I’m in a large wire dog crate in a garage. My hands and feet are bound by zip ties, which are cutting into my skin. I’m not sure how much time has passed. The last thing I remember is Red Beard jabbing a needle into my arm. I lost consciousness shortly afterward. I’m relieved to see I’m still wearing my work clothes.
As the arguing escalates and something crashes into the wall, anxiety grips me. I have to get out of here. There’s light seeping in through the bottom of the garage door. If I can just get free of the zip ties, I can unlock it manually and slip out beneath it.
My head is pounding, which is making it hard to think. Probably from the car crash or whatever drug they gave me. Or both. Plus it’s hot and stuffy. My breathing is further restricted by the curled-up position I’m in, knees pressing into my lungs and aching ribs. My mouth is dry and sticky as I try to swallow. My body wants to pull me back into the darkness, into oblivion, but I have to stayconscious. I have to find a way out of here. These are the people who killed my mom.
A surge of adrenaline comes on a wave of anger. It’s enough energy for me to turn my head, wait for the world to stop spinning and survey the rest of my surroundings.
It’s a typical three-car garage. I’m in the far-left corner next to a workbench with scattered tools. There’s a black sports car, a black motorcycle, and plastic storage containers stacked against the far wall beyond the vehicles. A hint of gasoline permeates the air.
I manage to move my hands to my hip and rub the pocket. My phone isn’t there. No, right. It’s in my purse, in Sandro’s wrecked car.Of course.I squeeze my eyes shut, panting. Just that little bit of exertion is enough to bring on the nausea and exhaustion.
After a few minutes, I force my eyes open again. I’m twisting my wrists to see if I can loosen the zip ties when the door between the house and garage flies open. Three men step through.
I don’t recognize any of them. They aren’t the two men who pulled me from the car.
I can’t do anything but watch as they stride towards me.
The bald man in a charcoal gray suit stops and stares down at me with cold, dark eyes. The large, muscular one opens the cage door and drags me out by the feet.
I try to struggle, but my muscles are like wet noodles. After he easily pulls me onto the cold concrete, I lay there catching my breath, staring up at the two men.
“Get her into the chair,” the bald man says.
The muscular guy lifts me up by the armpits as the skinny one with the long, crooked nose drags a wooden chair over. He lowers me onto it. I immediately stretch out my aching legs, which are burning painfully from the new blood flow.
I notice with more than a little anxiety that the skinny guy is holding a knife.
The bald man steps forward. “Ms. Kelly. My name is Oleg Romanov.” He points to the muscular man who put me in the chair. “This is my son, Anatoly.”
The pounding in my head is so painful, it must be causing brain damage because I actually say out loud, “Is your name supposed to mean something to me?”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Probably better for you if it doesn’t,devochka.”
Anatoly chuckles.
I flick my eyes to him then immediately regret it as the motion sends the room into a tailspin. My stomach heaves.What the hell did they give me?Or do I have a concussion from the crash?
Oleg motions to the skinny guy with the crooked nose. “Kir, a bit of assistance.”
I flinch and almost fall out of the seat as he lunges toward me with the knife.
A whiff of stale coffee and cigarettes makes me gag as he grabs my arm.
“No, please,” I choke.
Oleg clicks his tongue and shooshes me. “Kir is just going to cut your bindings,” he growls. “Stay still.”
I freeze. Then I feel pressure on my wrists for a second and a snap. I almost sigh with relief as I move my freed hands in front of me and rub the circulation back into them.
Anatoly pulls a phone from his slacks pocket and hands it to me.
I stare at it and then him.Is this a trick?
Oleg steps forward. “You will call your boyfriend. Tell him that we are treating you well. That we just want a meeting, and then you will be released unharmed. We will send instructions in a text.”
I clutch the phone in my shaking hand. This feels like both a lifeline and a trap. Does this mean he’s alive? That he survived the ambush? If so, I don’t want any part of setting up him up to be hurt or killed. I also can’t do anything to sign my own death warrant. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Oleg’s eyes darken. “No games,devochka.”
