Not if.
The night might have been a series of cascading mistakes and bad choices, but I refuse to give up. And I still have the six hundred dollars he slipped me, so once I’m free, I can hand those over to the cops for fingerprinting.
At least I have a plan. That’s good.
Now I just need to manage the small feat of escaping. And surviving until then.
Alexei leads me past the sleek public-style elevator to a heavy, unmarked steel door recessed into the wall. He presses his thumb to a scanner beside it. The mechanism clicks and whirs, and the doors slide open, revealing a stark industrial freight elevator.
He gives my back a little push. “Move.”
I stumble inside the oversize elevator clearly designed for furniture or equipment rather than people. My footsteps echo as I retreat to the back wall. In this exposed, vulnerable space, I want a solid surface behind me. He follows, his uncomfortable proximity overwhelming my senses.
He presses the button for the tenth floor, the top level. The doors grind shut with finality. My stomach drops as the elevator lurches upward, and my bound hands scramble for purchase against the wall. Without them for balance, each jolt threatens to sprawl me at his feet.
As we climb, my terror grows.
What waits for me up there?
Iron chains bolted to walls, blood running down in rivulets, distant screams? A modern-day medieval penthouse dungeon? Tables holding trays of torture devices? Thumb screws? Knives? Electrodes? Saws?
All the urban legends about human trafficking and organ harvesting that we joke about at the bar flash through my mind, no longer funny.
I steal a peek at him. He’s statue-still with one hand tucked into his pocket. The other rests at his side, close enough to draw the gun beneath his jacket in a heartbeat.
His expression reveals nothing. No anticipation, no worry, no humanity. Just a mask of blank control.
The elevator jerks to a stop. My heart lodges in my throat.
This is it.
Whatever happens next will likely determine whether I live or die. Whether I see Samantha again or become another missing person statistic. If he exits first, could I hit the button for another floor now that he’s activated the system with his thumbprint? Where would I go? My hands are bound. I have no phone. I’m wearing heels. I’d never make it out of the building.
As the heavy doors screech open, I’m stunned into stillness.
What lies before me isn’t a dungeon.
Instead, a massive cavernous space greets me. The ceiling soars at least twenty feet high and features exposed beams and industrial lighting. Towering floor-to-ceiling windows span the far wall, showcasing the glittering city below like a blanket of stars. The windows must extend at least forty feet across, making this side of the building primarily glass.
Brick walls painted a soft white enclose the loft, their texture catching the low light. Smooth, polished concrete floor gleams beneath our feet. Furniture is scattered here and there, separated by vast empty spaces. A massive leather sectional here, a dining table that could seat twelve there, what appears to be a workout area in one corner. The kitchen—if you can call that huge professional monstrosity a kitchen—occupies another corner.
This isn’t what a killer’s lair should look like. This resembles a billionaire’s loft in an architectural magazine.
“Move.” That same quiet command. He’s not careless enough to screw up and leave me alone in here.
I step out of the elevator ahead of him, my heels clicking against the concrete. The sound echoes, emphasizing the enormity of this place. The emptiness and isolation.
Are the torture devices hidden away in the cabinets or a closet somewhere?
He releases my elbow and crosses the expansive floor, gliding with a casual, easy confidence as he switches on a few more low lights. The illumination grows gradually, soft and warm against the darkness outside.
“The windows are reinforced polycarbonate. The floors are ten inches of solid concrete. Soundproofed insulation. No one can hear you.” He offers me that same smile he did right after shooting Benny. “Not even if you scream.”
Somehow, his calm explanation terrifies me more than if he’d shouted or brandished his gun. He doesn’t need to threaten. The facts themselves are the threats.
He inspects my face, then my arms. He’s clinical, assessing. Like a doctor examining a patient.
Or a butcher sizing up meat.
