This was why I specialised in objects and not people. It was far less complicated.
I took one step forward, stilling when the floorboard squeaked beneath my weight.
“Violet?” Geraldine’s head snapped around so fast it was almost a jump scare.
It took her a second to register that I was indeed not herdaughter, her lips parting on a loud cry. I was on her before the sound could become a banshee’s screech, pressing my hand against her mouth as she fought with all her strength.
“Keep fucking still,” I grunted, taking an elbow to the stomach. “I’m trying…” Nails attempted to scratch down my arm, but I’d kept my leather jacket on. “Not…” I wrenched her to the side, carefully applying pressure to her throat. “To hurt you.”
Her legs buckled, the fight draining from her as she sagged into a deadweight.
I let go just as she slipped under, letting her crumble to the floor. Her eyelids fluttered, a groan rumbling from her throat as she was already regaining consciousness.
She looked exactly like the photo from twenty-odd years ago, save for a few fine lines. Which meant one of two things: she was a witch, or she’d been a hell of a lot younger in that picture than I’d been told.
Grabbing one of the dining chairs, I lifted her onto the seat. She immediately slumped, not yet quite awake. Reaching into my freshly packed backpack—because I was apparently a professional torturer now—I tied her wrists and gagged her with a charming piece of cloth.
Honestly, the shit I’d do for some money. You’d think I’d have a shred of conscience, but apparently not because all I could think of was the reward at the end.
Truth was, I couldn’t care less about Geraldine. If she didn’t want to end up restrained with a gag in her mouth, then maybe she shouldn’t have stolen in the first fucking place. Which yes, I know was ironic.
She should count herself lucky that I’ve got a bit of a thing for knots. If I didn’t, those ropes would be digging so deep she’d lose circulation.
After making sure she wasn’t going anywhere, I slipped into the bathroom and opened the mirrored cabinet,intending only to snoop while my target slept. Instead, I found a packet of antipsychotics. I might have been more annoyed at myself for missing them the first time if not for the fact that the date on the packaging was in the last week.
“Of course she’s crazy,” I muttered, turning them over to read the name,Greta Sonne.
Placing them back exactly where I found them, I closed the cabinet and returned to find her finally awake. Her nostrils were flared, her dark hair wild and curling around her face.
She looked nothing like Violet. Hell, they didn’t even look related. Their eyes were different, as were their facial features and even their general stature. Geraldine was almost a head taller, and was dark where Violet was light.
Geraldine cried beneath her cloth, veins protruding down her arms where she tried to release her wrists from where I’d tied them to the chair.
“So, this can be super quick and painless, or slow and excruciating. Your choice.” Standing over her, I reached down to grip her jaw, pressing hard into the hollow of her cheeks until I could feel the cloth I’d stuffed into her mouth. “Now, give me the USB.”
Her eyes widened, and a weird muffled shriek got caught in her throat. She tried to shake her head, but my grip held her steady.
“Now, I’m going to remove the gag, and if you make a single scream, I’m going to hurt you. Do you understand?”
She didn’t move, just continued to whimper.
“Do you understand?” I repeated, my tone cold. I wasn’t against torture, but I really didn’t fancy pulling nails off for the sake of it. Not when I could get what I needed in another, far less sticky way.
Tears glistened, soaking my fingertips when they reached her cheeks. She tried to give me a nod.
“Ah, good.” I slowly eased back, taking the cloth with me.
My muscles tensed, ready to strike her if she so much as raised her voice. Again, this was not normally my style; I preferred a tidy workspace. Meaning no other people involved. Ever. I didn’t mind the occasional scuffle, but I wasn’t in the habit of roughing up women.
Unfortunately for Miss Hoffman, she had the misfortune of being the one whom the object I’ve been hired to retrieve is attached, and I had this inconvenient, overpowering instinct to keep breathing.
Note to self: don’t take the high-paying job that shows up gift-wrapped in red flags.
“You have the wrong person,” she whimpered, surprised by her slight accent. Did I just stumble into some bizarre German scheme? I already had enough with Roman and the Russians. I didn’t need the Germans adding to my headaches.
“Uh-huh. So, you’re not Geraldine Hoffman?” I asked, raising a single brow.
She shook her head violently. “No, I’ve never heard of her. Please, you’ve made a mistake!”
