There has to be a way out of this.You’ve been in tighter spots. Remember Istanbul? Cartagena? If you could wriggle your way out of those clusterfucks, you can handle one pissy Russian with a grudge.
I just need to stay calm. Bide my time. Wait for an opportunity and seize it with both fucking hands. For Elijah. For the truth about what really happened to Jake.
The truth that Leonid Kuznetsov holds the key to if the rumors are to be believed.
The squeal of brakes snaps me out of my dark thoughts as the car jerks to a stop.Oh, shit. This is it. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to break free, run far away from whatever fresh hell awaits.
But there’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. I’m trapped, completely at the mercy of a man who has none.
The engine cuts off, plunging the world into eerie silence. I hold my breath, my nerves crackling with anticipation. Any second now, the trunk will open. Rough hands will pull me out, drag me kicking and screaming to my fate. Maybe a bullet to the head, if I’m lucky.
Oh God, Elijah. I’m so sorry. Mommy loves you more than anything, baby. More than her own life.
Okay. I fill my lungs with air, trying to calm my racing heart. The trunk reeks of Leonid’s cologne, a dizzying mix of bergamot and sandalwood that makes my head spin. Or maybe that’s just the panic setting in.
Focus, Clara,I scold myself.This is no time to go weak at the knees over some fancy man-stink. You’re in deep shit here.
Deep shit. Understatement of the fucking century.
I force my mind to clear, to push past the fear clawing at my throat. I need a plan. Multiple plans. A whole damn flowchart of plans if I want to make it out of this alive.
Master Plan One: Stay calm. Especially you, vagina.
The last thing I need is to be dripping all over Leonid’s plush velvet trunk like a bitch in heat.
Master Plan Two: Deny every accusation.
They can’t prove shit if I don’t crack. I’ve spent years perfecting my poker face. Time to put it to good use.
Master Plan Three: Lie through your goddamn teeth.
They want to know who I am, what I’m doing here? I’ll spin a tale so thick, even I’ll start to believe it. Clara Caldwell? Never heard of her. I’m just a lost little lamb who took a wrong turn on the way to church. Bless my heart.
Master Plan Four: Use your feminine wiles.
Bat my eyelashes, pout my lips, wiggle my hips. Men are suckers for that crap. If I can’t dazzle them with brilliance, I’ll baffle them with bullshit.
Master Plan Five: Run like hell.
First chance I get, I’m booking it faster than a toupee in a hurricane. Fuck Leonid, fuck the Ravens, fuck this whole cursed mission. I’ve got a little boy waiting for me at home, and I’ll be damned if I let these bastards make him an orphan.
I hold my breath, feeling the car shake slightly as the doors open and close, heard clearly from the trunk.
I brace myself. Any second now, the trunk will pop open. They’ll drag me out, rough hands bruising my skin as they haul me to whatever grim fate awaits.
A dank cell, a rusted chair bolted to the floor. Pliers, needles, a tray of wicked-looking blades. And at the end of it all, a gun barrel pressed to my temple. One last prayer, a single tear. Then… nothing. I shut the door to my thoughts.
Nope, I’m not going down without a fight.
But seconds tick by, each one an eternity. I picture Leonid standing by the bumper, savoring the anticipation. The sadistic fuck. He’s probably getting off on this, knowing I’m squirming like a worm on a hook, completely at his mercy.
Joke’s on you, asshole. I’ve been in tighter spots than this. I’ve looked death in the eye and spat in its face. You want to play games? Bring it on.
I clench my jaw, steeling myself for what’s to come.
Nothing happens.
I wait, barely breathing. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.
