My mind races. Who is he? Why me?
I force myself to think like the law student I am. I try to gather evidence, build a case. But all I have are fragments: the suit, the car, the efficiency of it all. This isn’t random. This isplanned.
I swallow hard, summoning every ounce of bravado I can muster.
“You have no idea who you’re messing with,” I say, trying to sound defiant. “Let me go right now, or you’ll regret it. I know people. Powerful people. My father’s a police detective. He’ll have the whole force after you. SWAT teams, FBI… you name it. This is kidnapping. A federal crime. You’ll rot in prison.”
It’s a lie, of course.
A desperate bluff.
My father’s no cop. He’s the opposite. But if this guy thinks I’m connected to law enforcement, maybe he’ll second-guess himself. Maybe he’ll panic and let me walk. It could pay dividends.
Right?
And even if he doesn’t buy it, he might give something away as to his identity or his motivation for bringing me here. People often make mistakes when wrong footed by a line of questioning, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s amused but too bored to show it. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and speaks for the first time. His voice is deep, accented—Russian—with a gravelly edge that sends chills down my spine.
“I’m Ivan,” he says simply. “And I know exactly who your father is, Artyom Galkin. Or should that be Landon Lane?”
My stomach drops.
He knows my real name. Myfullname.
This isn’t about some random mugging or creep. This is business. Galkin business. The kind my father shielded me from, the kind that involves blood and shadows and men like Ivan.
What has Dad gotten into?
Or rather, what old grudge has come back to bite him?
Usually family beefs like this are settled on the streets or in dark alleys. This feels different to me. I’m no expert, but I’ve picked up enough from my father along the way. If they wanted me dead, I’d be dead already.
Unless…
I glance toward the door: thick, metal-reinforced, with not one, not two, but three heavy-duty bolts and a keycard panel. It looks like something out of a bank vault. There’s no way I’m getting through that without tools. Or help.
Ivan follows my gaze, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You can try,” he says, his tone casual but laced with warning. “But I don’t advise it. The door’s wired. Alarms, locks, the works. And even if you got out... well, let’s just say the building’s not friendly to uninvited guests. You look like you can run, but I’ve never met a person who could outrun a bullet.”
I clench my fists to stop my hands from shaking.
Panic bubbles up, hot and insistent, but I shove it down. Panicking won’t help. I need to stay calm, think rationally.Like in a deposition. I need to control the narrative, probe for weaknesses.
“Can I... can I have a glass of water?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. It’s a small request, something to buy time, to ground myself.
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Sure.”
I watch as he stands—God, he’s tall, easily over six feet—and moves to the kitchen area with a predator’s grace. Ivan’s shoulders roll under the suit jacket, muscles shifting like coiled springs. He’s powerful, built like he could bench-press a car. But there’s precision in his movements, no wasted energy.
I watch as he fills a glass from a fancy filtered tap and walks back, handing it to me without a word.
Our fingers brush briefly, and I jerk back like I’ve been burned. He doesn’t react, just returns to his chair, watching me sip the water. It’s cold, soothing my dry throat, but my mind is already spinning.
Escape plan: Step one, assess the environment.
Windows? Too high up, probably reinforced glass.
Kitchen? Knives, maybe, but he’d see me coming if I tried anything right now.
