A quick exchange between the men hints that they snatched some women from an airport nearby. And when one of them flicks on a light, through the blinding glare, I make out the source of the keening sound I’d heard earlier.
Three girls are cowering in the corner of another cell in the room. Young. Too fucking young. Who lets their kids out alone like that? Goddammit.
New Guy unlocks the cage and yanks open the door. The keening ratchets up to full-throated sobs. Two of the girls are huddling together, while the third is slightly apart. Silver hair cropped crewcut short, aside from a thick wave that swings over one eye. Not the usual bait these guys go for, though she’sbeautiful for sure. Exquisite might even be a good word. Though there’s rebellion there. Dark ink marks the pale skin down her neck behind one ear. A bit punk in a sexy way. Lucky for her, the men have their attention elsewhere.
“What have we here?” Vassily smirks. “A redhead? You know I love redheads. Come here, baby. I’ll make you a woman today.”
The girl in question wails and cringes away, but Vassily is unzipping his pants.
“She’ll be worth less if you pop her cherry, Vassily,” New Guy reminds him. Vassily shrugs and leers.
“Nah. Not so much. Those tits are worth ten thousand, at least. Come. We can share… Her pussy is mine. You can have her ass.”
New Guy doesn’t need much encouragement. His pants are halfway down his hips as the screaming grows hysterical. I yank at my wrists again. Goddammit, I can’t fucking get loose.
What difference would it make, Caraldi? You won’t get three steps.
“Back off, motherfucker!” the blonde chick snarls. Suddenly on her feet. I catch a glimpse of curves, but she’s athletic along with it. Vassily and his partner stop short and exchange glances. Vassily gives an oily laugh.
“You’d rather be first, pretty?”
The girl stands her ground, then releases a string of Russian. Mainly cussing out their mothers and describing the miserable state of their dicks.
Holy shit. Is she for real?
The bars clang behind me as my belt scrapes over them when I try to move. Three pairs of eyes turn toward me. I shake myhead, fighting back a grin. She’s a firecracker, all right. Though she’s gonna get hurt. No doubt about it.
“Looks like the wop wants a show,” Vassily says to the other guy. He’s reaching for the feisty blonde chick, who lets loose another wave of Russian. She’s warning him that he’s going to regret this. He advances on her anyhow, and her full lips curl back in a growl. Like me, her hands are tied behind her back, but it doesn’t stop her from delivering a sharp snap kick to his nuts. Vassily goes down hard, and in a second, his companion has a gun cocked.
Chick knows Muay Thai?
Vassily’s howling like an angry dog. Scrambling to his feet, he reaches for the back of her sweatshirt and hauls her forward onto her knees. She’s still twisting and kicking as the other guy slashes a blade through the ties on her wrists so they can yank her hoodie over her head. I watch as she goes down on her back, the heavy Russian on top of her.
“Now you pay, cunt!” Vassily hisses. “I was gonna go nice before. But now I hurt you!” He’s straddling her hips, tearing at her shirt as she tries to buck free. His partner is starting to laugh until a hand snakes out of nowhere and whips the pistol from his grasp. Even though she’s got some guy scrabbling at her tits, she’s managed to slide an arm out to get a grip on the other guy’s gun. It’s so unexpected that even I didn’t see it coming.
Verrry nice…
“I said back the fuck off!” the girl says. She’s breathless, but calm. She has the muzzle of the gun pressed between Vassily’s eyes. I’m sitting across the room, but I can still see his throat work as he swallows hard.
“Unless you want your brains wallpapering this place, you’ll get off me.” The girl has switched to English. The wordsare crisp. Clearly pronounced, even though she’s panting. Not American.
Her finger tightens on the trigger.
Jesus!
I can’t help myself. I start to laugh.
Chapter 1
Emma McErlane
24 hours earlier
“Emma McErlane?” the customs guy says, glancing from me to the image in my passport and then back. I give a nod. He narrows his eyes, looking down at the picture. I’ve cut my hair since the photo was taken, but the eyes will be the same. Crystal blue. Probably a bit of “fuck you” in them. I know that’s what’s in them now as I keep my gaze firmly fixed on the uniformed man. He’s probably wondering if the damn document is real. I get this every fucking time. The date of birth has me at 22, but I know I look five years younger.
Good skin, Aunt Sophie always said. And bone structure.
‘You’ll be grateful for it one day, darling,’ she’s told me a dozen times.
