“Go, Thea. I’m right behind you.”
I take the stairs two at a time, one hand on the railing, the other on my stomach. The stairwell air is cold and stagnant. Concrete walls, metal railings, minimal space. My bare feet slap against the steps, the sound of my panicked breaths the only other noise. I keep glancing back, expecting the men to burst through.
One more flight. The door at the bottom has an EXIT sign above it. My heart sings at the sight of it.
I slam into the push bar with all the force I have and stumble out into the daylight.
Just as Amanda had said, there’s an alley. It’s narrow, with dirty dumpsters lining one side. I can hear the faint hush of traffic from the street beyond. Cold air hits my face, and I almost sob with relief because I made it out. If I can just get to the street…
Before I can register what is happening, an arm is around my waist, another clamping over my mouth. I’m lifted off my feet so fast that I don’t even have a chance to scream.
I bite down hard on the leather glove, but it’s not enough. The man yelps but doesn’t move his hand. I kick and fight with everything I have. Another set of hands grabs my legs as I kick, but they’re too strong. I try to scream again. I can’t.
They carry me toward a black sedan, idling at the mouth of the alley. The trunk is open. The leather hand moves, replaced by a cloth that’s wet, filling my mouth and lungs with something chemical and sour.
One of them says something in Russian as they hoist me into the trunk. My strength fades. The only sensation I have as the trunk closes is that of pure, absolute terror.
CHAPTER 42
THEA
Everything is dark. Dark and wrong.
The world around me is vibration and engine noise, that awful chemical taste coating the inside of my mouth. My thoughts come in fragments that drift apart before I can hold them together.
The car hits a bump, and my head bounces against the trunk floor. Pain explodes behind my eyes. I instinctively try to lift my hand, but my arm barely responds. Whatever was on the cloth has turned my muscles into jelly.
Think, Thea. Think.
I try to orient myself. I’m on my side, curled up, knees bent. The trunk is tiny. I can smell the awful, acrid scent of exhaust drifting up into it from underneath the car.
I feel something hard beneath my hip. Probably a tire iron or a car jack. I try to reach it, but my fingers only twitch, nothing else.
The baby.
The thought cuts through the fog in my mind like a knife. I’m able to force my shaking hand to my stomach. I press the palm flat there and try to feel something, any sign of the tiny flicker I saw on the screen just a little bit ago.
I think of Gabriel. He doesn’t know that Marco and Enzo are dead, and that I’ve been kidnapped, drugged, and thrown in the trunk of a car heading God knows where.
He’s at the mansion in his office, planning his next move. He still thinks he’s ahead of Kolya. But as I lie in this trunk, I know the war has already begun. He has no idea that the woman he loves, the woman carrying his child, has already been taken.
I think about Amanda. Has she called him yet to tell him what happened?
If I die in this trunk…
No. Do not think like that.
I clench my jaw against the nausea, the chemical fog, and the pure terror.
No. You’re not going to die in some goddamn trunk. Not today.
As my eyes adjust to the dark, I remember the interior trunk release—every car made after 2001 has one. It should be a glow-in-the-dark handle somewhere near the latch.
But I still can’t get my goddamn hand to work.My fingers struggle, brushing against carpet, plastic, and metal. Nothing that feels like a handle. Nothing that pulls or gives.
When my eyes adjust more and I’m able to make out the area near where the latch should be, I realize it’s gone. Someoneremoved the handle. Someone who planned to use this trunk as a place to store a person they kidnapped.
The thought makes me sick.
