"How much longer?"
"Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty."
"And the Kashkin response?"
"Still dealing with the aftermath. By the time they realize she's gone, we'll be in the wind."
Laughter. Low, masculine, confident.
I want to scream. Want to fight. Want to do something, anything, other than lie here helpless while they carry me away from everything I know.
But the drug won't let me. The darkness is pulling me back under, heavy and inexorable.
My hand twitches against my stomach. Instinct, maybe. Or desperation.
The baby,I think.Whatever they gave me—please don't let it hurt the baby.
I don't even know if it's possible to protect a pregnancy this early. Don't know what the sedative might do to the cluster of cells dividing inside me. Medical school feels like a lifetime ago, and anyway, we never covered "what to do when you're kidnapped while pregnant by a crime lord's enemies."
Misha will come. He'll find me.
And then, softer, more desperate:
Please. Please find me.
The darkness swallows me whole.
***
When I surface again, the world has changed.
No more engine rumble. No more movement. Just stillness, and cold, and the distant drip of water somewhere in the darkness.
I open my eyes.
The room is small, concrete, windowless. A single bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows on the gray walls. There's a door—heavy steel, no handle on this side—and nothing else. No furniture. No toilet. No indication of where I am or how long I've been here.
I try to sit up and discover that my hands are zip-tied behind my back.
Panic surges through me, sharp and electric. I yank at the restraints, twist my wrists, accomplish nothing but raw skin and the harsh clatter of plastic against concrete.
Stop. Think. Assess.
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way I learned in my first anatomy lab, standing over a cadaver, fighting the urge to faint. Clinical detachment. It's a survival skill.
The baby. I need to check on the baby.
I can't touch my stomach with my hands bound, but I can feel my body. I focus inward, searching for the telltale signs of disaster. Cramping. Bleeding. Pain in my lower abdomen.
Nothing. Just the lingering grogginess of the sedation and the ache of muscles held too long in an awkward position.
I allow myself one moment of relief—just one—before the weight of my situation crashes back down.
I'm in a cell. Tied up. In a location I don't know, surrounded by enemies I can't fight. Sergei has me, and no one knows where I am.
No. That's not quite true. Misha will be looking for me by now. He'll have found the ruined safe room, the bodies, Anna unconscious in the corner. He'll know what happened. He'll be coming.
The question is whether he'll get here in time.
