This one’s marked for death.
Chapter 3
Emma McErlane
That wanker from the other cell is actually haggling for me? Who the fuck does he think he is?
I’ve been dimly aware of him during the past few hours. Little more than a dark shape in the cell beside us. He’d been silent most of the time. I’m figuring unconscious, like I was initially. The first time I’d paid attention was when he’d struggled to sit up a while back. Then I’d taken in the powerful shoulders, the thickly muscled arms stretching the sleeves of a white Hugo Boss button-down. Well, it may have been white once. Now it’s smeared in crud, just like everything else in this place. But I’d got the sense of brute strength…and money – probably some rich schmuck the Russki pigs had nabbed for a fat ransom. No threat to me at that point. And now my suspicions about the fat ransom have been confirmed.
I keep a close eye on the proceedings, watchful as this little exchange plays out. Because whichever way it goes, I know it’s going to affect me.
The Russian has his phone in hand and is staring at the screen intently. A notification pings, and he gives a curt nod.
“Good. Is done,” he says. I’m getting a clearer look at the other guy now. Dark hair sweeps from a widow’s peak and leaves a curlartfully draped over a broad forehead. How does he even get that right in this stinking dump?
Tosser!
I’ll give him credit for being pretty – in a cover-model kinda way. Even the stubble that shadows his strong jawline looks “designer.” Definitely some spoiled rich guy angling for a spot on the cover of GQ. Not my thing. And not that I care.
I rub my wrists and glance back at where the girls are cowering in the corner. Poor chicks. They must be out of their skulls with terror. I try to aim a comforting smile at one, but she turns away and huddles closer to her friend.
Okay, then. Probably traumatized.
“I’ll need my wallet and my phone,” GQ Cover Boy is telling the Russki gobshite.
“Have wallet. No phone.” The burly mobster has his arms folded over his chest. Flat brown eyes glitter like dirty dishwater beneath a closely shaved head.
God help me, he’s an ugly fucker.
The thought of being stuck here as his little plaything leaves my stomach churning.
“How the fuck am I supposed to call my guys if I don’t have a fucking phone?” GQ Boy snaps.
“Exactly,” responds Russki. “No guys, no trouble for me.”
“Jesus,” GQ mutters. He’s snatched his wallet from the other guy and pries it open, peering inside. It’s obviously empty of cash because I see something clench in that rock-hard jawline. He doesn’t bother saying anything, which is smart. What difference would it make, anyhow?
“Now you fuck off,” says Russki, jerking his head at the door.
“Forgetting something?” GQ says. He’s looking in my direction. I look back at the other girls. He’d better not think we’re leaving them here.
“Sure,” responds Russki. Without ceremony, he unlocks the cage door and hauls me out by the arm. “You come back for more when you finish this one, yes?” He laughs at the other guy.
“Screw you, cunt!” I aim a fist at his head but miss by a mile. He smirks.
What a piece of shit!
I kick out at him and feel a satisfying crunch as the steel-capped toe of my Doc Marten connects with his thigh.
“Blayd!” he snarls, and suddenly my head is ringing as he snaps out a jab that catches me right in the mouth.
Now he’s done it!
I’m about to get in a sweet Glasgow kiss, but I’m yanked sideways before my head can connect with his nose. GQ has me by the wrist and is hauling me down the corridor.
“Get your fucking hands off me!” I drag myself backward, trying to pull free.
“Jesus Christ, will you cut it out already?” he bites out.
