"Popov didn't give us a choice," the first voice responds. "The girl found the documents. She knows everything. We had to extract her before Morozov's man could interfere."
Alexei. Oh, God, what did they do to Alexei?
I remember hearing a commotion downstairs while I was in my father's study. Shouting. A gunshot. Then my father was there, and everything happened so fast.
"Is she even worth the trouble?" the third voice asks. "We should have just killed her at the house, made it look like Morozov did it."
"Boss wants her alive. For now." There's a pause, then a dark chuckle. "She's leverage. Morozov's got a thing for her, apparently. Took her from the church, kept her at his estate. Word is he was planning to marry her."
Was. Past tense. As if that plan is already dead.
The vehicle hits a pothole, and I can't suppress a small gasp as pain explodes through my head. The conversation in the front stops immediately.
"She's awake," one of them says.
I hear movement, then rough hands grab my shoulders and flip me onto my back. A flashlight beam hits my face, blinding me. I squeeze my eyes shut against the glare.
"Open your eyes, princess," a voice commands. "Let's see if you're really with us."
I force my eyes open, squinting against the light. I can make out shapes now. Three men in the front of the van, one of them twisted around in the passenger seat to look at me. He's big, with a shaved head and a scar running down his left cheek.
"There she is," he says, grinning. "The famous Alina Popov. Or should I say, Morozov's whore?"
The crude words make anger flare hot in my chest, burning through some of the fear. "Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere safe. Somewhere your boyfriend can't find you." The man with the scar leans closer, and I can smell cigarettes and vodka on his breath. "Unless he's very, very good. And very, very lucky."
"Dimitri will find me," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "And when he does, you're all dead men."
The driver laughs, a harsh sound. "Big talk for someone tied up in the back of a van. Your precious Pakhan doesn't even know where you are. By the time he figures it out, you'll be long gone."
But he's wrong. Dimitri knows I'm in trouble. I pressed the panic button before my father drugged me. The signal went through. It had to.
I cling to that hope as the van continues its journey, bouncing over what feels like increasingly rough roads. We've left the city, I realize. The smooth pavement has given way to gravel, then dirt. We're heading somewhere remote. Somewhere isolated.
Somewhere no one will hear me scream.
The thought makes my breath come faster, panic threatening to overwhelm me. I force myself to breathe slowly, to think. I'm alive. That means I'm valuable to them, at least for now. They need me for something. Leverage, the man said. They want to use me to get to Dimitri.
Which means they won't kill me. Not yet.
The pendant is still around my neck. I can feel the weight of it against my skin. Did the signal reach Dimitri? Is he already looking for me? Or did my father's men destroy it before the transmission could complete?
I don't know. And not knowing is almost worse than anything else.
The van finally slows, then stops. I hear the driver shift into park, hear the engine cut off. Then doors opening, boots hitting the ground.
The back doors of the van swing open, and hands grab my ankles, dragging me toward the opening. I try to kick, to fight, but with my hands bound and my head still spinning from the chloroform, I'm helpless.
They pull me out of the van, and I get my first look at where they've brought me. We're in a clearing surrounded by dense forest. The trees are so thick they block out most of the fading daylight, creating an oppressive gloom. And in the center of the clearing sits a cabin.
It's old, the wood weathered and gray, the windows dark and empty like dead eyes. This isn't a vacation home or a hunting lodge. This is a place where bad things happen. A place where people disappear.
"Move," one of the men orders, shoving me forward.
I stumble, my legs weak and uncoordinated. The man with the scar catches my arm, his grip bruising, and half drags me toward the cabin. The front door hangs crooked on its hinges, and when we step inside, the smell hits me. Mold and rot and something else. Something metallic that might be old blood.
The interior is as decrepit as the exterior. A main room with a sagging couch and a table covered in empty bottles. A small kitchen area with a sink full of stagnant water. Two doors leading to what I assume are bedrooms.
