold concrete against my cheek.
My head throbs. My wrists burn where something—zip ties, I realize when I try to move—cuts into the skin. My ankles are bound too, plastic digging into the swollen flesh above my shoes.
The baby.
My hand tries to move instinctively to my stomach, but the ties are too tight. I can barely shift my arms. But I can feel him moving. Pressing against my ribs.
He’s okay. For now, he’s okay.
I blink against the darkness, trying to orient myself. The warehouse—because that’s clearly what this is—is massive. Empty. High ceilings with exposed beams and broken skylights that let in thin streams of afternoon light. The floor is concrete, stained with oil and rust and things I don’t want to identify. It smells like metal and decay and abandonment.
My throat is raw. Did I scream in the car? I can’t remember. Everything after they shoved me into the SUV is a blur ofpanic and Morrison’s hand over my mouth and something sharp jabbing into my arm.
They drugged me.
I’m eight months pregnant, and they drugged me.
My baby moves again, a hard kick that makes me gasp. He’s agitated. Can probably feel my heart racing, the adrenaline flooding my system.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m going to get us out of here.”
But I don’t know how. Don’t know where here even is.
Footsteps echo across the concrete. Heavy boots. Multiple people.
I try to sit up, but my bound ankles and wrists make it impossible. I end up rolling onto my side, which sends a sharp pain through my hip.
“Awake. Good.”
The voice is accented. Russian. A man steps into view, backlit by one of the broken skylights. I can’t see his face clearly, just his silhouette. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing what looks like an expensive suit despite the filthy warehouse.
“Who are you?” My voice comes out hoarse.
“Dmitri Kozlov.” He walks closer, and now I can see his face. Late forties, maybe fifty. Hard features. Cold eyes that look like chips of ice.
“Of course.” My tone comes out bored. “I’m sorry about your brother?—”
“Are you?” He tilts his head. “Sorry enough to die for his memory? Sorry enough to let me cut your baby out of you and send him to Volkov in pieces?”
Terror floods through me so completely that for a moment I can’t breathe. I can only feel the baby moving inside me and imagine?—
No. I can’t imagine that. Can’t let that thought take root.
“Please.” The word comes out broken. “Please don’t hurt my baby. He hasn’t done anything. He’s innocent.”
“So was Viktor’s son. My nephew. He was twelve when your husband killed his father. Twelve years old when he had to be told his papa wasn’t coming home.” Dmitri stands. “But Ledger didn’t care about that.”
“Ledger will find me. He’ll come for me.”
“Will he?” Dmitri pulls out a phone—my phone, I realize with a jolt. “Let me show you something.”
He holds it up so I can see the screen. Text messages. Sent from my number to Ledger’s.
I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. I need space. Don’t look for me.
I left some things at the penthouse. I’ll send for them later. Please don’t contact me.
