He digs in his pockets for a key before unshackling me.
Sweat rolls down my back and dampens my shirt. I hope these bastards gag on the stench.
Nothing good comes next.
I hop out of the van, reminding myself to just keep my mouth shut, because I really don’t want another black eye. I follow my captor willingly, my gaze flicking everywhere.
We’re in a freight train yard. If we board one of the cars, my family will never find me. There must be two hundred or more, all nose-to-ass on the tracks.
Everything in Vernon is so gray. A real black-and-white photo encapsulating an area that has yet to be altered by the passing of time. We could’ve teleported back to the seventies for all I can tell.
I’m scouring for anything that pops out. A landmark, a sign. Anything to let me know exactly where I am.
I spot a metal wall painted Los Angeles Lakers gold. Fifty feet long by twelve or so high. Nothing’s written across it, though, which won’t help my family discover my location.
Assuming I magically find a phone and some alone time to dial home.
Maybe I get one call?
I sigh. That’s jail, not the mafia. I highly doubt my Russian captors would demonstrate that much courtesy.
How did I manage to get myself into this situation?
Wrong place, wrong time, Maeve.
If I live through this abduction, I’m severing ties with my father. We can’t keep using the Cypress for his dirty dealings.What if I’d sent Lenora downstairs to check on everyone? What if someone else had encountered this jackass before I did?
I couldn’t live with myself if one of my staff or guests were in my position.
We’re heading into a dingy building—all corrugated metal—just beyond that glossy gold wall. Some kind of abandoned warehouse.
I bet there are a dozen of those in my eyeline, if I were to stop and count. What distinguishes this one from the rest?
Another guy approaches us, broader and paler than my escort and wearing a scowl that could scare Christmas off the calendar. He’s excited, or maybe anxious, until he examines me and my face.
He barks at my captor—an actual nonverbal command—and goes ballistic.
Those two bicker in Russian in a way that suggests deep familiarity. I’m probably dealing with brothers. Just my luck.
Scowl waves a hand at me. “The face!” Ah, English.
Well, well. Somebody’s in trouble for hitting me.
I hear my father’s name a few times, along with the word for money in RussianandEnglish. More than once.
Another guy appears. His slate gray tailored suit screams Milan—high fashion—and he’s got bad-guy good looks. Great hair. A nice mustache. Nothing like these two bickerers.
At the sight of me, he halts in his tracks. He shoves his hands in his pockets and cocks his head. “What the fuck is this?” He speaks with an accented English that I can’t quite get a read on.
I must resemble an exotic bird at the zoo. Or maybe my eyeball is hanging halfway out of the socket.
My escort addresses him. “She saw us take Doyle. What were we supposed to do?”
“She was not part of the plan!” Scowl shoves my kidnapper’s shoulder. “Rostov gave us specific instructions to secure the accountant and?—”
“Silence.” The Suit walks over, touches my chin, and examines my lip and eye. I can smell his mossy, musky cologne. Nausea rises in my throat. “This will set Gallagher over the edge, and we need him to cooperate.”
My captor crosses his arms. “I would think blackening the pretty face of his only daughter would make him more than willing to comply to our demands.”
