A black SUV pulls up behind us and I have the girl out of the back of the van and on my lap in the new car in seconds. Now, we’re seven and a half minutes behind schedule.
As we race toward the airfield, I listen to the chatter between our crew conducting aerial surveillance and the pilot, who is already starting up the engines.
“Two minutes, Boss,” Hamish assures me as we stop for a red light.
“Sir, it looks like there are three vehicles in pursuit. They must be anticipating we’d use this airfield.” Colin’s our drone expert and sounds genuinely apologetic that the threat is increasing.
The light changes to green and the car in front of us lurches and then sputters to a stop.
“Are you feckin’ kidding me?” I shout, unfortunately right in the girl’s ear and she jumps, the back of her head knocking painfully into my nose, which gleefully starts spurting blood.
Hamish deftly gets around the stalled car, barely avoiding an oncoming tanker truck and we take the turn onto the airfield on two tires. We race past two other jets, their crews’ startled faces following our progress. Throwing the girl over my shoulder, I lope up the jet stairs and the flight attendant slams the door shut as my last man enters.
Checking my watch. Eight minutes and twenty seconds behind schedule. This shiteneverhappens.
I’m strapping my still-bound captive into her seat when she raises her bound hands to point at my face.
“Your nose is bleeding down your fancy tuxedo,kidnapper.”
Chapter Three
In which we meet Miss Kevin and a charcuterie board.
Morana…
“Welcome abroad, Miss Ivanova, may I get you something to drink?”
My kidnapper had retreated to the bathroom after the jet took off to stop the blood streaming from his nose. I’d hit it pretty hard but in my defense, he shouted in my ear. Pity I didn’t break it.
“Miss Ivanova?” The flight attendant is still hovering over me, his smile a bit frayed around the edges.
“Yes,” I hold up my zip-tied wrists. “Could you get these off for me? Being tied up like a farm animal makes it a little hard to take a drink.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” he did look apologetic, “but I am unable to accommodate that request. But I could get you a drink with a straw?”
“Do you see a lot of kidnap victims and that’s why you’re such a warm and helpful host?” I ask, “Because this kind of solicitous behavior is over the top.”
He smiles helplessly. “Well, my name is Ian, let me know if I can get you anything.” Ian is a nice-looking person, sandy blonde hair and a slender build, and he has that eager puppy expression as if my not letting him get me a drink is causing him real pain.
This jet is gorgeous and could easily seat fifty people, though it looks like my kidnapper brought a smaller crew, maybe around ten, or eleven men. There’s a huge main area with groupings of luxurious leather seating, a bar against one wall, and what looks like a conference room in the next area of the jet.
I don’t know if it’s good or bad that the man who stole me from my wedding is wielding such an impressive level of wealth, maybe as much as the Stepanov Bratva. That will be helpful, though, when my hideous groom comes after him to kill everyone he loves.
There could be no greater insult than what this man has done.
I’m left alone, his men gathered in other seating areas, playing cards and laughing. They carefully avoided looking at me at all, as if they’d been forbidden to. The giant who’d dragged me out of the church is pacing in the conference room, speaking on the phone. Based on his sharp steps and how he’s dragging his hand through his dark brown hair, he’s not happy.
The man is gorgeous. I can admit it even while I’m scared and furious at the same time. He’s widely muscled to fill out his tall frame, his biceps are bigger than my head, and his green eyes are nearly glowing under those stern, dark brows. There are tattoos on his wrists, like tally marks. Is he keeping track of how many people he’s killed with his huge claw hands?
His stern gaze darts to me and I narrow my eyes in return. Putting away his phone, he strides through the cabin and seats himself across from me.
“You’ve pissed off both the Stepanov and the Ivanov Bratvas,” I comment, “I hope it was worth it.”
“Your Pakhan has a lot to pay for,” he says coldly, “and it starts with you.”
Torn between begging him to let me go or bravado, I choose bravado. “It’s your funeral,” I shrug. “Ian, your pleasant flight attendant looks like he’s going to cry every time he offers me a beverage. Since the chances of me escaping from this jet mid-flight are about as good as being hit by a meteor, could you take these off me?”
One of his dark brows rises, as if he’s shocked that I’m not cowering and pleading for my life. Pulling a stiletto out of his boot, he slices through the ties on my wrists and ankles. Rubbing my wrists I continue to glare at him as he looks me over more thoroughly.
