We descend a narrow staircase into the bowels of the mansion. The temperature drops as we go deeper, the air growing damp and stale. By the time we reach the bottom, I can hear it: the sound of laboured breathing, the clink of chains, and the muffled groan of someone in pain.
Dimitri opens a heavy steel door, and the smell hits me first. Blood and sweat, sharp and metallic.
Two men hang from chains in the centre of the room, their tactical gear stripped away while their bodies already bear the marks of preliminary questioning. One is conscious, his head hanging low with blood dripping from his split lip. The other is slumped, either unconscious or dead.
Kozlov stands to the side, his sleeves rolled up and expression eager. Several of his men line the walls, watching, waiting.
“Ah, Lennox.” Kozlov gestures to the conscious prisoner. “Perfect timing. We were just about to begin in earnest.”
He holds out a pair of pliers, the metal gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light.
“Would you like to do the honours?”
Every eye in the room turns to me.
Dimitri watches with barely concealed disdain, waiting for me to refuse, to reveal myself as something other than what I’ve claimed to be, and less loyal than Kozlov deems me.
I think about Emma, asleep upstairs, trusting me to protect her. I think about what these men might have done if they’d gotten to her. And I remember the promise I made, to get her and the others out of here alive, no matter the cost.
Without a second thought, I take the pliers from Kozlov’s hand.
“Where do you want me to start?”
17
BODHI
The pliers are cold in my hand.
Taking my time approaching the conscious prisoner, I let my boots echo on the concrete floor, allowing the anticipation to build.
The guards along the walls shift restlessly, eager for blood. Kozlov studies my every move, seemingly curious to see if my father’s penchant for gratuitous violence was passed down through the family. Dimitri folds his thick tattooed arms, black shirt sleeves rolled up, across his barrel chest.
Any sign of hesitation, and I’ll look like an amateur, like a newbie to the game, or a potential rat who might have let the intruders in.
It’s a good thing I’m no stranger to hurt and pain.
I stop in front of the man and study him. Mid-thirties, military build, cropped hair. His eyes meet mine, defiant despite the blood trickling down his face. There’s something in that gaze, a steadiness that doesn’t belong to a thug for hire who’s only here to make a quick buck.
I’ve seen that look before, in soldiers, in alphas, in men who’ve been trained to resist interrogation and endure suffering.
Fuck.
These aren’t your average hired guns. They’re private security, ex-military, or they could even be undercover law enforcement. Not men that I have any desire to kill or maim in Kozlov’s dirty basement.
I swing my fist into his gut, pulling back my strength but still striking him hard enough to double him over, hard enough to look convincing.
He grunts, his body curling around the blow, and I lean in close under the pretence of grabbing his hair and yanking his head back.
“Give me something.” I breathe against his ear, barely louder than an exhale. “And I’ll get you out of here alive.”
His eyes flicker. Just for a second, but it’s enough. He heard me. He just doesn’t understand what I’m doing.
I release him and step back, rolling my shoulders, making a show of warming up by intimidating them with my sheer size.
“This is going to take a while. These aren’t guys dragged in off the street.”
Kozlov’s eager expression falters slightly as he realises this wasn’t an amateur job. Someone serious about what they do came to steal what’s his. Anger and concern war on his features before he grits out, “How long?”
